The Decolonizing Potential of Local and Metropolitan Literature of the Rwandan Genocide

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2012-10-03 The Decolonizing Potential of Local and Metropolitan Literature of the Rwandan Genocide

O'Neill, Kate

O'Neill, K. (2012). The Decolonizing Potential of Local and Metropolitan Literature of the Rwandan Genocide (Unpublished doctoral thesis). University of Calgary, Calgary, AB. doi:10.11575/PRISM/28045 http://hdl.handle.net/11023/263 doctoral thesis

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The Decolonizing Potential of Local and Metropolitan Literature of the Rwandan Genocide

Kate O'Neill

A THESIS SUBMITTED TO THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH

CALGARY, ALBERTA September, 2012

ABSTRACT Rwanda has been well-defined on the international stage. However, international understandings of the genocide do not sufficiently represent the perspectives of Rwandan citizens. The popular construction of Rwanda as a nation over the past eighteen years has used the Rwandan Genocide as a defining feature of Rwandan national identity. Governed by colonial rule from 1884-1962, Rwanda continues to be defined by neocolonial forces.

In response to this problematic reality, literary representations of the genocide are beginning to provide a forum for Rwandan voices to assert authority over the cultivation of

Rwandan identity for Western citizens. This dissertation considers seven diverse literary texts about the Rwandan Genocide which attempt to bridge the socio-political distance between

Rwandan and Western citizens.

Philip Gourevitch’s We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our

Families and Gil Courtemanche’s A Sunday at the Pool in Kigali offer a detailed consideration of Rwandan history and culture to challenge the colonial rhetoric used to explain the genocide to

Western citizens. Élisabeth Combres’ Broken Memory, Jean-Philippe Stassen’s Deogratias, and

Tierno Monénembo’s The Oldest Orphan explore the lived experience of genocide and the impact of violence on individuals and communities, affectively conveying the complexity of genocidal suffering in order to escape the media binary of victims and perpetrators. Véronique

Tadjo’s The Shadow of Imana and Sonja Linden’s play I Have Before Me a Remarkable

Document Given to Me by a Young Lady from Rwanda demonstrate the significant post-genocide recovery achieved within Rwanda, and consider the value of cross-cultural interaction in further affirming this recovery. iii

This study draws on the insights of postcolonial theory, trauma theory, and scholarship in the area of national identity to parse the role of these texts in recovering a productive sense of

Rwandan identity for Western readers. This dissertation argues that these texts provide Western citizens with an understanding of national Rwandan identity that allows critical recognition of the superstructure of Western neocolonialism. As such, these narratives have the potential to enable Western citizens to recognize and challenge the role of the superstructure in shaping public discourse about the Rwandan Genocide. iv

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Abstract ii

Table of Contents iv

Chapter One Literature as a Response to Genocide 1

Chapter Two Tracing the Rwandan Genocide as an International Event 25

Chapter Three Contextualizing Rwandan History and Culture through Literature 69

Chapter Four Exploring Rwandan Identity and Experiences of Genocide through Literature 122

Chapter Five Affirming Recovery and Demonstrating Cross-Cultural Activism through 199 Literature

Chapter Six Decolonizing the Western Mind through Western Literary Engagement 262

Chapter Seven Conclusion 304

Bibliography 311

Appendix A: Chronology of Events 326

Appendix B: Map of Rwanda 333 1

Chapter One: Literature as a Response to Genocide

Crimes against humanity require new means of redress, a mechanism that records hidden histories of atrocity, didactically promotes collective memory, and gives victims a place of respect, dignity, and agency in the process. Catherine Cole, “Performance, Transitional Justice, and the Law: South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission,” 171.

The writer of fiction can be and must be the pathfinder. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o, Decolonizing the Mind, 85.

As one aspect of the public discourse concerning genocide, literature demonstrates a great deal about the perceived social and political importance of violent conflict. The public discourse on the Rwandan Genocide, in which almost one million people were killed between

April and July 1994, demonstrates this observation. Literature is a powerful social tool because it instigates consideration of another’s lived experience among a broad potential readership.

Literary expression allows personal resistance to be shared within a community, enabling collective action. As bell hooks states, “speaking is not solely an expression of creative power; it is an act of resistance, a political gesture that challenges politics of domination that would render us nameless and voiceless…[it] can be healing, can protect us from dehumanization and despair”

(8). Writing has addressed a range of human injustices; representing lived experiences of inequality has helped to establish new limits to private and public behaviours. Literary depictions of gender and racial oppression throughout the twentieth-century have channelled individual dissatisfaction with the social order into powerful socio-political movements.

Literature similarly undercuts the efficacy of large-scale systems of oppression, such as

European colonization, by allowing local victims to enunciate their rejection of authoritarian rule and reclaim their cultural and political identities. Even during the 2011 Arab Spring, it was the written word which empowered individuals to collectively initiate social change in the face of 2 authoritarian regimes. Western and Rwandan writings about the Rwandan Genocide and the post-genocide era evoke the horror of genocide, but many authors have recognized the decolonizing potential of such writing. Tracing the state of the nation through its history, its citizens, and its post-genocide recovery, these texts lay the groundwork for a strong Western understanding of emergent Rwandan national identity. Rejecting imposed identity constructions and drawing attention to the external political structures of neocolonial control, this discourse functions as a fragile but potentially powerful rewriting of Rwandan identity which has the potential to instigate important socio-political change.

As a literature of resistance, genocide literature at large explores a subject that is as personal as it is political. The Rwandan Genocide writings examined in this dissertation identify genocide as a localized event, targeting a specific group of people and permitted by the particular socio-political realities of a given community or nation. However, genocide is also an international concern. Genocidal violence rejects the concept of human rights and invokes hierarchies to re-imagine a new social order. Because genocide destroys lives and undercuts the rhetoric of equality at the very root of modern international interactions, this crime demands responses from the international community. These responses demonstrate the socio-political factors which inform specific international relationships and interactions. Media responses tend to focus on the statements and actions of those perpetrating violence, as well as the demonstrable victims of violence. Political and militaristic responses can be both rhetorical and active; when the content of these messages diverge, they demonstrate the intersection of ideological and practiced international politics. While these responses are at times productive, neither emphasizes the lived experience of genocide in a way that is comprehensible and comprehensive.

However, by merging the personal and the political, genocide literature explores the impact of 3 mass-violence on the individual victim and the distanced observer, permitting an informed engagement with the politics of genocide in the modern era.

The Western response to the Rwandan genocide demonstrates the influence of colonial and neocolonial ideology on Rwanda’s identity within the international community. The underwhelming Western engagement in Rwanda’s genocide and post-genocide recovery suggests a continued neocolonial dismissal of Rwandan national identity within the Western community of nations. By framing the genocide in colonial terms and explaining the mass killings as indicative of innate African chaos, media and political responses demonstrate that

Rwanda continues to be defined by the limiting racial hierarchy which enabled the colonial encounter. This neocolonialism has been a serious impediment to Rwanda’s recovery from colonialism, as well as from the genocide of 1994. While Rwanda has instituted internal recovery measures, Rwanda’s recovery must also address the external prejudices which allowed the genocide to occur without significant Western response. It is here that the literature of the

Rwandan Genocide becomes potentially productive as an agent of collective recovery as well as an agent of international social and political change.

Despite the fact that the Rwandan Genocide took place in full view of global audiences, there are a surprisingly limited number of literary texts which explore the event. Literary representations of the genocide within Rwanda are limited by a number of factors, notably that the novel, a popular and accessible Western genre, is not a form of writing native to Rwanda and that Kinyarwanda, the local language of Rwanda, is not commonly a language of publication1.

1 Rwanda has no alphabet and no written language, and so all cultural production is linked to performative efforts (Adekunle 47). While Rwanda has a rich oral tradition which is comprised of music, dance, and narrative, there are three accepted forms of oral tales: predynastic stories, royal literature, and popular tales (Adekunle 48). Chrétien notes that these oral narratives can vary greatly; the Rwandan poem “Ubucurabwenge,” which translates as “The Source of Wisdom,” is a formal and stable oral narrative which recounts Rwanda’s successive sovereigns. However, narratives with casual themes or based on information passed down through generations are more likely to change over time (31). As Chrétien observes, “the older the traditions are, the more delicate their interpretations 4

Many of the literary texts concerning the Rwandan genocide are written in French, a language introduced into Rwanda with the arrival of the Belgian colonial authorities in 1916 which remained a primary language of instruction until 2010, when English was adopted for educational purposes. There have been some texts written and published in English, although translating earlier French publications into English has also been very common, particularly because English increasingly functions as a sort of international language for many nations.

English texts are widely disseminated throughout global Western audiences, making the use of

English an important consideration for these texts. English texts mark out a broad potential audience but in the case of the literature of the Rwandan Genocide, this choice also reflects a desire to ensure that Western readers have access to texts that are intended to develop Western understandings of the genocide outside of media representations.

As a group, these English publications utilize a variety of literary forms in representing the genocide. Memoirs and travelogues, as employed by American writer Philip Gourevitch and

Franco-African writer Véronique Tadjo, frame individual experiences of genocide through memory and emotion; children’s literature, used by French author Élisabeth Combres and the graphic novel, employed by Belgian author Jean-Philippe Stassen, explore the impact of the

Rwandan Genocide on children who observe and engage in violence. Canadian journalist Gil

Courtemanche and Guinean novelist Tierno Monénembo use the novel and novella form, respectively, to explore lived experiences of the genocide, while British playwright Sonja Linden prioritizes her message of cross-cultural discourse by writing a play. These seven texts have points of similarity and difference. Each text uses a distinct literary form to convey the event of must be. More often than not, old narratives reveal more about ancient culture than about factual data, but that contribution is hardly negligible” (32). Rwandan stories are narrated through dance, originally performed centuries ago for the Royal Court by the Intore Dance Troupe (“Traditions of Rwanda”). This tradition of dance continues to form an important part of Rwandan culture today. 5 the genocide to readers, and this in itself is an interesting aspect to consider. As form shapes the messages contained within each text, the diversity of form here demonstrates a degree of authorial experimentation in representing this social, political, and historical event. As genocide consistently challenges established representational forms, and as Rwanda’s recent history is not generally understood by Western citizens, this diversity marks the struggle to powerfully represent the Rwandan Genocide to Western audience. However, this dissertation, while it does not ignore the question of form, tends to focus on the issue of theme, as these seven texts intersect thematically in very interesting ways. The three shared themes form the basis of chapters three, four, and five, and will explore the issues of Rwandan history and culture,

Rwandan experiences of the genocide, and Rwandan recovery. As the overall objective of this dissertation is to clarify the emerging constructions of Rwandan national identity, post-genocide, for Western readers, the consideration of theme proves itself productive.

These seven literary works by non-Rwandan authors form the basis of this consideration of the role of literature in educating Western readers about the Rwandan Genocide; they have been chosen based on their non-Rwandan authorship and their availability for Western readers.

While each author here claims a different nationality, all are ultimately observers of the

Rwandan Genocide. While there are literary considerations of the genocide by Rwandan authors, such as Vénuste Kayimahe’s France-Rwanda, the Coulisses of the Genocide, Jean-

Marie Vianney Rurangwa’s The Genocide of the Tutsis explained to a Foreigner, and the play

Rwanda 94, created as a collaboration between Western and Rwandan artists, this dissertation seeks to evaluate the efforts of non-Rwandans to understand and productively engage with the

Rwandan Genocide2. Scholarship exploring literary representations of the Rwandan Genocide

2 While using non-Rwandan representations of the genocide to inform Western citizens about Rwanda can be seen as an acceptance of cultural appropriation, there are several very good reasons to accept non-Rwandan narratives 6 has been limited in the nearly two decades since 1994, and in light of this dissertation, it would be fruitful for future research to undertake a comparison of the representation of genocide in

Rwanda by Rwandan and non-Rwandan authors. The accessibility of each text was also a key factor in each selection. These seven texts are broadly available for English readers and can be easily obtained through major booksellers. While there are other texts written by non-Rwandan authors in circulation, their availability for English readers is limited by the language of publication and their slow adoption by major libraries and booksellers. The texts chosen here reflect the literary representations of the Rwandan Genocide which have gained the most traction for Western audiences. What these texts share is an interest in depicting the genocide in contrast to the common tropes applied by the Western media onto the Rwandan experience. While news media is currently a powerful force in shaping collective knowledge, literature also holds a place in creating and sustaining social, political, and historical records of human events for Western readers. Fundamentally, humans write to convey knowledge and experience. As Joan Scott writes, “seeing is the origin of knowing. Writing is reproduction, transmission – the communication of knowledge grained through (visual, visceral) experience” (58). Certainly, in

into the Western social and political discourse about the Rwandan Genocide. Aside from the very real barriers of language, cultural form, and economics, Rwanda’s history of colonial rule and the continued neocolonial authority of the West have made it hard for Rwandan narratives to gain traction with English speaking readers. Recognizing this practical limitation, the non-Rwandan texts under consideration here draw Western attention to African history and experience, asserting the value of Rwandan voices and perspectives in non-Rwandan texts. In so doing, the socio-political forces which limit Western-Rwandan interactions become more understandable for Western readers. Arnd Schneider links cultural appropriation with its wider socio-political implications, stating that appropriation “implies a resignification of meaning against the background of a structural imbalance between what (or who) is appropriated, and what (or who) is alienated” (225). While cultural appropriation has long been a tool used to maintain social imbalances, drawing attention to social-political inequality can also be a productive way of challenging imbalances between individuals and collectives. Moreover, all seven texts emerged from detailed study of Rwandan history and society, as well as interaction with Rwandan genocide survivors and perpetrators. Each of these texts convey Rwandan voices and Rwandan concerns to Western readers, thereby claiming a space for Rwandan concerns in the Western imagination. These seven texts represent the Rwandan Genocide in an effort to convey Rwandan experiences to Western readers. Their authority to do so is the result of the continued neocolonial superstructure which limits African self-representation, but the texts themselves strike back against this superstructure and forge the way for more significant cross-cultural interactions through their representation of Rwandan identity. 7 attempting to convey the realities of genocide, it is the lived visceral experience that one must seek to capture, and literature, with its flexibility of form and narrative structure, offers a fruitful space in which to create and recreate experience for a broad readership.

There has been a great deal of research completed socio-political considerations of the

Rwandan Genocide, with less attention paid to the literary explorations of this event. The works of Jean-Pierre Chrétien, Alison Des Forges, and Gérard Prunier, and, which explore the historical and local political contexts of the genocide, are widely accepted as definitive publications on the topic. Other authors focus on preserving and analysing survivor testimony; the writings of Scott

Straus and Jean Hatzfeld are notable in this regard. Some scholars consider how texts respond to social, cultural and political influences. Michael Keren’s analysis of A Sunday at the Pool in

Kigali argues that the popularity of this text in Canada reflects a residual Canadian sense of guilt over failing to push for international intervention in Rwanda. His analysis affirms literature’s ability to address political concerns about large-scale conflict through personal narratives, particularly for an international readership. Madelaine Hron’s comparison between French and

Rwandan literary accounts of the genocide is enriched by an analysis of the role of French politics in shaping French narratives. Both scholars affirm the role of literature in addressing larger socio-political discourses. Other scholars invert this consideration, tracing the impact of literary engagements on political discourse; Audrey Small’s analysis of the “Duty to Memory

Project,” which commissioned ten African authors to write about the Rwandan Genocide, argues that collective literary engagement has productively incorporated the genocide to larger African discourses of memory, identity, and exile. Chantal Kalisa analyzes Rwandan theatrical productions, considering the potential of Rwandan theatre to initiate public discourse about the genocide and Rwanda’s post-genocide challenges. This dissertation seeks to build on the 8 intersecting interests of each of these scholars. Tracing the development of socio-political discourses about Rwanda within the Western public imagination alongside the accepted historical development of the Rwandan Genocide, this dissertation will use emerging post- genocide literary texts to demonstrate the potential of literature to challenge the neocolonial framing of the Rwandan Genocide, and thus, Rwandan national identity. Like the work of Keren and Hron, this dissertation demonstrates how literature can make the political influences of neocolonialism more visible; like the work of Small and Kalisa, this dissertation demonstrates how literature can establish new socio-political discourses which bolster neocolonial decolonization.

There are seven texts examined here, divided according to the issue they explore most directly, although there is a great deal of crossover in each text. Offering contextual discussion of Rwanda’s precolonial, colonial, and postcolonial history and culture are Philip Gourevitch’s

We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families and Gil

Courtemanche’s A Sunday at the Pool in Kigali. Three texts explore the lived experience of genocide and the impact of genocidal violence on individuals, families, and communities:

Élisabeth Combres’ Broken Memory, Jean-Philippe Stassen’s Deogratias, and Tierno

Monénembo’s The Oldest Orphan. Finally, Véronique Tadjo’s The Shadow of Imana and Sonja

Linden’s play I Have Before Me a Remarkable Document Given to Me by a Young Lady from

Rwanda consider the interaction between individuals and cultures in the wake of the genocide.

These collaboratively produced texts of the Rwandan Genocide respond to Susan Moeller’s plea for innovations in the way that news is reported so that Western viewers can become more meaningfully engaged in the social, cultural, and political realities of the world around them by providing historical and cultural educating, generating rooted empathy, and demonstrating the 9 value of cross-cultural interaction. Fundamentally, these texts offer coverage of the Rwandan

Genocide which was not available to Western audiences during the event, and they challenge

Western readers to critically engage in the narratives of the Rwandan Genocide that circulate in

Western socio-political discourse.

Readers of these texts are able to grasp the precolonial and colonial causes of division in

Rwanda, they can intellectually and emotionally understand the trauma of genocide, and they recognize the need for cross-cultural interactions in order to promote recovery, specifically outside of Rwanda. This knowledge provides readers with the ability to conceive of Rwanda as a complex nation, rather than relying on the tropes of media reports which frame it as a small and insignificant African country. Individually, these texts encourage understanding of the Rwandan

Genocide as an event born out of very specific causes and which had a profound impact on

Rwandan society. Collectively, these texts begin something more powerful; their shared concern over these three thematic aspects of Rwanda’s genocide demonstrate that through education, empathy, and cross-cultural engagements, it is possible to develop an accurate sense of Rwanda as an independent nation, outside of the politics of continued neocolonial influence3. Such an emergent Rwandan national consciousness within a Western readership has the potential to challenge the continued reliance on neocolonial politics on the international stage, effecting a retroactive decolonization of Rwanda in the minds of informed and engaged Western readers.

3 The issue of post-genocide justice has been widely discussed in other academic works. The use of Gacaca courts and traditional Western forms of justice in Rwanda has been discussed at length by scholars such as Phil Clark and Paul Bornkamm. Similarly productive work has critically evaluated the role played by the ICTR in claiming justice for the Rwandan people (Barria and Roper). As will be discussed in chapter two, the Western interest in post- genocide justice in Rwanda far outweighed their interest in helping Rwandan citizens during the genocide. This dissertation takes as its starting point this Western preference for justice over understanding; broader Western understanding about the colonial and neocolonial causes of the genocide, the impact of the genocide on local populations, and the efforts towards social, cultural, and political recovery in the post-genocide era remain under- discussed within the West. 10

The use of Rwandan literature, and the literary form more generally, to explore mass trauma offers three distinct advantages to other forms of information: texts blend factual and emotive content, explore multiple subject positions, and reclaim personal voice to instigate social dialogue. Genocide literature permits understanding because it engages readers intellectually and emotionally. This literature also encourages readers to consider the realities of different subject positions. Finally, genocide literature is vital to reclaiming voice in the aftermath of genocide, as narrative creates community in its very telling. However, because genocide literature relies on creative licence to explore histories that were jeopardized by the act of genocide, concerns about the ability of literary representations to recover historical fact remain.

Such literature has the potential to be a primary site of contact for readers; historical inaccuracy raises concerns about the possibility of literature which propagates false representation. Also, such literature takes as its basis the assumption that genocide recovery is aided by narrative, which runs counter to the instincts of those genocide survivors who choose not to speak. These benefits and reservations must be carefully considered in order to trace the value of genocide literature in the context of the Rwandan Genocide.

Creative forms of expression can integrate historical knowledge and documents with memories and individual narratives in order to educate the reader. It is the challenge of the writer to balance between “a historical fidelity to truth…and an aesthetic fidelity to imaginative veracity and credibility” (Kearney 60) in order to present truth, fictionalized to become engaging. Prefaces are used by Courtemanche and Tadjo to identify the author’s relation to the narrative and assure readers of the degree to which fiction shapes the narrative. Gourevitch offers additional information, such as maps, historical records, and political documents, to provide additional context for the reader. Sonja Linden’s play, based on her own interactions 11 with Rwandan survivors in London, demonstrates how individual experiences and survivor testimony can be conveyed affectively to large audiences. Authors often choose to provide factual evidence in order to corroborate the horror of their fictionalized narratives, as writers must guard against accusations of fictionalizing whole experiences of genocide in their writing.

Given the brutality implicit in genocide literature, it is possible for a reader to reject narrative details as constructed rather than representative of survivor statements, using the literary form as an excuse to avoid real engagement with the subject matter. Offering accepted historical evidence within the narrative affirms the accuracy of such fiction.

It is important to note in this consideration of the literature of the Rwandan Genocide that the genre does not impose a single reading on the reader, but rather requires the reader to engage intellectually and emotionally with the text in order to generate meaning. As a form, literature is

“always provisional and never final” (Tierney-Tello 4), empowering readers to extract their own messages and meanings. The binary of perpetrator and victim validates simplistic identity categories that do not reflect the nuance of lived experience. The constructed subjectivity of literary expression reaffirms the value of all subject positions. This flexible re-framing of factual events demonstrates Berel Lang’s concept of literature as “representation-as” (51), whereby literature explores the world from a specific subject position, and so reveals truths about that subject position relative to the world. These texts represent the complex identities created in genocide: the perpetrator fraught with guilt, the victim desperate for death, the unaffected observer. Genocide literature explores the experience of genocide from a range of subject positions, and raises questions about how genocide should be understood and discussed on an individual and societal scale. Authoritarian regimes rely on singular messages and a willingness to ascribe to a stated ideal in order to instigate genocide; the literary texts that emerge from 12 genocide avoid offering collective truths and instead emphasize the collective value of individual truths.

Genocide literature also offers social benefits; the act of reclaiming voice through literature can affirm the value of community and create new communities through a politically engaged readership. Genocide requires the dehumanization of the targeted group through language, and the “narrative of desubjectification” (Haidu 277) prior to and during genocide revoked the rights of the targeted group. During the recovery from genocide, it is essential that the humanity of survivors be re-established. This recovery is not a neutral process, as Primo

Levi notes: “coming out of the darkness, one suffered because of the reacquired consciousness of having been diminished” (56). This recovery of personal authority can be a daunting process.

However, the act of writing, or engaging with the writing of others, offers a means of recovery.

Annunciating one’s personal experience re-establishes the right to speak and to be heard, challenges the victim position imposed during genocide, and creates a new subject position from which to speak. Genocide literature narrates a search for “something truthful about the fragmented self under siege, about memory, about trauma that may otherwise elude expression”

(Horowitz 24). The act of writing or speaking as a survivor requires an emergent sense of the self, no matter how fraught this identity might be. More generally, reading about the experiences of survivors can empower victims and witnesses by forming communities which may otherwise be divided by geography and language.

However, one of the most significant hesitations over literary explorations of genocide is the use of factual records to inform fiction, and fiction to explain records of fact. Literature offers authors a degree of representational freedom which can allow a more succinct representation of lived experience through which to educate the reader. While understanding is 13 paramount to genocide authors, fact without human context makes genuine emotional and intellectual engagement difficult. As Julia Alvarez, an author of historical fiction, explains, “I sometimes took liberties by changing dates, by reconstructing events, and by collapsing characters or incidents…A novel is not, after all, a historical document; but a way to travel through the human heart” (342). The potential for slippage between fiction and falsity in literary writing often imposes silence rather than encouraging discussion. The author, like the historian, documents the genocide. However, the author has no requirement to provide empirical truth, and so the words of the writer can be questioned. The writer’s work can be deemed flawed or even purposefully inaccurate. Genocide literature raises these kinds of concerns more than other kinds of writing precisely because these texts are so valuable in engaging a diverse population in a complex social and political discussion.

Efraim Sicher warns that “there can indeed be no future without the past, but, when remembrance relies on imagination to give it meaning, one must be aware of the risks that are involved” (84). Indeed, this is not an idle point, and it would be dangerous to think that all fiction can be helpful to large-scale social recovery. Recovery absolutely requires that the genocide become part of the historical record. Accurate historical documentation of genocide allows a better understanding of the way that genocides develop and can be prevented. There are some who deny even well-documented genocides, refuting or reframing the most damning of factual evidence4. For many, genocide literature casts a pale over existing historical records by suggesting the possibility of other, unrecognized fictionalizations within the accepted historical

4 Of note in the case of Rwanda is Canadian lawyer Chris Black, who defended General Ndindiliyimana, Rwanda’s highest ranking officer. Black has claimed that the RPF were responsible for firing on Habyarimana’s plane on April 6th, 1994, and also contends that the RPF instigated much of the killing which has been attributed to the Hutu militias (Black). Peter Erlinder, an American lawyer who was lead defence council for the UN International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, was arrested in Kigali in May, 2010, for propagating denial of the Rwandan Genocide. He argues that unless individual perpetrators were engaged in planning the genocide, their actions cannot fairly be identified as genocidal, as there is no evidence of an ultimate goal of Tutsi decimation (Hereward). 14 record. However, historical accounts are similarly flawed by human authorship; all narratives are fundamentally shaped by the subjects who narrate them, and not all experiences will corroborate one another. Representations which stray from accepted narratives are feared because they threaten the perceived inviolability of historical records of genocide. Without the authenticity of truth, fiction can be unseated as a reliable source of understanding. However, this threat of truth toppled by alternative truths cannot be allowed to silence all who would speak.

Recognizing that truth is a relatively unstable concept releases fiction from expectations of absolute incontrovertibility (A. Levi 373), and affirms that fiction offers contextual truth from the vantage point of a chosen character rather than as an absolute. This is beautifully illustrated in the graphic novel Deogratias, as the main character’s view of post-genocide Rwanda diverges from the reality of those around him; by playing with fact as an absolute, this text demonstrates the actual impact of the genocide on Deogratias. Fiction engages creatively with historical and experiential truth in the hopes of offering readers access to understanding of genocide as a lived experience.

As genocide is predicated on the erasure of one specific group, efforts to recover from genocide must accurately affirm both the identity and the value of that group within the larger social community; in Rwanda, the categories of Hutu and Tutsi have been dissolved and replaced by a shared national identity as Rwandans. Nation-building is a complex process and as ethnicity alone cannot serve as a basis for national identity in post-genocide Rwanda, “state- centered nationalism” (Brass 20) has become the dominant form of collective identification.

Brown, discussing the development of national identity, states that

the ‘invented’ ideology of the nation-state resonated with the ‘imagining’ of civil

society, as the impact of industrialisation and colonialism disrupted the face-to-face 15

communities of family and locality. Individuals sought imagined communities which

could mimic the kinship groups in offering a sense of identity, security and authority.

The promise of state élites to provide equitable development in the social justice nation

seemed to fulfil these societal needs (40).

A similar process of nation-building is underway in Rwanda currently, and the concept of

“imagined communities” (Anderson 3) has been fundamental to the emergence of new definitions of Rwandan national identity. Rejecting the discourse of ethnic difference, Rwandan citizens have been encouraged to find commonality through shared efforts towards Rwanda’s future. One example of this is Umuganda, a pre-colonial tradition reinstated post-genocide which requires citizens to set aside one day a month to devote to community service and interaction (Gahindiro). Multiple artistic and dramatic community projects have been initiated in

Rwanda to help local communities recover from the genocide. Memorial sites have also become a source of education about Rwanda’s precolonial and colonial history, allowing Rwandans a clearer understanding of the forces which have shaped their nation. While emerging definitions of Rwanda are forward looking, there is also a clear effort to reclaim aspects of traditional identity in productive ways. The Rwandan government and Rwandan citizens continue to carve out a broad national identity which draws on traditional and modern aspects of Rwandan culture.

Moreover, citizens’ collective efforts to recover from the genocide also serve to reclaim nationality as a productive means of identification, as local communities form the basis of national cohesion.

In the aftermath of any large-scale conflict, there is always confusion about the limits of speech; Primo Levi, writing on the issue of genocide survival, observes that “those who experienced imprisonment…are divided into two distinct categories, with rare intermediate 16 shadings: those who remain silent and those who speak” (121). The motivation to speak, like the instinct to gasp air after being stifled, is immediately understandable. It is an act of affirmation and recovery. However, for those who escape genocide and impose silence on themselves, there is a similar act of survival taking place. In Combres’ Broken Memory, Emma, who witnesses the murder of her mother, retreats from Rwandan society and does not speak about her experiences.

Similarly, Faustin in Monénembo’s The Oldest Orphan, only admits to his memories of the massacre at Nyamata in the final lines of the text. His dedication to silence ultimately costs him his life. This silence can mark a space for the silence of those who did not survive the genocide and so cannot speak for themselves. In remaining silent, these people stand as a living reminder that the cost of human hatred and suffering is silence. There are some who argue that the act of speaking can itself be violent; Elie Wiesel writes that “in the beginning there was silence – no words. The word itself is a breaking out. The word itself is an act of violence; it breaks the silence” (119). However, when silence is imposed on any group, an act of violence is required to escape it. In such cases, this act of speaking resists the violent imposition of silence enacted during genocide and serves as a means of reclaiming identity for the collective as a whole. The dead, past any aid, can have their stories told, and perhaps their voices heard, through the speech acts of those who survived. Holding silence marks loss and shows respect, but silence is not an effective educational tool and offers no path forward towards collective recovery. In the case of

Rwanda, this is particularly true. Because Rwandan voices have been silenced through the colonial and neocolonial encounter, Western citizens are under-informed about Rwandan citizens and Rwandan identity. Similarly, direct socio-cultural exchanges across the Western-African social, economic, and political divide remain limited. As Rwandan narratives have the potential to educate Western readers about Rwanda, as well as about the structural divisions which 17 maintain socio-political inequality, it is imperative that Rwandan survivors make their voices heard globally.

While literature, as a form of communication, is not infallible, it does not need to be infallible in order to be effective. As Albert Levi argues, literary truth is “a concept which belongs not to the humanistic complex but to the scientific chain of meaning…[literary truth is] not meant even by its most loyal defenders as a compendium of true proportions but rather as

‘truth in some sense’” (373). Authors who have written falsified memoirs and narratives have been summarily shamed for offering fiction in the guise of fact. Readers can protect themselves from such writing only by becoming knowledgeable. Protection from false narratives requires that readers are informed and willing to engage in the social and political discourse surrounding genocide. Ultimately, genocide fiction asks readers to accept that there is a connection between their world and the world of the text. As a genre, it requires that readers be willing to react empathetically and intellectually with the characters of the narrative. While the texts often invite complex exploration, they are fundamentally driven by the question: how do we understand genocide in this world? Upon closing the novel, the informed reader can then move past understanding to ask: how can we challenge this reality?

A central aspect underscored by the Rwandan writings is that recovery after genocide is a complex process, and in Rwanda, recovery efforts have addressed practical, political, and social concerns. However, as an international event, the Rwandan Genocide also plays an important role in shaping the discourse about Rwanda among the international community. As the genocide was a media spectacle informed by colonial and neocolonial ideology, allowing this mis-construed moment of Rwandan experience to stand as representative of Rwandan identity in the Western imagination is to further legitimate racial hierarchies within emerging cultural, 18 social, political, and historical discourses. However, some literary explorations of the Rwandan

Genocide have the potential to refute the neocolonial undertones which shaped the media coverage of Rwandan identity during the genocide. These texts, taken as a collective, share three important interests: educating readers about Rwanda’s history and culture from the precolonial to post-genocidal period, connecting readers emotionally to the experiences, fears, and desires of

Rwandan citizens, and exploring Rwanda’s recovery through cross-cultural interactions. While all of the texts under consideration here take on these interests in different ways, what they reveal as a collective is the power of literature to convey contextual identity, fostering understanding and empathy which have political potential.

In examining these texts in light of my contention that they not only evoke the horrors of the genocide but also facilitate the recuperation of national identity and concomitantly aid in

Rwanda’s decolonization, I have structured my dissertation into five primary chapters, supported by an introduction and conclusion. Chapter two offers a detailed, contextual review of the

Rwandan Genocide as a historical and political event. This information establishes the available historical records detailing precolonial Rwanda, as well as the impact of German and Belgian influences once the colonial endeavour began. The development of ethnic tensions between

Rwandan Tutsis and Hutus is traced within the social and political context, as is the slow destruction of collective Rwandan heritage throughout the later years of colonial rule. Rwanda’s failed decolonization, a topic of particular note during chapter six, is detailed. The early days of the genocide are considered, with particular attention to the initial Western responses and the interest demonstrated by civilian observers. In order to provide a sense of the shift that occurred as the genocide became public knowledge, the UN response to the genocide and the accompanying narrative of the genocide in the media are also explored. This chapter combines 19 historical research with analysis of the political and social discourses about Rwanda that developed in the West prior to, during, and after the Rwandan Genocide. This popular narrative of the Rwandan Genocide is then challenged by the texts explored in chapters three, four, and five, as they offer additional context for Western readers and establish a more complete and less politically manipulated understanding of Rwandan national identity.

The texts evaluated in chapter three are perhaps the best known texts concerning the

Rwandan Genocide. Philip Gourevitch’s We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be

Killed With Our Families is one of the definitive contextual texts on the genocide, a non-fiction travelogue tracing the development of the genocide from the earliest records of Rwandan history to the post-genocide era. Gil Courtemanche’s novel A Sunday at the Pool in Kigali is a powerful fictional novel informed by the experiences of the author during his time in Rwanda. In the novel, a Québécois journalist named Valcourt comes to find his own identity in Rwanda, even as the genocide tears the country apart. Both of these texts juxtapose historical fact with the narrators’ emotions and experiences of Rwanda. The authors offer strong criticism of the colonial history of Rwanda, and examine the powerful role of colonial and neocolonial politics in modern Rwandan politics.

Genocide literature can serve as a bridge for readers who are historically, geographically, culturally, or politically removed from the violence under discussion. This literature is educational, supplementing the reader’s understanding of violent conflicts by providing accurate socio-political and historical context. By tracing the social and cultural shifts which predated the genocide, this violence is rendered understandable. In the case of Rwanda, such contextualization refutes the common narrative of the genocide as a civil war supported by endemic African violence; both Gourevitch and Courtemanche identify the machinations of the 20 colonial regime as a primary cause of the ethnic division which enabled the genocide. As

Rwandan voices were not well represented in the media coverage of the event, these texts also trace individual responses to pre-genocidal and genocidal actions in the Rwandan community in order to provide local understandings of events to readers around the world. This kind of education helps to ensure that Western readers recognize the larger political forces which shaped the Rwandan Genocide, and gain a productive understanding of post-genocide Rwandan national identity.

Chapter four examines the genocide from the Rwandan perspective, providing distanced readers with a means of understanding the chaos that was so frequently referenced in news reports about the genocide. There are three texts under consideration, each from a different genre of literary production. Élisabeth Combres’ Broken Memory is a young-adult novel which traces the recovery experiences of a young Tutsi survivor in post-genocide Rwanda. Jean-

Philippe’s Deogratias is a graphic novel which deals with the complex realities of genocide recovery as a perpetrator. This extremely compelling book makes powerful use of the graphic novel format and addresses internal and international political tensions to great effect. Finally,

Tierno Monénembo’s The Oldest Orphan is a novella which traces the failed recovery of a young Tutsi boy who survives the Nyamata massacre but cannot survive the realities of post- genocide Rwanda. Interestingly, each of these texts focuses on a child-narrator, which nuances the readers’ understanding of the simple binary of victim and perpetrator very effectively.

Genocide challenges the limits of human comprehension but such a definition does little to help individuals come to terms with the implications of mass violence for humanity. For the removed reader, the emotional exploration of distant events is a particularly valuable aspect of genocide literature. Survivors often struggle to make meaning out of their experiences, but the 21 distant observer also needs to develop understanding; literature offers that opportunity. By focusing on a specific community of people, Combres, Stassen, and Monénembo shrink the scale of the Rwandan Genocide to an understandable size. These authors explore characters who challenge the presumed binary of victim and perpetrator, reminding readers of the dangers of such simplifications as a counterpoint to the pervasive binaries employed throughout Western coverage of the event. Ultimately, these texts engage the imaginative empathy of the reader, creating “a narrating consciousness who makes sense of the confusion of history and makes the reader imagine being there” (Sicher 66). Narrating the lived experience of genocide, the complex sufferings and reactions of protagonists can form the basis of an empathic understanding of genocide. Such literature allows the victims of genocide to be heard, affirming the value of Rwandan experiences and creating a space for Rwandan citizens in the Western imagination.

In chapter five, both The Shadow of Imana and I have Before Me a Remarkable

Document Given to Me by a Young Lady From Rwanda consider the role of and value of cross- cultural exchanges in aiding recovery from the genocide, both for Rwandan and non-Rwandan actors. Véronique Tadjo’s free-form travel narrative The Shadow of Imana traces her movement through post-genocide Rwanda while encouraging the reader to imaginatively engage with the characters and sites of the text. Sonja Linden’s play I have Before Me a Remarkable Document

Given to Me by a Young Lady From Rwanda is set in London, and follows the developing relationship between Simon, a local English writer, and Juliette, a Rwandan refugee who wishes to write a book about the genocide in order to educate an international readership. Both texts demonstrate the act of interaction, and suggest to the reader that while fraught with potential pitfalls, such moments of connection can foster powerful change in local communities by 22 instigating public awareness and discussion about genocide and, more than incidentally, about decolonization.

These texts encourage readers to recognize that despite distance and difference, interactions across racial, cultural, political, and national boundaries can be profoundly valuable for Western actors. By demonstrating positive and productive interactions, these texts remind readers that international politics depend on the acceptance of citizens, and that citizens can begin to challenge political ideology in their own lives. Seeing Rwandan citizens as more than the victims and perpetrators of genocide allows readers to realize the value which Rwandan citizens have to offer the international community. Fundamentally, Tadjo and Linden ask readers to reconsider their commitment to the Western political ideology that consistently devalues African voices. In doing so, these texts challenge political superstructures which legitimate racial hierarchies within political discourse and action.

Chapter six contends that literature has the potential to instigate political change within the Western world. The shared concerns of these writers demonstrate a specific focus on rebuilding national identity, rejecting the ethnic discourse of the colonial era in favour of a collective Rwandan identity. This emerging nationalism is indicative of decolonization as imagined by Fanon, and suggests that Rwanda’s incomplete independence, begun in 1962, is finally being realized. Considering this development in light of the emerging literature of the

Rwandan Genocide, it becomes clear that these collaborative texts offer a similar means of spurring the decolonization of Western ideology by politicizing readers. By recognizing that the

Western response to the genocide is indicative of a continued neocolonial framing, it becomes clear that a complete recovery for Rwanda requires the decolonization of Western discourse and politics. By establishing a clear vision of Rwandan national identity based on contextual 23 historical fact, diverse emotional representations, and cross-cultural interactions, the texts under consideration here assert a new Rwandan identity for Western readers. Inverting Fanon’s concept of national consciousness as the basis of an emergent nation during decolonization, I propose that these texts develop reflexive national consciousness, an internally generated understanding of national identity which is then made available to the citizens of another nation, as a means of decolonizing the Western world for Rwandan citizens. In the wake of Rwanda’s history of colonialism, limited decolonization, and genocide, the value of asserting a new identity in the Western imagination cannot be underestimated. As Stuart Hall reminds us, “the world begins to be decolonized at that moment” (184) when the voices lost to the colonial regime are recovered. For Rwanda, a nation which was denied true independence even as colonial forces left Rwanda, these genocide texts, which reflect a collaboration between Western and African writers and Rwandan citizens, offer the opportunity to forge a new national identity that is reflective of, but not defined by, the genocide. Furthermore, these texts can forge new international communities of people who recognize and reject the superstructures of neocolonialism that so powerfully impact the role of former colonies on the international stage.

Collectively, these texts demonstrate knowledge and respect for Rwandan culture and are written with awareness of the lived history of Rwanda. They empower Rwandan voices and explore Rwandan concerns. Most importantly, they provide an alternative to the silence of a uni- directional cultural interaction. The one-way dissemination of culture and history privileges one set of cultural ideals over all others and relegates difference into silence. Genocide fiction cannot offer justice for genocide, but as a genre of writing, it establishes a discourse about genocide that is emotionally, intellectually, and socially productive. This is particularly important because the established systems of justice in response to genocide are often remote and 24 inaccessible, particularly for observers. Through literature, these pressing issues can be discussed and debated, and it is these small debates that ultimately influence social and political authorities to reject neocolonial power structures which deny full humanity to all global citizens. 25

Chapter Two: Tracing the Rwandan Genocide as an International Event

Making visible the experience of a different group exposes the existence of repressive mechanisms, but not their inner workings or logics; we know that difference exists, but we don’t understand it as constituted relationally. For that we need to attend to the historical processes that, through discourse, position subjects and produce their experiences. Joan Scott, “Experience,” 59-60.

The genocide that took place in Rwanda in 1994 is a fact of history. However, as local and internationally-based writers make known, it is not a neutral fact. Rwanda, as a real and imagined space, has been shaped by large-scale and invasive socio-political forces for one hundred and twenty years. As an African country, Rwanda suffered the Western degradation of

African identity and the collective African experience of the slave trade. More directly, Rwanda has been shaped by colonial rule, which lasted in Rwanda for 78 years. German authorities arrived in 1884 and the Belgians assumed control from the Germans in 1916. Buoyed by the trend towards national independence in colonial spaces after WWII, Rwanda claimed self-rule in

1962. However, the arrival and the exit of European forces had profound effects on Rwanda’s social, cultural, and political identity, both internally and externally. As a result of the colonial era, Rwanda’s social and cultural history, the country’s experience of colonialism, and the challenges of independence have consistently been narrated by non-Rwandans who naturalize

Western perceptions of Rwanda. The colonial conquerors elided African culture and social organization with violence and disorder, a perspective which remains present in international engagements in the form of neocolonialism. The overarching superstructures of colonial and neocolonial control have profoundly influenced Western understandings of Rwanda’s recent history, specifically the Rwandan Genocide. In order to understand the dangers of this neocolonial influence on Rwanda’s national identity and international interactions, underlined by 26 the writers considered here, it is necessary to map the socio-political interactions between

Rwandan and Western forces from the beginning of the colonial enterprise to the post-genocide era.

Each of the writers examined here were born during the colonial period and their work demonstrates their awareness of Rwanda’s colonial history. As imperialism proved an economically viable means of expanding empire, national leaders began the “scramble for

Africa” in the 1880s. The Berlin Conference of 1884 marked the beginning of the organized division of the African continent between several Western powers. This conference affirmed late

Victorian constructions of Africa in the public imagination. Major European countries were already in Africa, working diligently to extract wealth from the land and the people. The Berlin

Conference legitimated the pillage of the African continent, and sought to avoid conflict between

European nations seeking profit through African loss. The concern here was never the right of

European countries to divide Africa, but only how best to do so. The European colonizers agreed that colonies must be effectively governed by representatives of the nation; failure to do so was tantamount to an invitation for other European colonizers to claim the space. This logic motivated the Germans to stake out their territory in Rwanda. During World War One, taking advantage of tactical German weakness, and perhaps motivated by the German attack of France through Belgium, the Belgians invaded Germany’s African territory of Rwanda, and claimed it as their own. Since the beginning of colonial rule in Rwanda, this country has been a battle ground for the concerns and affairs of distant governments, with little regard for the impact of such actions on local identity and politics.

The European mission to dominate Africa reveals the intensity of colonial aspirations;

European leaders wished to extract economic value out of African soil and free labour from 27

African populations. However, as Gourevitch reminds readers in We Wish To Inform You That

Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families, the push for African land was also a means of asserting authority in Europe, as imperialism required the expansion of Empire. Cultural influence over colonial spaces was an important mandate of the imperial ideal, and while the

Germans did not markedly change Rwanda’s established social order, the Belgians were active in their supervision of Rwanda. The political structure of the nation changed as local leadership was nullified in favour of central governance (Chrétien 270), but the Belgians also imported new agricultural techniques to improve Rwanda’s farming culture, and mandated their own projects to improve living conditions (Chrétien 276-77). Mary Louise Pratt notes that when two cultures intersect, they “grapple with each other, often in highly asymmetrical relations of dominance and subordination” (4). These “contact zones” (4) are spaces in which aspects of distinct cultural and political structures are negotiated until one dominant model of social organization is enforced.

As with most European-African negotiations, the Belgians privileged their own cultural and political models over the systems of the Rwandan people, and sought to make changes to the social balance of Rwanda.

The Rwandan population of the early twentieth-century was made up of three groups: the

Tutsi, the Hutu, and the Twa. The nature of early social interactions between these groups remains in contention as surviving records are limited, although it is clear that prior to the arrival of European in Rwanda, these were flexible categories determined by economic and social power rather than by any clear sense of ethnic difference (Gourevitch 56-57). The Tutsi, characteristically tall, lean, and lighter-skinned, were cattle herders, an occupation that gave them access to wealth and social authority. The Hutu, characteristically shorter and darker- skinned, traditionally worked as farmers in Rwanda, generally holding less social power as a 28 result. The Twa, a pygmy population comprising only 1% of Rwanda’s citizenry, have been largely ignored in recent Rwandan history but were the only group in precolonial Rwanda defined solely by their physical attributes. By contrast, Tutsi and the Hutu identifiers were flexible identity categories. An individual’s identity was determined by the number of cattle held, and that identity could change as economic fortunes improved or waned. Intermarriage between Tutsis and Hutus was common and socially accepted. Prior to the arrival of the

Europeans, tensions between these two categories reflected economic and political frustrations rather than ethnic biases. The nation was controlled by a line of Tutsi kings and a secondary, local authority in the form of local Tutsi chiefs (Chrétien 160). This Tutsi rule was a cause of resentment among various groups in Rwanda, and a social weakness ready to be manipulated by the colonizers. The Belgians were strong supporters of Rwanda’s Tutsi leaders and put an end to the flexible system of identification with the introduction of identity cards in 1935. These two actions had a massive impact on the cultural politics of Rwanda because the economic signifiers of the past became the ethnic signifiers of the present and future.

The decision to standardize identity categories in Rwanda is precisely in line with the standard colonial approach to the “other.” As Pratt argues, the colonial gaze “homogenizes the people to be subjected, that is, produced as subjects, into a collective they, which distils down even further into an iconic he. This abstracted he/they is the subject of verbs in a timeless present tense [Emphasis in the original]” (63-64). The Belgian authorities required an ally in

Rwandan society in order to maintain colonial rule, and essentialising Rwandan identity into two distinct ethnic groups, in which the Hutu majority were marginalized while the Tutsi minority were empowered, created a clear hierarchy. This change destabilized the social and political 29 structure of Rwanda; the absolute determination of identity created fractures in Rwanda’s social order. Indeed, this chaos was destined to arise, as

the intensity and the disruptive consequences of conflict are reduced and cohesion

enhanced in societies where individuals belong to a multiplicity of groups that criss-cross

each other in such a way as to reduce the homogeneity of groups. On the other hand,

where individuals belong to relatively homogeneous groups and where group

membership in different types of functional and religious or ethnic groups are

reinforcing, the potential for conflict is high. (Brass 265)

The sense of rivalry between citizens of Rwanda distracted from the reality that Belgium had taken control of the nation by validating Tutsis and then disguising colonial authority behind the newly empowered Tutsi rule.

The colonial enterprise required constructed distinctions between African and European identity, and in this regard, the introduction of identity cards into Rwandan society was an effective tool5. As JanMohamed observes, colonial authority requires a “flexible positional superiority, which puts the Westerner in a whole series of possible relationships with the Orient without ever losing him the relative upper hand [Emphasis in the original]” (64). Indeed, this

Manichean allegory was an essential aspect of most colonial interactions. Colonial authority was maintained through the construction of an impervious European authority which brooked no refusal from the colonial subject. In Rwanda, the establishment of an ethnic class structure caused a great deal of tension between Tutsi and Hutu citizens who formerly identified as

5 Europeans have been constructing Africa in the Western cultural imagination for hundreds of years, and English narratives of the ‘other’ are particularly consistent, despite the large scale and diversity of Britain’s colonial endeavours. From casual travel-writers and scientists to military men and explorers, “whether confident or doubtful, the writers describe Africa in the same conventions. The image of Africa remains the negative reflection, the shadow, of the British self-image” (Hammond and Jablow 197). Euro-narrations of Africa affirmed European superiority, and dismissed whole aspects of African identity and culture as simply not applicable to European systems of knowledge. 30

Rwandans. However, public dissatisfaction was directed at the Tutsis who held local power, rather than the colonial authority who legitimated that power. Tutsis became a reliable class of allies who supported colonial authority so long as their own local power was supported by the colonists. This is an excellent example of the flexible positionality of the Belgians in Rwanda; playing king-maker to the Tutsis in exchange for support, and disempowering a massive Hutu working-class who were too fixated on Tutsi gain to see the true architects of this social manipulation. By introducing the discourse of difference, formalized through the identity cards,

Rwandans ceased to speak with one voice or identify as a homogenous group. By introducing ethnicity as indicative of social authority, the subtle fractures of precolonial Rwandan society were magnified and manipulated by the Belgian colonizers.

It is well known that despite the technological power of the Europeans in Africa, colonial authority was not established with weapons and military prowess alone. The ideals of colonialism were affirmed and transmitted through the written word. As Homi Bhabha notes, the colonial mission “seeks authorization for its strategies by the production of knowledges of colonizer and colonized which are stereotypical but antithetically evaluated…to justify conquest and to establish systems of administration and instruction” (101). The greatest weapon in the colonial arsenal was the perception of European superiority. Colonized populations were encouraged to see Europeans as members of far more developed nations, whose accomplishments were proof of an implicit superiority. African identity was developed as a counterpoint to European identity, and African characters in European writing were caricatures constructed in deference to the project of Western literary self-aggrandization. In dehumanizing

Africans to claim dominion over them, Europeans silenced African resistance and invalidated

African knowledge on the basis of its origin. Writings about Africa from the colonial period 31 normalized the European imperative to dominate Africans under the guise of necessary oversight. As the colonial era demonstrates, given sufficient authority, literary and historical narratives such as King Solomon’s Mines and Heart of Darkness have the power to shape public opinion regarding a range of political interactions across the globe.

In the process of colonization, the colonizer’s role and influence in the invaded society is naturalized. Narrative is once again an ally to the colonizer. In Rwanda, empowered Tutsi leaders and European authorities naturalized historical narratives about Rwanda so as to further legitimate their mutual authority. Alison Des Forges, a leading expert on the Rwandan genocide, observes that

mutually supportive historians created a mythic history to buttress a colonial

order…The joint product was shaped in Rwanda and packaged in Europe, and then

delivered back into the school-rooms of Rwanda by Europeans or European-educated

teachers. In addition, the results of the collaborative enterprise were accepted by

intellectuals in the circles around the court, even those without European-style

schooling – and integrated into their oral histories. It was not surprising that Tutsi were

pleased with this version of history. But even the majority of Hutu swallowed this

distorted account of the past, so great was their respect for European-style education.

(“The Ideology of Genocide” 45)

By constructing the convincing spectre of an all-powerful Europe, the Belgians were able to convince Rwandan civilians to accept European versions of Rwandan history. Moreover, the sheer length of colonial rule in Rwanda meant that these constructed narratives took root over generations and became part of the fabric of national identity. In a study of contemporary nationalism in Rwanda, David Brown observes that 32

the subordination of the Hutu majority under colonial rule had meant that their

identity developed reactively against the state and emerged in an ethnocultural

nationalist form. The Hutu perception saw Hutus and Tutsis as two distinct racially

based nations, locked in a zero-sum conflict within the same state and territory. Tutsi

perceptions of identity, on the other hand, developed when their pre-colonial status as

patrons was transformed into a cemented-power monopoly over Hutus by Belgian

colonial rule, so that when Tutsi nationalism developed, it was associated with the

Rwandan state, and took on a civic nationalist complexion. This means that from the

Tutsi perspective, the terms Hutu and Tutsi were used to refer to distinct class or caste

communities within a (potential or emergent) Rwandan nation. (161)

This division between the citizens of Rwanda, instituted to facilitate colonial control, became a fundamental part of Rwanda’s national identity; citizens were empowered or alienated on the basis of identity groupings that had become politically relevant only in the context of colonial rule. As Brown further observes, “by the time of the late 1950s, when these tensions first erupted into violence, an understanding of Rwandan politics in terms of rivalry between a Hutu majority (about 85 percent) and a Tutsi minority (less than 14 percent) had achieved hegemony”

(161).

The European rule of Rwanda was a certainty only so long as the discourse of colonialism could sustain itself. However, the Second World War and the Holocaust lent human rights a new level of importance in the global discourse. The United Nations adopted the

“Universal Declaration of Human Rights” on December 10, 1948, and instructed all member states “to cause it to be disseminated, displayed, read and expounded principally in schools and other educational institutions, without distinction based on the political status of countries or 33 territories” (“History of the Document”). This document represented a fundamental shift in the perception of race and culture on the global stage. The discursive dehumanization of the nineteenth and early twentieth century was curbed by an emergent recognition of the dangers implicit in large-scale racial generalizations. This document prohibited slavery and torture, addressed important aspects of social life, such as marriage and employment, and generally represented the ideals of a liberal society. Of primary importance to colonized spaces was the first article of the declaration, which stated that “all human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood” (“The Universal Declaration of Human Rights”). Affirming the equality of all people, this document struck down one of the principle narratives of colonialism, which framed colonial subjects as incapable of governing themselves and colonial masters as bearing the burden of ward-nations. In the spirit of the age, colonial resistance gained traction and nations began to liberate themselves from former colonial leaders. Moreover, this mid-century period marked the beginning of large-scale social discussions about how equality might take shape in specific societies.

With this assertion of the rights of all people, colonial subjects began to test their strength against European rule, and the Rwandans were no exception. These efforts attempted to address the myriad ways that colonialism had maintained itself. As colonial narratives had normalized

European involvement in the far-flung corners of the earth, decolonization needed to address the subtle ways in which colonial influence had inserted itself into local cultures. The politically loaded discourses of African savagery and Indian subservience, examples from two of Europe’s largest colonial spaces, could no longer maintain themselves alongside the assertion of universal human equality. However, these discourses were not struck down and eradicated; rather, they 34 were replaced with less pointedly biased narratives of local identity over time. The racism inherent in the colonial mission shifted under the social pressures of the 1950s and 1960s, giving way to new discourses that reflected both colonial and postcolonial ideology.

Decolonization, poignantly defined by Fanon, one of the earliest proponents of national independence, is “truly the creation of new men” (2). Fanon, a leading theorist of decolonization and an architect of postcolonial nation building, maintains that former colonial subjects claim identity by reclaiming their nation through active cultural and political engagements. However, decolonization has not enabled nations to claim equality on the global political stage; former colonies enter into new political and social relationships with global powers, but the social and political narratives that empowered the colonial endeavour continue to influence the perception of former colonial spaces, both internally and internationally. This neocolonialism is a nuanced form of colonial control, as the discourse of inequality becomes more subtle but the former colonial space remains devalued. JanMohamed observes that in the neocolonial exchange, former colonial spaces often take on the colonizer’s culture, values, morality, institutions, and modes of production (62). While this may seem innocuous, the influence of a colonizing culture in a newly independent space can propagate other, more direct forms of control and hinder the development of new forms of local expression and self-representation. Cultural expressions simultaneously define and reflect a nation, and in a newly independent space, such expressions are particularly valuable. Edward Said observes that the framing of the colonial subject through

Western cultural productions is itself a “strategy of containment…that reproduces a relation of domination” (Orientalism 46). Throughout the colonial enterprise, cultural representations of the

‘other’ provided a means of legitimating European dominance; when such representations are 35 imported into former colonial spaces, effects are heightened because while a narrative of equality is asserted, it is not reflected in the practical relationship between former colonial master and subject.

As Gourevitch and Courtemanche convincingly show in their writing about Rwanda, colonial spaces that claim independence are not awarded the complex social, cultural, and political tools required for a strong sense of nationhood during decolonization, despite the fact that colonizing forces generally disrupt productive internal social structures during colonization.

The power structures in place during the colonial period are largely removed as colonial forces exit, commonly leaving a deficit of the formal processes and social forums needed to govern effectively. Such postcolonial spaces must develop internal structures or call upon past structures in order to articulate a coherent collective identity, rebalance the social order, and provide a scaffold for future developments which reflect the aspirations of the nation. Clear shared goals are essential to the recovery of neocolonial spaces. Fanon argues that at such pivotal moments, former colonial spaces must prioritize the development of a national culture.

He defines national culture as “the collective thought process of a people to describe, justify, and extol the actions whereby they have joined forces and remained strong. National culture in the underdeveloped countries, therefore, must lie at the very heart of the liberation struggle these countries are waging” (168). This position demonstrates Fanon’s awareness that the strength of the colonial endeavour resulted from the use of culture to naturalize politics. In response, Fanon urges the use of culture to assert a new internal and international identity, thereby challenging the political and economic superstructures which maintained the colonial empire for so long.

In the case of Rwanda’s decolonization, early efforts to form a united national identity which could assert itself in opposition to colonial identification were complicated by the form in 36 which independence arrived. Rwanda became a UN trust territory after the League of Nations ceased to exist in 1946, although still officially under Belgian control. This spectre of independence divided Rwandans along the ethnic lines established by the colonial powers; Tutsis pushed for immediate independence, which caused tensions for many Hutus who resented the

Tutsi claim to power under colonial rule. These two groups, generally perceived as politically distinct after almost seventy years of colonial control, sought to differentiate themselves from one another through the imminent claim to self-rule. This period of violence became known as the Rwandan Revolution, and signalled the end of the monarchy system which had affirmed

Tutsis authority throughout the period of colonial rule (“Rwanda – UNAMIR Background”).

With the promise of independence, Hutu activists began to see empowered Tutsis as a threat to

Hutu liberation after the exit of the colonial forces, and began to target Tutsis with violence and death. The earliest civilian clashes left hundreds of Tutsis dead, and between November 1959 and late 1961, approximately 160,000 Tutsis left Rwanda to find ethnic acceptance in surrounding African countries (“Background Note: Rwanda”). This political uprising, known in

Rwanda as the “wind of destruction” (Gourevitch 59), demonstrates the complex reality of

Rwanda’s first taste of independence from Belgium. The ethnic identities asserted during colonial rule, divisive throughout the first half of the twentieth-century, became the basis of violence during the run-up to decolonization. It was at this point that Rwandans received a belated gift from their colonizers. Rather than exit Rwanda with colonial structures in place,

Belgian officials chose to disrupt the carefully cultivated ethnic hierarchy established for their own benefit. The Belgians supported the Hutu resistance of Tutsi power, and legitimated the rejection of the monarchy by holding an election in 1962 to determine new leadership 37

(“Background Note: Rwanda”). The massive Hutu majority took control of the country just as

Rwanda separated from Burundi and became an independent nation on July 1st, 1962.

As a majority group disempowered throughout colonial rule, Hutus were anxious to assert themselves in their newly independent nation, and earlier displays of ethnic violence were absorbed into the rhetoric of the emerging nation. As Fanon points out, national development is strengthened by the collective engagement of the citizens, and requires clear and unified goals to succeed (168). However, Rwanda had no chance for such an experience of decolonization.

Instead, the ethnic divide asserted by the colonists hampered any sense of collective unity between these Rwandan citizens. These two groups understood their relationship to national identity in fundamentally different ways. Tutsi identity was ideologically linked to the Rwandan nation because of their empowered position within the nation under colonial rule. Hutu identity, on the other hand, had been disempowered during the colonial rule of Rwanda, and so Hutu identity was ideologically connected to ethnic, rather than nationalistic, discourse. Because these two groups conceived of their relationship to the state differently, they could not collaboratively develop a new concept of Rwandan citizenry. As David Brown observes of Rwandan postcolonial politics,

an emergent Rwandan civic nationalism was never able to accommodate an

emergent Hutu ethnocultural nationalism. The intensity of economic, status and power

disparities, and the physical and emotional insecurities which these disparities

engendered, have ensured the susceptibility of Rwandans to the two antithetical

nationalist ideologies which insecure élites have propagated. The structural basis for the

conflict is thus no longer the rivalries for state power and resources themselves, but the

mutual distrust, misunderstanding and fear, which is embedded in the two constructed 38

ideologies. The inability of the decolonising state to intertwine civic and ethnocultural

identities so as to generate a sense of security, led those subject to the uncertainties of

deprivation, to seek security in simple formulas of countervailing Hutu and Tutsi rights,

enemies and destinies. (164)

Given these distinct modes of relating to the nation, as well as the history of ethnic division and the substantial disparity in the ethnic demographics of Rwanda, it is little wonder that Hutu representatives aggressively claimed power in the new Rwandan state. Their rule legitimated by the retreating Belgian forces, Hutus began to assert a national identity informed by ethnicity, one which would not accommodate the Tutsi minority. Thus, Rwanda’s national rhetoric, always a key element of national identity formation, reflected and inspired ethnic division in aggressive terms. Tutsis were excluded from emerging discussions of Rwandan identity, and tensions transformed into violence as the nation developed through the neocolonial period.

In Rwanda, the process of colonization and decolonization significantly changed the meaning of Tutsi and Hutu identity, as well as the understanding of collective identity that was in place prior to 1884. Decolonization empowered a massive population who had been kept from power as a result of arbitrary ethnic distinctions, and simultaneously disempowered a very small population who had alienated themselves by serving as a comprador class to the Belgian officials. Most importantly, the Belgians, in supporting the Hutus in the last stages of colonial rule, had validated the Hutu perception that it was the Tutsis, and not the Belgians, who were the enemy. The victimization of the Tutsis became a desirable line of action; their smaller numbers and the colonial belief that Tutsis were not indigenous to Rwanda, instigated widespread pressure on the Tutsis to leave Rwanda. Public discourse and representation of Tutsi identity at this time became politically loaded, as the Tutsi “were increasingly portrayed not merely as 39 immigrants but as foreign occupants and oppressors – not unlike the colonialists” (Buckley-

Zistel 104). The shared culture and collective memory of the citizens of Rwanda could not sustain the fractures of colonial influence, and Rwanda began independence mired by the political divisions of the colonial era.

In national spaces, collective memory “shapes the story that groups of people tell about themselves, linking past, present and future in a simplified narrative” (Duncan Bell 2), and the fragmentation of this narrative self-creation endangers national coherence. The colonial powers fragmented precolonial narratives of Rwandan identity by massaging class structures into fundamental ethnic differences. In a postcolonial society, such distinctions take on particular significance because the “important distinctions among peoples are cultural. People define themselves in terms of ancestry, religion, languages, history, values, customs and institutions.

They identify with cultural groups, tribes, ethnic groups, religions, communities, nations and, at the broadest level, civilizations” (Rohne, Arsovska and Aertsen 9). However, Rwanda’s culture had been so manipulated by the colonial presence that Rwanda claimed independence as a country fundamentally divided. Moreover, the rhetoric of violence which shaped this emerging nation quickly took up a permanent place in Rwanda’s national discourse.

Rwandan postcolonial national discourse was predicated on the rejection of Tutsi identity and the privileging of Hutu identity. The first government, headed by Gregoire Kayibanda of the

PARMEHUTU Party, “promoted a Hutu-supremacist ideology” (“Background Note: Rwanda”), prompting more Tutsis to flee Rwanda’s borders. This party was abolished by force in 1973, when Major General Habyarimana dissolved the National Assembly and claimed the presidency himself after elections held in 1978. Habyarimana’s rule lasted until his plane was shot down in

April of 1994, sparking the Rwandan Genocide. However, throughout his leadership, he 40 exacerbated ethnic tensions and maintained a consistent rhetoric of violence towards Tutsi citizens. The aggressively anti-Tutsi public discourse propagated through the Rwandan government and Hutu leaders destabilized the nation by inciting violence and normalizing the vilification of Tutsi citizens. Moreover, he did nothing to quell the small, sustained attacks on

Tutsis, which have now been recognized as massacres testing the local, national, and international responses to such violence (“Background Note: Rwanda”). The Rwandan Patriotic

Front, or RPF, was created in 1990 by exiled Tutsis determined to return and claim a place in

Rwandan society. Clashes between this force and the military troops under the command of the president occurred with some frequency between 1990 and 1992, until international pressures in the form of the Organization for African Unity instigated a cease-fire.

The Arusha Accords were signed by the Rwandan government and the leaders of the RPF on August 4th, 1993 in an attempt to end the violence publicly known as the Rwandan Civil War.

These discussions emphasized the need for all citizens of Rwanda to be repatriated and outlined an expectation that the government and the rebel forces merge into a united national force. The fundamental error in the discourse of the Arusha Accords was a belief that politics divided these two groups. As shown, the ethnic divide within Rwanda may have taken the guise of politics, but was rooted in the cultural rhetoric of an emergent postcolonial Rwandan identity. As such, unity could not be created politically. Rather, Rwandan negotiations needed to reaffirm the precolonial fluidity between Tutsi and Hutu identifications. Instead, the UN formed the United

Nations Assistance Mission for Rwanda (UNAMIR), which was to provide security and

“contribute to the establishment and maintenance of a climate conducive to the secure installation and subsequent operation of the transitional Government” (“Rwanda – UNAMIR

Background”). The UNAMIR forces, lead by Brigadier-General Dallaire and comprised 41 primarily of Belgian soldiers, arrived in Kigali on October 22, 1993 and began functioning as a peace-keeping force, in accordance with the UN mandate.

The Rwandan genocide began on April 6th, 1994, when President Habyarimana’s plane was shot down near Kigali airport. Early reports suggested that the RPF were trying to undermine the political aspirations of the Arusha Accords, but the evidence has not conclusively shown who shot down the plane, although the speed of the military and Hutu militia response suggests their involvement or prior knowledge (“Rwanda – UNAMIR Background”). This particular moment is depicted in several of the texts under consideration here; while Gourevitch details it factually, Courtemanche and Stassen powerfully depict Rwandan responses to the news of this event. The first action for the génocidaires was to murder the senior members of the government, an objective that was completed within hours of the President’s death. This implemented military rule in the country for the duration of the genocide, and incited civilian aggression on a national scale. This violence was normalized through the propaganda of the national radio station, which came under Hutu control in the months prior to the genocide. The

Radio Télévision Libre des Milles Collines (RTLM) urged Hutus to “exterminate the Tutsi from the globe [and] make them disappear once and for all” (Kiernan 28) prior to and throughout the three months of genocide. The genocide was well organized, channelling the frustrations of the

Hutu population into action by recruiting citizens into local militias. Hutus who were unwilling to engage in violence were themselves threatened, and Hutus who expressed sympathy for Tutsis were killed. The discourse of this genocide was strictly ethnic, and the military propagated a nationalistic fervour on the basis of collective national slaughter.

Over the period of three months, from April 6th to July 4th, approximately 800,000 Tutsi and Tutsi-sympathizers were brutally and laboriously murdered by their fellow citizens of 42

Rwanda, using domestic tools and machetes. These murders were protracted and individuals were targeted with extreme prejudice. While the machetes used in the genocide were imported by the Hutu militias partly because they were common to Rwanda and would not raise the concerns that a similar cache of guns might, the machete was also chosen because of the style of death conferred on the victim. Tutsis and Hutu sympathizers were purposefully humiliated in death in order to further assert Hutu supremacy. In exploring the issue of dignity in large scale violence, Lindner comments that

genocide is about humiliating the personal dignity of the victims, denigrating their

group to a subhuman level. The Rwandan genocide of 1994 provides a gruesome

catalogue of practices designed to bring down the victims’ dignity. The most literate

way of achieving this debasement as I heard described many times was cutting off the

legs of tall Tutsis to shorten not only their bodies but ‘bring down their alleged

arrogance.’ (9)

This conscious effort to humiliate Tutsi citizens reflects the passion of Hutu ideology in this conflict, and warned surviving Tutsis that they were not welcome to remain in or return to

Rwanda.

The Interahamwe and the Impuzamugambi, Hutu paramilitary organizations in charge of civilian murder, were made up of average citizens and used local knowledge to create lists of

Tutsis to be killed in each area of Rwanda. The names of these groups affirm the communal nature of their work; “Interahamwe” means “those who stand / work / fight together” while

“Impuzamugambi” means “those who have a shared goal” (“Impuzamugambi”). This discourse of a common Hutu objective to rid Rwanda of Tutsis was rampant throughout the genocide and shows how fundamental ethnicity was to the construction of genocidal enactment. Bartov 43 observes that victims of genocide are created when they are forced to “conform to a definition that they might not share, based on categories imposed on them by a larger community or political regime” (772), and certainly, the definition of Tutsi propagated by Hutu militants did not reflect the self-definition of Tutsi citizens. The Tutsi threat constructed through the rhetoric of the genocide was disproportionate with any actual threat posed by the Tutsis, demonstrating the same “synchronic essentialism” (Said, Orientalism 240) that the colonial forces employed when they arrived in Rwanda. By constructing Tutsis as antithetical to a strong Rwanda, Hutu authorities translated postcolonial aspirations of independence into colonial-style dominance over Tutsis.

As each of these texts demonstrates, with varying degrees of intensity, the genocide created the problems associated with genocide: the cessation of governmental and civil activities, massive physical and mental trauma across the population, and widespread terror and confusion.

However, there were other concerns as well: huge refugee populations were created as Tutsis flooded across the Rwandan border in all directions, and security for citizens within the

Rwandan border became near non-existent. While international aid was delayed until near the end of the genocide, RPF forces attempted to regain ground from the Hutu military forces and local killing squads. Preparing their forces on the borders of Rwanda, the RPF challenged the

Rwandan government and the militias by creating safe pockets in the hills of Rwanda, working from the north down into central Rwanda throughout the months of the genocide, and arriving in

Kigali on July 4th, 1994. The RPF defeated the final governmental stronghold on July 18th

(“What happened between April and July 1994?”). The role of the RPF in the cessation of the

Rwandan genocide is complex; many Tutsis fleeing Rwanda were aided by the RPF, but there have also been reports of retribution-style killings of Hutu citizens without evidence of their 44 complicity in the genocide. The issue is beyond the scope of this discussion, but it is important to note that there were individuals on both sides who stepped outside of their official mandate, whether to aid a purported enemy, or to kill an unidentified victim of the chaos. Certainly, both the militias and the RPF relied on the essentialising discourse of ethnicity to distinguish between victims and the aggressors, despite the danger of such categorizations. Regardless of oppositional forces, between April and July, 1994, Tutsis were murdered at a rate five times that of the Nazi death camps (Prunier 261), a figure which fails convey the profound horror of this event, and which raises serious concerns about the lack of international response to reports of these events.

There were many actors who should have responded to the early warnings of the genocide in Rwanda, and who could have acted when presented with clear evidence of mass atrocities. These governing bodies should have been compelled by the fact that the violence in

Rwanda, from its inception, was a demonstrable effort to eliminate the Tutsi population, and therefore met the accepted definition of genocide within the international community. Since the

Holocaust, there have been political mandates in place to address large-scale violence. The

“Universal Declaration of Human Rights” established human equality as a fundamental tenant of the bourgeoning modern world; the “Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide” laid out a collective political and militaristic response to threats of genocide.

Without a doubt, there were lives lost in the translation of theory to praxis, but these declarations instigated massive social changes and supported the voices of oppressed minorities within public discourse. These documents, aside from asserting individual equality, sought to guide the actions of nations in line with the professed ideals of the UN. 45

The UN created “Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of

Genocide” establishes clear national and international responses to mass-violence. This document establishes genocide as “a crime under international law [to which] “international co- operation is required” (“Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of

Genocide”). This collective investment in global security was supported by the allied nations involved in WWII, particularly in light of the Holocaust, an event which demonstrated the dangers of ethnic, racial, and religious persecution. With the shock of the Nazi death camps still fresh and new measures in place to prevent a reoccurrence, the phrase ‘Never Again’ became an emblem of public determination to be vigilant in the face of threats to human liberty. Rhoda

Howard-Hassmann observes that this post-WWII shift towards a defined “global ethics” (488) enabled, and required, a great deal of change in the global order. In asserting a clearer vision of ideal human interaction, citizens began to accept that all people deserved the protection of basic human rights. However, as Howard-Hassmann notes, “this increase in empathy [was] not in itself sufficient to promote a political responsibility to protect” (507). The aspirational politics of the post-WWII era could not mobilize sufficient political and social interest in this African genocide. The second half of the twentieth-century has witnessed many large-scale conflicts in which individual liberties were quashed, specific ethnic or racial groups targeted, and corrupt governments hid behind confusion and a global unwillingness to challenge such behaviour. In

Rwanda, the UN, numerous powerful countries, and the Western public provided Rwanda with virtually no military, governmental, or public support during the one hundred days of the genocide.

The internal debates and discussions over how best to avoid substantial commitments in

Rwanda by the UN, Western governments, and the Western public cannot be detailed at length 46 here6. However, there was a systematic effort to legitimate this moral and political delinquency.

Considering the role of the United Nations first, the UN received a report from B. W. Ndiaye, the

Special Rapporteur on Summary, Arbitrary, and Extrajudicial Executions, in August 1993, detailing the small-scale massacres of Tutsis taking place in the Rwandan countryside (Ndaiye

23). Furthermore, General Dallaire, leading the UNAMIR mission, offered multiple warnings to his superiors regarding the threat of genocide in Rwanda. General Dallaire repeatedly requested permission to expand the mandate of the UNAMIR mission, recognizing that despite the compromises promised by the Arusha Accords, the situation in Rwanda was explosive. In an attempt to stem the potential for violence, he found a local informant to provide information about the plans of the Hutu militias, and tracked the mass importation of machetes into Rwanda for use during the coming genocide. Despite this, and his insistent use of the word ‘genocide’ when discussing the social and political reality of Rwanda’s internal tensions, he was ignored by

UN officials (Melvern 202). Worse, he was told to submit his intelligence to officials within the

Rwandan government, some of whom were involved in the planning of the genocide. Both

Gourevitch and Courtemanche emphasize in their writing the fact that there were significant opportunities to preclude the violence of the genocide, all of which were ignored by Western officials at the highest levels.

It should be notes for contextual relevance to our texts that once the genocide began and the threat to civilians was evident, the UN did act. However, that action was not representative of the UN mandate to act against genocide. When the UNAMIR headquarters were hit on April

6 The United Nations webpage offers notes and a timeline regarding the development of genocide in Rwanda, and details the various discussions and resolutions which determined the UNAMIR mission’s scope in Rwanda, particularly in the pre-genocide period and in the early days of the violence. Furthermore, Nigel Eltringham offers a comprehensive overview of the UN and governmental responses to the genocide between April 6th – June 28th, 1994, in his text Accounting for Horror: Post-Genocide Debates in Rwanda, published by Pluto Press in London, 2004. Linda Melvern’s A People Betrayed: The Role of the West in Rwanda’s Genocide is also an excellent and extremely thorough text. 47

19th, the Security Council agreed to reduce the UNAMIR’s numbers from 2,165 military personnel to 270, stating that this number represented the maximum number of bodies necessary to act as an intermediary force between the Rwandan militias and the RPF, as well as overseeing humanitarian relief when possible (“Rwanda – UNAMIR Background”). The Security Council considered bringing in several thousand additional troops in order to get the militias under control, but did not elect to undertake this approach. The limited scope of their response defies the aspiration nature of the official UN position on genocide, and demonstrates the ease with which action can be dismissed and inaction encouraged. As Amanda Grzyb notes in her study on Western perceptions of the civil war in Darfur, “the lack of response to the Rwanda genocide demonstrates that the UN Security Council – particularly the five permanent members (P5) with veto power: the United States, Britain, France, Russia, and China – has little interest in initiating meaningful forms of intervention” (“Introduction” 13). The UN did not publicly acknowledge the genocide until May 4th, and even this was done in an effort to stay ahead of increasing reports of violence in Rwanda (“Rwanda – UNAMIR Background”) through the Western media.

On May 31st, 1994, the Secretary-General admitted to the Security Council that 1.5 million Rwandans had been displaced, and 400,000 were living as temporary refugees along the external borders of Rwanda, challenging the stability of neighbouring countries. Despite the

Security Council’s resolution to send 5,500 troops to Rwanda on May 17th, a four-to-six week delay in preparing troops was announced on May 31st, meaning that troops would not arrive in

Rwanda before July, a full three months after the genocide began (“Rwanda – UNAMIR

Background”). The UN Security Council reserved its condemnation of Rwanda’s genocide until

July 1st, 1994, when it released a statement of concern at reports of violations of the international laws of genocide (“Rwanda – UNAMIR Background”). Contextually, at this point in Rwanda, 48 more than 800,000 people had been killed, and the objectives of the Hutu militants had been met.

The United Nations, who defined the scope of genocide in the post-WWII period, actively ignored evidence of genocide brought forward by their own personnel, and refused to take decisive action when decisive action alone could have ended the atrocity of civilian violence in

Rwanda.

The UN is the most easily identifiable actor in the Rwanda Genocide because it is the organization most fundamentally linked with the preservation of humanity in the global imagination. It is widely seen as a neutral party which, through political, social, and humanitarian channels, defends those who cannot act for themselves. However, the UN is less than the sum of its parts in some ways, hampered by the individual wills of the nations it speaks for. The response to the Rwandan Genocide was also shaped by the actions and inactions of nations whose voices carry the furthest in international conversations. The United States delayed recognition of the genocide in Rwanda, and withheld American military personnel, weaponry, heavy armour, and air support from the UN, delaying the UN entrance into Rwanda

(Ferroggiaro). The reason for the US delay was two-fold: the US suffered a loss of domestic confidence after the death of soldiers during a humanitarian mission in Somalia in 1993, and were not interested in a protracted involvement on African soil (Ferroggiaro). According to

Brent Beardsley, who served as the executive assistant to General Dallaire in Rwanda,

there was a lack of military will at the Pentagon and other national military

headquarters, with an overwhelming majority of US and allied military officers

opposing military involvement in Rwanda in 1994…they believe that a national

military should not be squandered on sideshows like peacekeeping and intervention 49

in ‘someone else’s conflict’ in an ‘unimportant’ area of the world. This attitude was

prevalent in most major militaries in 1994 and persists in some quarters to this day. (48)

Neocolonialism dismisses former colonial spaces as too foreign and remote to matter to nations with economic and militaristic authority on the global stage. Framing Rwanda as a distant and irrelevant space is a colonial era narrative imported into postcolonial discourse in order to validate political and social disinterest in protecting human equality.

National decisions to avoid involvement in Rwanda’s conflict involved a degree of semantics. As the “Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide” sets out, acts of genocide compel the action of United Nations member states. As a result, naming the Rwandan genocide became a protracted game of political evasion. Roméo Dallaire states that “in 1994 the United States, among others, would acknowledge only that ‘Acts of

Genocide’ were taking place and would not define how many acts it took to constitute a genocide” (“Foreword” xxi). This kind of word play undermines the very basis of the law, which is limited by the meaning ascribed to language7. The authoritative declarations of a government can be an extremely powerful aspect of public discourse. By evading discussions of the very real horror occurring in Rwanda, the US government sabotaged public interest in this issue.

In considering public Western investment in Rwanda’s genocide, the general discourse about

Rwanda in 1994 is pertinent. Public knowledge is often informed by pre-established media narratives, and prior to the genocide, Rwanda had not claimed a great deal of Western media

7 Luke Glanville coined the term “semantic squirming” (472) in relation to Christine Shelley, spokeswoman for the US State Department during the genocide, who was repeatedly evasive about the ‘acts of genocide’ that were occurring en masse in Rwanda. The US government engaged in purposeful manipulation of the facts in order to avoid having to commit to a foreign mission that might undermine American global authority as the mission in Somalia had been seen to do. 50 attention. There was virtually nothing about pre-genocide Rwanda or its citizens that was relevant to the average Western citizen. It was precisely this lack of information that informed many of the decisions about Rwanda. Beardsley argues that

the international community knew little about Rwandan history and culture; about the

political, economic, and social root causes of the Rwandan civil war and ethnic strife;

or about the false ‘Hamitic myth’ of Tutsi and Hutu as two tribes in perpetual conflict.

This lack of knowledge directly contributed to the Western failure to understand

Rwandan discord and the genocide that followed. The ignorance about Rwanda by

virtually every non-Rwandan decision maker during this crisis could hardly provide the

foundation upon which to build a solution to the problems there. Decision makers cannot

expect to be part of the solution if they do not understand the problem. (48-49)

Furthermore, this lack of knowledge was used to permit a lack of action, allowing the genocide to occur without a significant public outcry:

In many cases, the refusal to provide the means for intervention was tied directly to the

lack of public will in individual nations for the intervention itself. Few people in the

world have ever heard of Rwanda and they certainly did not identify it as something that

was vital to their security and prosperity. Public opinion could have been mobilized only

by effective political leadership, which was sorely lacking in 1994. The lesson is

therefore clear that, if we are going to stop the crime of genocide, political leadership

must be prepared to expend political capital for significant intervention by mobilizing

public support. (Beardsley 47)

Effective leadership requires the masses to trust the judgement of those elected, but in politics, decisions are often made to maintain, rather than to assert power. Beardsley calls for effective 51 leadership in the face of a crisis, and suggests that such leadership emerges from informed and vibrant public discourse. In 1994, the United States government avoided discussions of Rwanda on the national and international stage for fear of the responsibility that good governance requires. The reticence of Western military and political authorities served to quell public concern for the fate of Rwandans, butchered by the hundreds of thousands in a country few were interested in locating on a map.

In the modern world, media representations shape public discourse particularly because of the speed at which these representations are made available, and the ease with which they cross borders. Global mass cultures are “dominated by the modern means of production, dominated by the image that crosses and recrosses linguistic frontiers much more rapidly and more easily and that speaks across languages in a much more immediate way” (Hall 178). This transmission of cultural and political information has serves as the impetus of revolutions, as in the Arab Spring of 2011, but can also propagate dubious understanding and a false sense of connection. While discussion of Rwanda in the Western world prior to the genocide was extremely limited, the details of the violence reported by Western media informed an emergent discourse about this “small, poor and globally insignificant” (Sciolino) nation. However, significant problems exist within these representations, the most fundamental being that a distinctly neocolonial narrative runs through them. Specifically, there was a lack of time devoted to following this event, a pervasive tendency for Western media outlets to inaccurately explain the causes of the genocide, misrepresent the principle actors on the ground, and rely on a faulty diction when discussing the genocide.

While technology makes the world far more accessible than it has been in decades and centuries past, the fact remains that there is a decline in the coverage of foreign events within 52

Western media compounded with a paucity of imaginative points of view. Moeller demonstrates these trends with the use of statistics from The Tyndall Report, noting that from 1989-1995, the time spent by the three major American networks (ABC, NBC, CBS) covering foreign news stories in evening reports dropped from 4,032 minutes to 1,991 (29). This drop-off reflects a reduction of more than 50% in the coverage of international news events over six years. This trend continues in the most recent decade; The Tyndall Report for 2000-2010 reveals that the same three American networks offered 146,643 minutes of news coverage, of which only 25,337 minutes were devoted to international news stories (“Tyndall Decade in Review”). This means that only 17.3 percent of the total broadcast time in the last ten years offered American viewers any discussion of the world beyond the American border. The average yearly discussion of

2,533 minutes remains much lower than the figure quoted in 1989. What this ultimately means is that the media coverage on offer during the genocide was ill-prepared to air any in-depth coverage of the real challenges experienced on the ground in Rwanda. The system intended to enable public discourse limited the diversity of broadcast topics to ensure that local news received far more attention than international events.

Most Western reporters were evacuated during the first days of the genocide; there were never more than 15 reporters in Rwanda between April and July of 1994 (Melvern 204).

However, this limitation does not excuse the lack of judicious media discussion of the causes and development of the genocide. Linda Melvern points out that aid organizations made it their priority to ensure that the daily casualty numbers were provided to all available media outlets

(201). Furthermore, those reporters who did remain in Rwanda were very active in their efforts to publish their stories. Jean-Philippe Ceppi, a French reporter, specifically used the word

“genocide” in his April 11th report to the French Libération newspaper, a framing that should 53 have sparked a more critical consideration of the killings in Rwanda (Ceppi). Instead, the

Western media chose to bury the story and avoided the use of the word genocide in all publications for two full weeks. The New York Times offered only speculation that the killings represented a genocide on April 23rd (Melvern 202). Eltringham observes that “the idea that the genocide was the result of ‘primordial bloodlust’ – rather than a modern, premeditated, well organized attempt to annihilate Tutsi – was, and remains, prevalent” (64). By positioning the violence as tribal, western media outlets were complicit with the UN and major governments around the world in allowing the real story to remain under-discussed. Instead, the narrative of

Rwandan tribalism was used as a convenient frame for the violence being perpetrated against the

Tutsi population in Rwanda. As Eltringham observes, the commonly employed “‘ancient’ tribal motif naturalises more recent racial (re)constructions of social distinction in Rwanda” (66).

Rather than uncovering the complex causes of this genocide, media reports in America, Britain, and France effectively exempted readers from understanding or engaging with modern African politics.

While many scholars have commented these trends, Melissa Wall’s analysis of 38 full- length genocide-era American news reports by Time, Newsweek, and U.S News and World

Report reveals Rwanda’s positioning in narratives with a wide global distribution. Article headlines locate Rwandan identity for the very broadest category of readers. In the articles under consideration by Wall, 71% of headlines offer no cause or solution to the genocide, a significant omission that speaks to the common perception of African violence as endemic and unceasing

(264). 16% of headlines wrongly identify the genocide as a tribal conflict, trivializing the brutal nature of the violence and the political nature of the killings (264). The final 13% of headlines raise visions of valiant Westerners bringing solutions to the crisis, implicitly suggesting that 54

Rwandans were not capable of ending the chaos of genocide (264). The articles themselves expand on these framings, mentioning the ethnic categories Hutu and Tutsi 456 times and using the words “ethnic” and “tribal” 55 times. Conversely, the word “extremists” was used only 14 times (265). Perhaps the worst of all of the omissions and false framings in the reporting of the genocide was the failure to clarify that the genocide was organized and carried out by Hutu extremists. Sanctioned by the interim Rwandan government, extremists created a large-scale conflict by forcing ordinary citizens to participate in local killings. To allow readers to believe that the genocide was a spontaneously erupting ethnic conflict between neighbours is a gross misrepresentation of a very serious political agenda instigated by an extremist Hutu government.

It is worth noting that, of the 215 sources quoted in these articles, 48% of these sources were Western sources, while 44% were Rwandan sources (Wall 264). On the surface, this seems like a judicious division of local and foreign opinion, but a closer examination of the way these sources framed the genocide reveals a problematic reality. 74% of comments positioned

Rwandans as passive, while a similar 75% of statements framed Westerners as solving the problems of the genocide (Wall 264). Such articles offer readers a relational view of the

Rwandan and Western responses to the genocide. The affirmation of Western superiority occurs at the detriment of acknowledging Rwandan efforts to stop the genocide. This framing also reflects a predictably neocolonial belief that Western actors are more capable than non-Western actors, particularly in the face of crisis situations. Susan Sontag, discussing the construction of

Africa in the public imagination, writes that “the more remote or exotic the place, the more likely we are to have full frontal views of the dead and dying. Thus postcolonial Africa exists in the consciousness of the general public in the rich world…mainly as a succession of unforgettable photographs of large-eyed victims” (70-71). Certainly the narratives informing the public about 55 the violence of Rwanda did so with a clear interest in valorizing Western intervention while minimizing Rwandan and African actors, even though Western involvement during the genocide was severely limited.

Wall identifies five themes which arise from her analysis of these articles, and similar themes have been identified by other scholars8:

1. The violence was a result of irrational tribalism.

2. The Rwandan people as animals – barbaric or pathetic.

3. The violence as incomprehensible to a Western audience.

4. Nearby African countries also mired in violence and no help to Rwanda.

5. Western intervention as the only way to solve the conflict (265).

These constructions are politically and socially charged. As Castelló argues, “repetition is a way of consolidating cultural and ideological conceptions of reality” (307), and the repetition of a singular narrative explaining the genocide as age-old tribal violence reveals the concerted effort that went into validating this narrative of African disintegration and chaos for Western observers.

Despite irrefutable evidence that the killings were part of a mandate of Tutsi elimination by an extremist Hutu government, these clichéd frames reflect a powerfully neocolonial desire to cling to tired narratives of African savagery in order to avoid engaging on behalf of this ‘other.’

The representation of Rwandans in these articles devalues Rwandan identity by linking it exclusively with violence and victimhood. Terms like ‘ethnic violence’ were used to gloss over the actual causes of the genocide, an omission which implicitly suggests that such causes were irrelevant to western audiences. Most problematically, there was no forum or opportunity for

Rwandans to respond to and reject these narratives of Rwandan identity. Language, authority

8 Specifically, see Mark Doyle’s “Reporting the Genocide,” Steven Livingston’s “Limited Vision: How Both the American Media and Government Failed Rwanda,” and Linda Melvern’s “Missing the Story: The Media and the Rwanda Genocide,” in The Media and the Rwanda Genocide. Ed. Allan Thompson. London: Pluto Press, 2007. 56 and access were all barriers to widely disseminated Rwandan counter-narratives, but the media bias against alternative identity constructions placed a critical limitation on Western understandings of local Rwandan identity. Narratives which complicated the one-dimensional characterization of actors on this narrative stage were generally omitted from publication.

Counter-narratives which challenged the dominant framing of the genocide as ethnic conflict, and Rwandans as hapless African victims or crazed murderers were ignored in favour of the tropes of colonial era interactions. The dismissal of Rwanda as yet another African “failed state”

(Sciolino), offered by the American Diplomat Robert Oakley on April 15th, 1994 demonstrates the power of Western presumption. Given the very limited attention paid to Rwanda by the media prior to the genocide, these narratives laid the groundwork for Western perceptions of

Rwanda as an independent political state in the post-genocide neocolonial era.

The framing of a crisis event has a great deal of influence over the public perception of a reasonable national and international response because

each stereotype employed implies or presupposes a story line which in turn implies or

presupposed an appropriate political response. If the images that document a crisis are of

starving orphans, the remedy is humanitarian assistance. If the images are of the brutal

tyrant, the remedy is military force. (Moeller 43)

This observation is particularly helpful in clarifying how political will can be constructed through news coverage. As Moeller wryly observes of the Rwandan Genocide, “Americans weren’t naïve enough to think that their five dollars sent to Oxfam would rescue a child trapped by genocidal killers. It might however buy a refugee child a blanket” (303). Indeed, the global interest in the humanitarian crisis created by the mass exodus of Tutsis to the surrounding borderlands far exceeded the public discussion of or support for Tutsi victims of genocide. An 57 accurate understanding of the Rwandan Genocide required observers to reject the pervasive stereotypes of colonial Africa and recognize that the genocide was the product of colonial era ethnic discourses, ineffective independence, and cultural and economic tensions. However, the familiar narrative of starving Africans threatened by savage tribal conflict was aggressively disseminated by the media and eagerly accepted by Western viewers, leading to a notable disinterest in political and military action.

Academic consideration of the media coverage of the Rwandan Genocide and other violent conflicts has revealed the negative impact of narrative tropes when discussing distant trauma. Susan Moeller argues that presenting viewers with limited context and highly graphic imagery encourages a response called “compassion fatigue” (2), which ultimately discourages viewers from engaging actively with the information being presented. Moreover, the common use of these frames means that viewers are increasingly detached from the trauma they witness.

As Moeller states,

there is a reciprocal circularity in the treatment of low-intensity crises: the droning

‘same-as-it-ever-was’ coverage in the media causes the public to lose interest, and the

media’s perception that their audience has lost interest causes them to downscale their

coverage, which causes the public to believe that the crisis is either over or is a lesser

emergency and so on. (Moeller 12)

Certainly, this was the case during the Rwandan Genocide, as news and aid agencies received notably fewer inquires and funding donations than previous crises covered and championed by the news outlets. As Tom Kent, the International Editor at Associated Press says of the public response to their coverage of Rwanda, “we got practically no inquiries about how to help, although our stories certainly suggested there’s as much misery in Rwanda as anywhere else” 58

(qtd. in Moeller 12). Moeller suggests that the perceived socio-political distance between the viewer and the principle actors shown on the screen is responsible for this ‘failed’ response.

While the fact of distance is not itself a cause, she observes that “especially when a crisis is a

‘foreign’ event, there is a tendency to fall back on hackneyed images, often revealing more about what the crisis is thought to be than what the crisis actually is” (42). Because this designation of

‘foreign’ falls neatly in line with a neocolonial construction of global hierarchies, Western viewers were assured that their attention is not necessary, as problems in former colonies are presumed to be endemic to the local culture.

The consistent framing of the Rwandan Genocide as tribal warfare in Western media reports, without exploring the role colonialism and neocolonialism played in creating Rwanda’s ethnic tensions, helped to maintain neocolonial assumptions about Rwanda as a space undeserving of Western intervention. The format of news reports on Rwanda, which avoided accurate historical context and offered brief snapshots of violence rather than engage critically with the experiences of the Rwandan people, compounded the tendency of viewers to engage casually with the information provided to them. Susan Moeller suggests that this format of information exchange fundamentally alters the role of the viewer, encouraging passive engagement rather than an active response. She argues that the American media particularly, and the Western media more generally, are politically and socially unproductive because viewers are not given sufficient information to understand the nuances of individual international events.

This creates a sense of the wider world, and specifically former colonies or ‘exotic’ locations, as incomprehensible (2). This sense “acts as a prior restraint on the media…reinforces simplistic, formulaic coverage…ratchets up the criteria for stories that get coverage…[and] encourages the media to move on to other stories once the range of possibilities of coverage have been 59 exhausted so that boredom doesn’t set in” (Moeller 2), discouraging further engagements while creating an appetite for the neatly apportioned stereotypes of global locations and citizens which already dominate much of the news coverage generated in the twenty-four hour news cycle of the twenty-first century.

The use of colonial framing in the coverage of the Rwanda Genocide reflects the power imbalance that remains, despite Rwanda’s independence and the United Nation’s affirmation of equality across all races. The inaccurate representation of the facts of the Rwandan genocide by

Western governments and media demonstrates the neocolonial control held over Africa by

Western powers. Generally, Western representations made little effort to educate readers and viewers about the history of Rwanda, specifically the role of colonial invasion in establishing two distinct ethnic groups with differing access to power. As Susan Sontag writes, such stories and images “carry a double message. They show a suffering that is outrageous, unjust, and should be repaired. They confirm that this is the sort of thing which happens in that place” (71).

The power of reiteration cannot be underestimated; the media coverage of the Rwandan

Genocide painted Rwanda as a primitive, violent place, hindering the potential of an engaged readership. Kaplan suggests that this type of reporting can maintain colonial stereotypes:

A certain kind of media reporting encourages sentimentality by presenting viewers or

newspaper readers with a daily barrage of images that are merely fragments of a large,

complex situation in a foreign culture about which audiences may know very little and

that reporters usually omit. What I call ‘empty’ empathy is empathy elicited by images

of suffering provided without any context or background knowledge.” (93) 60

This kind of fragmented reporting was rampant throughout the Rwandan Genocide and was a significant factor in the reluctance of the Western public to demand action from their governmental representatives.

Considering the general disinterest demonstrated by Western governments and citizens in the details of the Rwandan Genocide, these groups demonstrated remarkable interest in some aspects Rwanda’s recovery. However, recovery efforts demonstrated a continued neocolonial bias. One of the first steps taken by political leaders at the end of the genocide was to frame their inaction as the result of misinformation. While this may have been a valid excuse for many citizens, as thorough coverage of the genocide was limited, Western political leaders could not in good conscience claim that the facts of the genocide were unknown to them. Caplan writes that

there were the lies told by both American President Bill Clinton and UN Secretary

General Kofi Annan in later apologizing for their inaction during the one hundred days.

Both claimed that they were insufficiently aware of the situation at the time. These

claims, on the part of both men, have been repudiated beyond a shadow of a doubt.

(“What Darfur Teaches Us” 33)

By distancing themselves from the possibility of action, these men attempted to distance themselves from accusations of purposeful neglect. As the term ‘genocide’ was used in French media coverage on April 11th, and by the United Nations Security Council on May 4th, it is impossible to argue that Western governments did not understand what was occurring in

Rwanda. However, this defence of inaction suggests a larger political enterprise at work. Well aware of the expectations laid out in the United Nations “Convention on Genocide,” it was essential for Western leaders to avoid the public perception that they were informed of the genocide and chose not to act. To do so would reveal an obvious bias in the international 61 recognition of African equality. As Luke Glanville points out in his examination of the power of the term ‘genocide’ in political and public discourse, “a determination of genocide that is not followed by action only serves to undermine the ideational power—in both its legal and political aspects—of the norm against genocide” (482). The Western failure to act in accordance with international agreements to defend order and civil rights in Rwanda demonstrates the neocolonial dismissal of African challenges and the empty rhetoric of Western equality when applied to

Africa in the socio-political imagination.

The search for justice in post-genocide Rwanda, both within the texts under consideration and in the public discourse more generally, offers further evidence of a divide between local and international concerns. Rwandan citizens resurrected traditional modes of establishing justice after public order had been re-established. Reconciliation for a nation fundamentally divided by colonial identity politics drew on precolonial social practices. Adapted from a “traditional, community-based hearing mechanism used in Rwanda called gacaca – literally, justice ‘on the lawn’” (Cobban 65), this system of justice was effective in addressing post-genocide civilian tensions for several reasons: it affirmed the value of Rwandan cultural, social, and political practices, it permitted local victims to publicly state their losses and face perpetrators, and provided community-based restorative justice. Recognizing that the nation could not simply lock up perpetrators in expectation of a formal trial, Gacaca courts imposed reparations at a community level in order to facilitate local unity and the reintegration of survivors and perpetrators9. Restorative justice is

9 The Gacaca courts were in place from 2001 – June 2012. In that time, approximately two million Rwandans were tried for crimes during the genocide, with a 65% conviction rate (“Rwanda ‘Gacaca’ Genocide Courts Finish Work”). 62

a way of responding to criminal behaviour by balancing the needs of the community, the

victims and the offenders. It is an evolving concept to problem-solving that includes the

victim, the offender, their social networks, justice agencies and the community…[It

differs from traditional systems of justice because of its] informal and horizontal

character, the personal and comprehensive involvement of conflict stakeholders and the

openness to minority or deviant points of view. (Rohne, Arsovska, and Aertsen 14)

Of course, those who planned and orchestrated the genocide were dealt with inside the framework of the Rwandan legal system, but there were many Rwandans who were abused and killed local Tutsis under duress or under the influence of a nationalistic Hutu rhetoric. For these people, gacaca courts offered a relatively expedient public judgement and a means of claiming a place in the national recovery of Rwanda.

The international response to the Rwanda Genocide was to apply Western systems of justice and judgement. The International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, overseen by the United

Nations, was established on November 8th, 1994 with the goal of aiding Rwandan national reconciliation and prosecuting those responsible for the genocide (“About ICTR: General

Information”). This court was established in Arusha, Tanzania on February 22nd, 1995 (“About

ICTR: General Information”). While a more detailed discussion of the operations of this legal body cannot be offered here10, some scholars have raised concerns about the discourse and objectives of the ICTR. Eltringham argues that the ICTR relied on colonial era distinctions between Tutsi and Hutu in discussing individual cases, echoing the absolutist rhetoric of the génocidaires (32). Alexander Hinton develops Eltringham’s point, emphasizing the dangers

10 There have been many excellent studies of the goals and objectives of the ICTR, as well as analyses of individual cases and the overall impact of the ICTR on Rwandan citizens. The “ICTR Basic Documents and Case Laws” allow access to the documents detailing the cases brought through the ICTR. Furthermore, the work of both Carroll and Akhavana explore the benefits brought to Rwandan citizens through the ICTR, as well as the potential of the ICTR to negate future outbreaks of similar violence. 63 implicit when state-run or internationally-run bodies simplify social complexities in an effort to make them more readily understandable, transforming “complex phenomena into a more manageable, schematised form” (12). In a society burdened by a colonial legacy which complicated the identity politics of the nation, it is essential that binary categories of ethnicity are challenged during recovery. Furthermore, the goals of the ICTR were fundamentally different from the goals of Rwanda’s gacaca courts; the ICTR was concerned with identifying and punishing genocide perpetrators in isolation from the efforts towards recovery11, while the gacaca courts prioritized reconciliation and nation building within the process of justice itself.

Despite the efforts of the ICTR to impose justice on perpetrators of the genocide, this investment in claiming justice for Rwanda has a faulty echo in the arena of international political discourse. Countries which resolutely avoided acknowledgement of the genocide have not openly accepted their failure to act. General Dallaire, one of a few Westerners to witness the atrocities of the genocide in Rwanda, has been critical of the political rhetoric with which many nation’s politicians have avoided blame for refusing to act in the face of dire need. Dallaire writes of the 2004 commemoration of the genocide in Kigali, Rwanda, that

while the commemoration events on 7 April were well attended by representatives

of the international community, I was greatly disappointed that most heads of state from

the Western, northern, and developed world had failed to take the time to come to

Rwanda and to apologize for their failure and the failure of their nations to prevent or

stop the genocide. Instead, their representatives, many of whom were low-level officials,

11 The first judgement was passed down by the ICTR in 1998, convicting Jean Paul Akayesu, the bourgmestre of the Taba commune in Rwanda, on fifteen counts of genocidal crimes and public incitement to commit genocide (Arbour). Thus far, there have been sixty-nine cases completed through the ICTR, with ten individuals acquitted and seventeen appealing their verdict. Five cases remain in progress today and one case remains to be tried (“Cases: Status of Cases”). One case has been transferred from the ICTR to the Rwandan national courts, and two cases transferred to France (“Cases: Status of Cases”). Finally, the ICTR continues to search for nine individuals who are thought to have been involved in the genocide, but who have eluded authorities (“Cases: Status of Cases”). 64

failed to take direct responsibility. They tended to talk about ‘our’ failure as if by

accepting some vague collective responsibility they could absolve themselves of

individual responsibility and, more important, accountability for our failure in Rwanda.

(“Foreword” xx)

Indeed, the true place of Rwanda in Western consciousness was evident as in 1998, when

President Clinton arrived in Kigali to speak on the human loss during the Rwandan Genocide.

His visit to the country lasted approximately two hours, and he did not leave the airport, even to lay a wreath at the genocide memorial constructed on the grounds of the airport specifically for his visit (“Row over Memorial as Clinton Visits Rwanda”). While claims were later made that his travel was limited by security concerns, it remained a powerful demonstration of the fundamental disconnect between the recovering nation of Rwanda and figures of international authority12.

One of the liabilities of the genocide coverage and post-genocide discussions of responsibility was the impact on public understandings of Rwandan national identity. Rwanda’s independent national identity was never widely explored by Western media in the pre-genocide era, and during the genocide, coverage affirmed the tropes of colonial Africa. Media reports during and just after the Rwandan Genocide focused on images of the dead and dying, juxtaposed by groups of well-armed militia members. As the casualties associated with the humanitarian crisis of internally and externally displaced persons increased, coverage became

12 The lack of demonstrable international remorse for the collective failure to respond to the genocide in Rwanda suggests a profound lack of interest in the security of non-western nations. Given the increased awareness of the genocide after July 1994, public apologies may have functioned as a means of “image restoration as well as a legitimate tool for managing social relationships with others in the public sphere” (Kampf 2258). However, Kampf also points out that “the speech act still poses a threat to the public figure’s image: by apologizing, the transgressor admits to failing to fulfill a task or conform to a norm. Therefore, the act is face threatening due to the fact that it may be regarded as a challenge to the apologizer’s ability to perform his role appropriately in the public arena” (2258). In the case of the genocide, genuine public apologies could open public discourses about why the member nations of the Security Council delayed UN action. However, such a discourse would negate the efficacy of neocolonial superstructures between Western nations and former colonial spaces. 65 more pervasive, but remained superficial. As a news event, the genocide reaffirmed the most popular Western constructions of Africa as a continent of social chaos and indiscriminate violence. Once public interest in the refugee crisis waned, Rwanda all but disappeared from public discourse, replaced by the next media firestorm. Coverage of the ICTR was general rather than detailed, and as the work of the ICTR stretched out across a decade, only final convictions were consistently reported. This fragmented coverage affirmed Rwanda as brutal and disordered, a perspective that was palatable particularly because it accorded so well with established tropes of Africa. As Eltringham concludes, “contemporary Rwandan society is understood exclusively through the interpretative lens of genocide” (71). Far from recognizing that this African genocide was in part the result of colonial and neocolonial interference, audiences were permitted to elide the genocide with other neocolonial framings of Africa.

Coverage of the genocide validated, rather than challenged, Western preconceptions of Rwanda.

As collective memories “act as subtle yet powerful mechanisms for generating and sustaining social solidarity” (Duncan Bell 5), colonial and neocolonial perceptions of Africa in Western discourse were reaffirmed by the Western coverage of the genocide.

These literary engagements with the reality of genocide in Rwanda remind readers that the impact of the global response to Rwanda’s genocide should not be underestimated; each large-scale conflict is an opportunity to redefine the way that communities understand and respond to threats facing specific groups. As General Dallaire points out,

in April 2004, while the so-called representatives of the international community were

pledging “Never Again” in Kigali, yet another genocide was in full swing a few thousand

kilometres to the north of Rwanda, in the area of Darfur in Sudan. Observing the events 66

in Darfur unfold was, for me, in many ways like having a flashback to the failed response

to the Rwandan genocide in the spring and summer of 1994. (“Foreword” xxi)

Although the failure of media outlets to accurately inform and enable viewers to demand political action on a large scale has been well discussed in the post-genocide era, news agencies continue to deliver superficial coverage of events that take place in distant communities. In

Western media, there is a tendency to focus on local and national events, with less time set aside for international news (Moeller 20). To give a sense of the bias towards particularly narratives and locales in Western nations, consider that

since 1998 ‘terrorism’ has been responsible for approximately 20,000 fatalities globally.

At the same time humanitarian tragedies such as the state-based conflicts in the

Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) and the Darfur region of Sudan glimmer only

sporadically into world news reports although they are claiming victims on a scale that

dwarfs the threats facing people in industrialized countries. (Rohne, Arsovska, and

Aertsen 6)

Clearly, the Rwandan Genocide has not had a profound effect on Western citizens or governments. The opportunity to engender change in the dynamics of Western interactions with

Rwanda was missed, and the current construction of Rwandan identity as shaped by the victim/perpetrator binary is likely to remain in the collective Western imagination unless serious changes are made to the development of social, cultural and political discourse within and between nations. However, the writings under examination here challenge the pervasive sense of

Rwanda as a space of genocide. More significantly, these texts offer readers contextual understanding of Rwandan history, citizenry, and recovery, laying the foundation for revisions to

Rwandan national identity as understood in the Western imagination. As such, they have the 67 potential to decolonize Western thinking about Rwanda, allowing for far more productive cross- cultural engagements.

Roméo Dallaire poses compelling questions on this issue: “how will we ever achieve

‘Never Again’ if we have no intention of making effective and meaningful commitments in support of international law, fundamental human rights, and basic human dignity? Where is the will to intervene at the political levels?” (“Foreword” xxii). During the Rwandan Genocide,

Western society as a whole remained wildly uninformed about the actors involved in the genocide, as well as the causes of the violence. Similarly, there was little political will to commit troops and funding to a country preordained as remote and unimportant. Most critically, there was virtually no sense that concerted public interest might shift political engagement at the top levels. Simplified narratives misconstrued the historical and social forces at work in

Rwanda, and discouraged Western citizens from recognizing the role that neocolonial ideology played in complicating Rwanda’s conflict. However, Bhabha boldly reminds us that “the state of emergency is also always a state of emergence [Emphasis in the original]” (59). Indeed, there is the potential to challenge the construction of Africa in the public imagination and re-create an understanding of Rwanda that is not built on colonial and neocolonial frameworks, but rather on the principles of equality that so failed Rwanda in April, 1994. In the face of the genocide, and in response to it, Rwandan, global citizens have begun to write about the genocide. Many of these texts are concerned with issues of justice and punishment, and certainly, these are important aspects of recovery. However, other authors have used cultural production to provide remote readers with historical and cultural context and nuanced human experience, enabling an informed socio-political understanding of the genocide in Rwanda. Literature has long been capable of challenging social and political structures; texts about the Rwandan Genocide which 68 foreground the complex causes of violence in Rwanda, the impact of that violence on the

Rwandan people, and the complexity of recovery collectively establish a productive understanding of modern Rwandan identity and reveal the international superstructures which have maintained colonial era constructions of Rwanda in the Western imagination.

Consideration of the texts of the post-genocide era in the subsequent chapters will establish that culture, often dismissed in deference to politics, is at the foundation of human civilization. Culture holds groups together and can set groups at odds. The cultural productions of the colonial authorities naturalized racism and permitted Western control of Africa and other colonial spaces throughout much of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. One of the most productive strategies used to discourage colonial resistance was to denigrate local cultural productions, thereby devaluing native creativity and authority. However, Bhabha observes that

“forms of popular rebellion and mobilization are often most subversive and transgressive when they are created through oppositional cultural practices [Emphasis in the original]” (29). In neocolonial spaces, the written word can, through its very production, refute dehumanization by empowering individuals and communities. For a nation whose history has been marred by colonial control, narrated by colonial prejudice, and whose current image in the public eye validates colonial-era constructions of identity, post-genocide narratives can serve as powerful oppositional cultural practices. The literature of Rwanda’s Genocide aids in the emergence of a politically informed Western readership, instigating the decolonization of Rwanda in the Western imagination. 69

Chapter Three: Contextualizing Rwandan History and Culture through Literature

The discourses of power in our society, the discourses of the dominant regimes, have been certainly threatened by this decentered cultural empowerment of the marginal and the local. Stuart Hall, “The Local and the Global: Globalization and Ethnicity,” 183.

There is no historical record that does not simultaneously demonstrate the social, cultural, and political biases of the society it recounts. During the colonial era, the historical constructions of dominant societies were consistently imposed on subjugated colonial citizens, allowing the European powers to undercut the authority of local history and culture within the colonial space, as well as to shape the perception of foreign nations for readers on the continent.

As with all colonial projects, dominance over colonial subjects was maintained through rhetoric as well as through violence. To validate European dominance, elaborate narratives were constructed to undercut the value of native culture. In Rwanda, differences between colonial subjects were exploited in order to divide the population and so allow European powers to control the whole population more easily. The ethnic distinctions formalized by Belgian colonial authorities wrought division among the Rwandan people, and the cultural practices that supported peaceful coexistence began to falter. This manipulation of Rwandan history and social structure was a fundamental attack on Rwandan cultural identity, one which caused animosity between Rwandan citizens while obfuscating the chaos of colonial rule. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o reminds us that “to control a people’s culture is to control their tools of self-definition in relationship to others” (16), and certainly, this was the case in Rwanda during the colonial era.

This colonial practice of undercutting local constructions of self through cultural manipulation meets Ngũgĩ’s definition of a cultural bomb, which “annihilate[s] a people’s belief in their names, in their languages, in their environment, in their heritage of struggle, in their unity, in 70 their capacities and ultimately in themselves” (3). As a means of ensuring colonial control,

Belgian authorities actively dismantled aspects of Rwandan social organization which could resist the colonial hierarchy.

The effects of colonial rule in Rwanda remained foundational to the development of the new Rwandan nation. In the postcolonial era, the internal discourse of identity in independent

Rwanda reflected the colonial discourse introduced by Belgium. Despite the emergence of a newly independent nation, no united discourse of national identity was created. Rather, Rwanda remained fundamentally divided by a discourse of Hutu supremacy and Tutsi subordination.

This trend of narrative construction within Rwanda was matched by equally antiquated constructs of Rwanda within the international community. The geopolitical rhetoric developed about Africa in the colonial era remained a powerful influence in the construction of new national narratives. Assumptions of African chaos, a construction designed to validate nineteenth century European superiority on the African continent, were transferred wholesale onto emerging nations, enacting a measure of colonial influence in the neocolonial era. In

Rwanda, colonial era assumptions shaped emerging international narratives of Rwandan identity, a compelling example of the limitations placed on African nations in the neocolonial era. As

Fierke points out, “social memory as a narrative recollection may be no less habitual than habitual behaviour. There can be a habit of remembering a unique event. The words used to capture that event may become habitual [Emphasis in the original]” (122). In the case of postcolonial Rwanda, emergent discourses of identity were constructed , at least in part, from antiquated prejudices against Africa rather than Rwandan self-definitions. This habitual understanding of Rwanda, defined by colonial-era thinking, would become the cornerstone for most of the Western coverage of the genocide. 71

Post-genocide literature has challenged the neocolonial framing of African nations as chaotic and inherently violent by exploring the impact of external actors and cultural shifts on

Rwanda’s socio-political stability. Journalistic writings are particularly valuable in spaces that have undergone massive violence because these narratives are “often the first stage of writing to witness traumatic experience for the public record…Journalists’ memories have been underestimated as a meaningful writing of history, subjectivity, and culture, and yet they have plenty to say” (Whitlock 21). In the consideration of the Rwandan genocide, Western journalists and writers have provided detailed contextual analyses of the development of the Rwandan

Genocide. We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families, by the

American journalist Philip Gourevitch, was published in 1998, while A Sunday at the Pool in

Kigali was written by Canadian Gil Courtemanche, published in French in 2000, and published in English in 2003. These texts take distinct approaches to the exploration of Rwandan culture and colonial / neocolonial history, but they demonstrate a shared interest in educating readers about the impact of colonial influence and neocolonial independence on Rwanda as a nation.

Gourevitch’s We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families, by

Philip Gourevitch, is perhaps one of the best-known English accounts of the Rwandan genocide.

Africanist René Lemarchand, in praise of Gourevitch, has stated that “that the story of Rwanda is at all known in the United States today owes much to the work of Philip Gourevitch and Alison

Des Forges” (88). Gourevitch is a political writer who has written on multiple ethnic conflicts and on political corruption more generally13; this text is in part a travelogue of Gourevitch’s journeys through post-genocide Rwanda and in part a critical exploration of the events which led

13 Gourevitch’s interests consistently drive his writing; he has published texts on African, European, and Asian ethnic conflicts, and most recently published a book entitled The Ballad of Abu Ghraib in 2008. We Wish To Tell You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families was his first non-fiction novel. 72 up to the genocide in Rwanda. This text won the National Book Critics Circle Award in 1998, the George K. Polk Award for Foreign Reporting in 1998, and the Guardian First Book Award in

1999. Courtemanche, a journalist, chose to write A Sunday at the Pool in Kigali in the genre of fiction, although he notes in his preface that

it is also a chronicle and eye-witness report. The characters all existed in reality, and in

almost every case I have used their real names. The novelist has given them lives, acts

and words that summarize or symbolize what the journalist observed while in their

company…Some readers may attribute certain scenes of violence and cruelty to an

overactive imagination. They will be sadly mistaken. For proof, they have only to read

the seven hundred pages of eyewitness reports gathered by the African Rights

organization and published under the title Rwanda: Death, Despair and Defiance.

(Preface i-ii)

This narrative is complicated by Courtemanche’s choice of protagonist, a journalist named

Valcourt, who is clearly a version of the author himself. As Valcourt moves through Rwanda and connects with individual Rwandans, the history of this nation is revealed, not as abstract fact but as lived reality; colonial and neocolonial control over Rwanda is explored from the Rwandan perspective, providing important insight for the distanced reader. This novel was a national bestseller in Canada and won the Canada Reads French Language contest in 2005. Both texts contextualize the Rwandan Genocide, making them valuable additions to the larger discourse of the Rwanda Genocide; the lack of accurate understanding about the historical causes of the genocide has been a prime reason for the lack of social and political action regarding Rwanda’s recovery. 73

In the search for restorative justice during the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of

South Africa, four different types of ‘truth’ were identified: factual truth, narrative truth, dialogic truth, and restorative truth (Vanspauwen and Savage 395-96). These categories challenge simplistic definitions of truth and demonstrates the value of multiple truths in constructing collective narratives of past events. Narrative truth is gained from individual stories, dialogic truth is constructed through discourse and debate, and restorative truth refers to truths that can support reparation efforts. This list highlights several interesting realities: facts alone simply cannot convey lived experience, individual narration does not always reflect collective perceptions, and recovery is dependant on truth to act as a productive, rather than destructive, force. What is clear is that effective recovery efforts after large-scale conflict cannot depend on facts alone; records must reflect truth as a lived experience and this can be far more complex than histories which reflect only one version of fact. In these texts, both authors make use of this complex definition of truth, shifting between absolute fact and experiential fact in order to most accurately convey the nuanced relationship between factual colonial and neocolonial history and the lived experience of this history by the Rwandan people.

We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families and A

Sunday at the Pool in Kigali explore Rwandan history and culture from the precolonial period to the post-genocide era. These texts are important precisely because they do not locate the onset of the genocide with the eruption of violence that occurred just prior to April, 1994. Rather, they demonstrate the precolonial roots of class tension between the Tutsis and the Hutus, as well as the severe strain on ethnic relations that began when colonial authorities began to politicize ethnic difference in Rwanda. These texts put the genocide into the larger historical context of

Rwandan development as a modern nation so that the genocide becomes for Western readers the 74 understandable product of social forces on a local, national, and international level. As Africa has often been dismissed, even in the neocolonial era, this contextualization achieves two aims.

Firstly, it undercuts the colonial tradition of Euro-centric writing that spoke on behalf of Africans by providing a space for Rwandan voices to be disseminated among an English-speaking readership. Secondly, it accurately demonstrates the role colonialism played in causing the genocidal violence which would eventually become a defining feature of Rwanda in the Western imagination. Locating the genocide within Rwanda’s long history allows readers to trace the evolution of this society under complex social, cultural, and political forces. These texts share the desire to look beyond violence and place the genocide in a broader historical and social context, implicitly challenging the fallacious belief that the genocide was the result of a failed

Rwandan political system. Given that very little media attention was paid to the larger historical context of the genocide, and particularly the pivotal role that colonial and neocolonial politics had in priming Rwanda for genocide, these texts offer new truths, narrative, dialogic, and restorative, to the blinkered factual narratives reported during and after the violence of April –

June, 1994.

Culture is created through and contained within collective expression and interaction.

Far from static, all cultures exist in a state of flux and are influenced by other cultures as citizens interact and interests intersect. Culture is a means of understanding a people’s history and identity; it is the lens through which all people understand themselves. In 1954, the Hague created a document to define and establish protections for culture. The “Convention for the

Protection of Cultural Property” defines cultural property as “movable or immovable property of great importance to the heritage of every people” (“Convention for the Protection of Cultural

Property in the Event of Armed Conflict”). However, in the case of many cultures, such as 75

Canada’s Aboriginal populations, and in Rwanda, culture is not predominantly conveyed through physical objects. As Rwanda has always been an oral culture, stories and songs best reflect the five hundred year old collaboration of Hutu, Tutsi, and Twa in Rwanda; written history was introduced with the arrival of colonial forces and represented Rwanda in European terms.

Cultural productions that do not conform to European standards of historical records have only recently received protection:

The international political context is supporting ever-broadening claims concerning

Rights over cultural property on the basis that the existence and identity of collective

entities depends on these property rights. These claimed rights, moreover, extend beyond

tangible property and recognized intellectual property to folklore, ideas, and knowledge.

(Davis 3-4)

This shifting definition of cultural heritage reflects a growing acceptance that European-style narratives of history are not the sole mode of constructing and exchanging culture. As negated histories are increasingly reclaimed, the very definition of cultural form is under reconstruction to become a more inclusive category of human production. This shift has also brought changes to the way that culture is understood in relation to collective human identity. In 1976, “a

UNESCO panel formulated the principle that ‘cultural property is a basic element of a people’s identity’. In 1982, the then chairperson of UNESCO’s Inter-governmental Committee for the

Return or Restitution of Cultural Property described the loss of cultural property in terms of the

‘loss of being’” (Coleman 161, abstract). The development of political protections for diverse forms of cultural expression is a significant revision to the colonial practice of destroying culture within a colonial space as a means of control. 76

The precolonial history of Rwanda is difficult to ascertain because Rwanda’s culture has primarily been preserved through oral records and because the colonial influence contorted

Rwandan identity politics so severely. Gourevitch notes that “there is no reliable record of the precolonial state. Rwandans had no alphabet; their tradition was oral, therefore malleable; and because their society is fiercely hierarchical the stories they tell of their past tend to be dictated by those who hold power, either through the state or in opposition to it” (48). Ethnographic studies of Rwanda and the countries surrounding Rwanda have been used to tentatively date the arrival of Tutsi, Hutu, and Twa nomads into the area that would become Rwanda14. Such studies have demonstrated that although Hutus and Tutsis have historically distinct ancestry, individual identity in precolonial Rwanda was “determined by many other factors as well – clan, region, clientage, military prowess, even individual industry – and the lines between Hutu and Tutsi remained porous” (Gourevitch 49). Gourevitch suggests that Tutsi and Hutu identifications in the precolonial era were flexible rather than fundamental, and that ethnicity was never embraced by precolonial Rwandans as an important aspect of personal identity. As early nomad settlers began to establish themselves in Rwanda’s hills, shared aspects of cultural identity emerged:

With time, Hutus and Tutsis spoke the same language, followed the same religion,

intermarried, and lived intermingled, without territorial distinctions, on the same hills,

sharing the same social and political culture in small chiefdoms. The chiefs were called

Mwamis, and some of them were Hutus, some Tutsis; Hutus and Tutsis fought together in

the Mwamis’ armies; through marriage and clientage, Hutus could become hereditary

Tutsis, and Tutsis could become hereditary Hutus. Because of all of this mixing,

14 The most detailed overview of Rwanda’s history is offered by Jean-Pierre Chrétien in his 2003 study entitled The Great Lakes of Africa: Two Thousand Years of History. The offerings of Gérard Prunier (1995) and Mahmood Mamdani (2002) are also beneficial, although they focus both on Rwanda’s history and on the genocide. 77

ethnographers and historians have lately come to agree that Hutus and Tutsis cannot

properly be called distinct ethnic groups. (Gourevitch 47-48)

While tensions always exist within human collectives, the records of precolonial Rwanda demonstrate that while Hutu and Tutsi did carry distinct meanings, they were not exclusionary categories that denoted fundamental identity. This historical social flexibility refutes the common narrative that tribal conflict was the basis of Rwanda’s internal conflict.

Gourevitch notes the historical importance of unity among Rwandans, irrespective of ethnic identification. As monarchies have filled a similar role in other societies, it is not surprising that Rwandans of all identifications were united under the banner of this collective.

The power of the Mwami lay as much in thought as in deed; “the Mwami himself was revered as a divinity, absolute and infallible. He was regarded as the personal embodiment of Rwanda”

(Gourevitch 49). The King’s traditional palace, reconstructed today at Nyanza, and other such structures of traditional Rwandan society, are valuable markers of Rwandan history and precolonial culture. Local traditions, maintained even today, also provide insight into early

Rwandan heritage and culture. Travelling through the hills of rural Rwanda, Gourevitch hears a woman’s loud cries and his guide explains that

the whooping we’d heard was a conventional distress signal and that it carried an

obligation. ‘You hear it, you do it, too. And you come running,’ he said. ‘No choice.

You must. If you ignored this crying, you would have questions to answer. This is how

Rwandans live in the hills…The people live separately together…so there is

responsibility. I cry, you cry. You cry, I cry. We all come running, and the one that

stays quiet, the one that stays home, must explain. Is he in league with the criminals? Is 78

he a coward? And what would he expect when he cries? This is simple. This is normal.

This is community.’ (34)

While this may seem a minor cultural practice, it demonstrates for readers the long-standing

Rwandan concepts of community, responsibility, and inclusion. This trust in community protection speaks to the dangers of rural life, but more importantly, it demonstrates that within early Rwandan society, community relationships superseded ethnic divisions. This practice of communal protection speaks volumes about Rwanda as a nation which has long embraced the benefits of community. It has been through the careful dissection of living Rwandan traditions that knowledge of the past has been reclaimed. Such reconstructions are essential precisely because “without memory we have no identity. In order to create our identities we draw on cultural memories and historical understanding of our cultures. Remembrance of the past is important in terms of our socialization into our culture” (Hunt 106). However, the advance of

German and Belgian colonialists would fundamentally change Rwanda’s established system of identification. As Rwandan identity came to be narrated by colonial forces, the flexibility of individual identity decreased and the ethnic categories already in place began to take on political weight.

While cultures are always in flux, appropriating new constructions and discarding old practices, the violent imposition of authority which marked the colonial mission was primarily a unilateral cultural interaction. In part, the violence of the colonial exchange was a formula echoed during the genocide itself; just as Belgian forces disempowered Hutu citizens in order to affirm colonial superiority, Hutu propaganda dehumanized Tutsi citizens in order to claim greater cultural authority within Rwanda. The colonial era of Rwandan history was a time of massive upheaval for all Rwandan citizens, and laid the foundation for polarizing social 79 discourses and a deeply flawed political system. As the genocide that resulted from these divisions has become a defining feature of modern Rwanda in the global imagination, the contribution of colonial action to the socio-political structure of Rwanda is clearly mapped by both Gourevitch and Courtemanche.

Rwandan history began a radical transformation when it was parcelled out to Germany during the Berlin Conference of 1884. Thousands of miles from Africa, Europeans began to shape Rwanda through European constructions. Unlike other colonial authorities, Germany did very little in Rwanda other than to throw their support behind the established political structure.

Rwanda became a spoil of war for the Belgians, who took over political control in 1916 and were far more involved in the management of Rwanda than the Germans had been. Colonial influence is particularly dangerous because it is framed within the larger objective of political and social control. While cultures regularly intersect along borders, colonial control is a pervasive cultural influence which places local cultural organization and memory into jeopardy. As Richard

Handler argues, “cultural traits that come from the outside are at best ‘borrowed’ and at worst polluting; by contrast, those aspects…that come from within the nation, that are original to it, are

‘authentic’” (66). While such distinctions can be difficult to parse when two cultures are brought together, and notions of authenticity are always problematic when posed as absolutes, the Belgian rule of Rwanda did occasion a cultural exchange in which Belgian cultural constructions were carefully mapped onto Rwandan class structures.

The Belgians redefined the organization of Rwanda by aligning physical distinctions between Rwandan citizens with varying access to state power, undermining the fluid categories which were intrinsic to precolonial Rwandan identity. To legitimate Tutsi rule, which was in place when Belgian forces arrived in Rwanda, the Belgians relied on the discourses of ethnicity 80 and origin originally penned by John Hanning Speke, an English explorer who traveled the length of the Nile between 1858 – 186015. Transplanting European racial prejudice to the

Rwandan colony allowed Belgian officials to more firmly embed social hierarchies into this newly claimed colonial space. As Europeans validated their position as colonial rulers through their whiteness, the Rwandan population was disempowered by degrees based on their physical similarity or dissimilarity to Europeans standards of beauty. Gourevitch, aware of the power of this colonial means of control, explains to his readers that

Speke’s basic anthropological theory, which he made up out of whole cloth, was that all

culture and civilization in central Africa had been introduced by the taller, shaper-

featured people, whom he considered to be a Caucasoid tribe of Ethiopian origin,

descended from the biblical King David, and therefore a superior race to the native

Negroids. (51)

Gourevitch’s emphasis on this initial colonial influence seeks to reclaim the lost history of

Rwanda for Western readers by demonstrating the colonial arrival as a moment in which

European narratives of Rwandans became significant within the Rwandan population. While

Speke’s work fundamentally shaped European concepts of Rwandan identity, it was not until these constructs returned to Rwanda that European culture began to undercut Rwandan self- definitions. Significantly, it was at this point that “Hutu and Tutsi identities took definition only in relationship to state power; as they did, the two groups inevitably developed their own

15 His racial assumptions about the history of the three physical types of Rwandans were published in his Journal of the Discovery of the Source of the Nile in 1863. Indeed, rather than deduce the origin of the Hutu, Tutsi, and Twa, Speke imported European ideals to explain African physicality. The physical differences between Tutsi and Hutu Rwandans were used as the basis for elaborate constructions of identity and value based on racialized features. The Tutsis, who tended to be tall, lean, and lighter-skinned than the shorter, stouter Hutus, were set apart in the European imagination precisely because they demonstrated faintly European features, while the Hutu were dismissed because they approximated the European idea of Negro identity. Speke’s presumptions, published in Europe and accepted wholesale as accurately representing native Rwandan categories of identity, were indicative of European arrogance and racial prejudice more than any accurate understanding of precolonial Rwandan citizenry. 81 distinctive cultures – their own set of ideas about themselves and one another – according to their respective domains” (Gourevitch 50).

Making clear that the Belgians were consciously manipulating fundamental elements of

Rwandan identity, Gourevitch identifies politics and religion as the two channels through which

European ideology was conveyed to Rwandan colonial subjects: “the Belgian colonials stuck with the Hamitic myth as their template and, ruling Rwanda more or less as a joint venture with the Roman Catholic Church, they set about radically reengineering Rwandan society along so- called ethnic lines” (56). Courtemanche explores this same fact of Rwandan history in his novel through the Rwandan character Gentille, who becomes the narrator’s wife towards the end of the novel. Gentille recounts the story of her great grandfather Kawa, whose family would eventually be destroyed by the identity politics of the colonial leaders, as well as by Kawa’s respect for colonial knowledge. Kawa, a Hutu mindful of the supposed superiority of the Belgians, has his son Célestin read to him the European commentary on the Tutsis and Hutus of Rwanda:

The Hutu, a poor farmer, is short and squat and has the nose characteristic of the

negroid races. He is good-natured but naïve, coarse and unintelligent. The Hutu is

deceitful and lazy, and quick to take offence. He is a typical negro. The Tutsi, a nomadic

cattle grazier, is tall and slender. His skin is light brown on account of his northern

origins. He is intelligent and skilful at trade. He has a sparkling wit and a pleasant

disposition. Colonial administrators in Ruanda-Urundi would do well to obtain the

assistance of the Tutsis for tasks which in their judgment they may entrust without danger

to natives. (23)

The very fact that Kawa seeks European definitions of Rwandan identity demonstrates a key facet of the colonial endeavour: those who sought equality with European authorities were 82 educated in European understandings of the world. In this case, European prejudice, presumed accurate, alienates Kawa from his local culture. His reaction to this information is compelling:

“when Célestin read these words to his father, Kawa uttered a fearful cry. All was crumbling around him: his pride as a Hutu patriarch and the ambitions he had been harbouring for Célestin”

(23-24). In this description, fiction powerfully illustrates the complexity of living within these two competing sets of knowledge. Kawa’s identity as a Hutu patriarch is devalued in this moment precisely because his respect for the colonial authority supersedes his pride in the local and national politics of Rwanda. Through the application of European values, the worth of his identity is negated. Courtemanche connects Rwanda’s colonial history to the genocide of 1994 in the brief narrative of Kawa, as his acceptance of European knowledge “disrupted his entire life and the lives of his family, his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, of whom the most beautiful and most intelligent would be baptized Gentille” (22). By tracing Kawa’s colonial-era conflict for his audience, Courtemanche demonstrates how the introduction of

European ideologies fundamentally marred Rwandan identity politics, laying the groundwork for the Rwandan Genocide of 1994.

Faced with competing views of Rwandan identity and history, and because of the respect he has for colonial knowledge, Kawa defers to the colonial view which privileges Tutsis and demonizes Hutus. Convinced of the accuracy of these writings and desperate to be found desirable under this new colonial order, Kawa takes advantage of the flexible identity categories of the precolonial Rwanda system:

Kawa’s daughters would need only marry Tutsis for their children to be part of the race

chosen by the gods and admired by Whites. This ought to be easy to bring about…But

for the males of the family, fate condemned them to remain Hutus in Tutsi bodies. And 83

their origin and that of their children would forever be written on their identity papers.

What a nightmare. What a tragic fate. Schools forbidden, scorn from Whites, careers

and ambitions blocked. Kawa would not allow his sons and the sons of his sons to be

officially inferior beings forever, negroes among negroes. (27-28)

Kawa’s concern over his children’s fate under European definitions of Tutsi and Hutu identity speaks to the colonial influence on Rwandan citizens. Changes introduced by Belgian officials, such as the hierarchical evaluation of Hutu and Tutsi and identity cards, were fundamentally foreign constructions which has a profound impact on the local population. European constructions of ethnicity began to take hold in the Rwandan imagination, evidence that

Rwandan authority and Rwandan belief systems had been unseated by colonial intervention.

This final phrase, “negroes among negroes” (28) is evidence of Kawa’s acceptance of a

European view of Rwandan identity, a faith so strong that he fights to ensure that his identity will not be passed down to his children and grandchildren. As culture and traditional knowledge are commonly passed through families, Courtemanche demonstrates here how the colonial influence disrupted the transmission of culture as well as polluting local constructions of Rwandan identity in favour of European narrations.

Kawa tries to bargain for new identity papers for each of his children; he eventually trades his entire earthy fortune in order to buy or barter acceptance as a Tutsi for each of his sons and daughters. Unsurprisingly, this effort is fraught with danger, particularly from the colonial authorities who used ethnicity as a fundamental basis of organization in Rwanda. Appealing to the Belgian burgomaster, Kawa

offered several cows, several goats, and his most beautiful daughter, who had just turned

fourteen. The White refused to issue new identity papers transforming Kawa’s Hutus 84

into Tutsis. However, he would take the girl in exchange for the silence he would keep

forever regarding Kawa’s improper and shameful proposal. This is how Clémentine

(whose buttocks and breasts nourished fantasies in the men of the hill, whatever their

ethnic group) became the property of a very ugly, pimply-faced Belgian who came and

abused her from behind every time he was in the neighbourhood. She died at seventeen

from a blood disease that came, it was whispered, from the cocks of unwashed men. (28)

Again, fiction demonstrates with force the consequences of colonial rule in Rwanda; Kawa’s recognition of European knowledge and his willingness to conform to European hierarchies in order to improve his future ultimately condemns his daughter to death. The language of the passage, with terms like “take the girl” and “property” (28), and the clear extortion by which the burgomaster claims Clémentine from Kawa further demonstrates Kawa’s disempowerment as a

Hutu in colonial Rwanda. Kawa, willing to accept his undesirability in the colonial regime, cannot transform himself into a desirable Tutsi, and moreover, he is punished for his efforts to reshape himself in the Tutsi image.

Religious influence allowed for a similar appropriation of authority in Rwanda; European religious leaders used their growing status in Rwanda to exert more control over the discourse of ethnicity introduced by the colonial powers. Gourevitch demonstrates this trend by quoting

Monsignor Léon Classe, the first bishop of Rwanda, who stated that “uncouth [Hutus] would lead the entire state directly into anarchy and to bitter anti-European communism…we have no chiefs who are better qualified, more intelligent, more active, more capable of appreciating progress and more fully accepted by the people than the Tutsi” (56). What is compelling here is that the perceived danger of a Hutu state is offered in European terms; the practical threat of communism in colonial Rwanda was non-existent and the projected success of a Tutsi-run state 85 was based on European models of ‘progress.’ That the Tutsi population was “capable of appreciating progress” (56) ultimately functions as a coded statement for the general Tutsi willingness to accept European constructions so long as those constructions empowered the

Tutsis under colonial rule. It is through statements like these that the political role of European religions in Rwanda becomes clear.

Both Gourevitch and Courtemanche explore Western religion’s endorsement of colonial rule in Rwanda. Kawa, eager to understand the worldview of the Belgians, learns what he can of their religion, but is afraid to ask “why the children of God did not love the Hutus and Tutsis equally, why true greatness in this country was physical and why, here on earth, the first are always first” (28). That he has such questions positions him as insightful; that he feels he cannot ask reveals him as disempowered. Therein lies the basis of colonial control: individuals are taught to devalue themselves and accept without questions a new world order. The introduction of European religious systems did not directly threaten traditional Rwandan concepts of divinity until fifteen years into the Belgian control of Rwanda. In 1931, European religion began to purposefully impact local Rwandan governance and social collectivity. Courtemanche has Kawa recount this shift:

The Belgians did not want a mwami who believed in Imana the creator and in

Lyangombe, and who practised kuragura, or divination and ancestor worship.

Monseigneur Classe, the head of the Great White Robes, arranged for the son of the

mwami, Mutara III, to become king on condition that he abandon his old beliefs. Mutara

III was baptized on a Sunday in 1931. (20)

In this moment, the religious and political colonial authorities in Rwanda bisected Rwandan culture and Rwandan faith by forcing Mutara III to choose between the two. In claiming the title 86 of King, Mutara III gave up his faith and adopted Christian values publicly. As a public figure, this choice had a powerful impact on Rwandans who identified strongly with their king.

Monsignor Louis de Lacger, writing the history of Rwanda, has observed that “the natives of this country genuinely have the feeling of forming but one people” (qtd. in Gourevitch 54) through their loyalty to the Mwami. By ensuring that the Mwami publicly rejected traditional beliefs and customs to embrace European religion, the Belgian authorities undercut an important aspect of the cultural unity between Rwandan citizens. Without the cohesion of culture and religion provided by the figure of the Mwami, Rwandans would soon find themselves divided along the ethnic lines first formalized by colonial authorities.

The colonial forces saw the Tutsis as similar to Europeans, while the Hutus were dismissed as without any redeeming features. It would be an overstatement to suggest that the

Tutsis were well treated in colonial negotiations, but they were afforded greater latitude in colonial society, and were empowered to rule over the Hutu population. In Rwanda, as in many colonial spaces, those who were given power by the colonizer became “mimic men” (Naipaul

146). Tutsis were granted local authority in Rwandan politics and society, but imposed the restrictions of colonial rule on Hutus. As explained to Gourevitch by an old Tutsi man, the colonial system demanded him to “whip the Hutu or we will whip you” (57). Thus, social frustrations concerning the colonial powers were redirected towards Tutsis who benefited from the racism of the colonial enterprise. The pervasive rhetoric of Tutsi superiority based on pseudo-similarities between Tutsi and European physicality, the newly inflexible ethnic categories imposed on all Rwandans through government-mandated identity cards, and the increasingly political nature of ethnic discourse aggravated the growing rift between Tutsi and 87

Hutu citizens. The cost of Tutsi empowerment was the loss of social cohesion, and the loss of social cohesion ensured the success of the Belgian colonial system.

As with all cultural exchanges, language helps to establish social mores about what public speech and public actions are permissible. The colonial forces disseminated a discourse of racial hierarchies which legitimated Belgian authority and empowered Tutsis over Hutus. As a means of resisting Tutsi control, Hutus began to accept and further politicize the colonial discourse of ethnic difference. Tracing the origins of negative rhetoric directed towards Tutsis in colonial Rwanda, Gourevitch’s research reveals that “in March of 1957, a group of nine Hutu intellectuals published a tract known as the Hutu Manifesto, arguing for ‘democracy’ – not by rejecting the Hamitic myth but by embracing it. If Tutsis were foreign invaders, the argument went, then Rwanda was by rights a nation of the Hutu majority” (58). This appropriation of

European racial discourse to motivate change in Rwanda’s social order demonstrates how effective the weapons of pseudoscience, religious pressure, and unmitigated arrogance were during the European conquest of Africa. Far from the narrative of “age-old animosity”

(Gourevitch 59) between Tutsi and Hutu that underpinned most media discussions during the genocide, both authors demonstrate that the ethnic tensions between Tutsis and Hutus were largely the result of European influence. In a direct challenge to the narrative of perpetual

Rwandan violence, Gourevitch notes for his readers that there is no record of a politically motivated attack on a Tutsi by a Hutu until 1959 (59). This first violent action instigated the

Rwandan Revolution, during which thousands of Tutsis were killed and large-scale Tutsi migrations into Uganda began. However, the rhetoric of this conflict relies on the hierarchy used to validate European superiority and divide Rwandan citizens according to simplistic physicality.

Just as the Europeans determined Tutsis and Hutus by appearance, attacks on Tutsis in the late 88 colonial and neocolonial era were based on the physical traits originally made significant by

Europeans.

In the post-WWII era, the superstructure of the colonial project began to draw public and political criticism, and colonized countries began to demand independence. In Rwanda, the beginnings of this global rejection of colonial rule had a radical impact on local politics. After nearly thirty-five years of Tutsi empowerment by the colonial authorities, the Belgians performed a political about-face and threw their support behind the Hutus. As Gentille’s father

Jean-Damascéne explains to Valcourt,

until 1959, this pact with the devil brought us [the Tutsis] only pleasure and prosperity.

Then the Belgians, who were a bit lost in an Africa that was shaking free of the colonial

mould, and probably a bit tired of this unprofitable country, discovered as if by magic the

virtues of democracy and the law of majority rule. Overnight, the shiftless Hutu became

an incarnation of modern progress, and the shapeless mass of ignorant peasants a

legitimate democracy. (198)

This statement conveys the lived reality of the colonial shift in allegiance from Tutsi to Hutu;

Jean-Damascéne’s sarcasm towards the late-realized Belgian desire for democracy in Rwanda provides an honest Rwandan response and demonstrates awareness of the political concerns of

Europe in Africa. His critical tone towards the Hutu majority also demonstrates the internal tensions which framed the loosening of the colonial bonds. For readers with limited understanding of this history, offering a Rwandan perspective on the motivations of decolonization undercuts the altruism of the “Universal Declaration of Human Rights” and forefronts the very real “alternative cultures and histories” (Meskell 162) which have been suppressed by colonial and neocolonial powers. 89

Gourevitch is even more precise in his discussion of the delayed Belgian empowerment of the massive Hutu population. Far from embracing the ideals of democracy, “in early 1960,

Colonel Logiest staged a coup d’état by executive fiat, replacing Tutsi chiefs with Hutu chiefs.

Communal elections were held at midyear, and with Hutus presiding over the polling stations,

Hutus won at least ninety percent of the top posts” (60)16. Colonel Logiest oversaw the empowerment of Hutus while Tutsis were rapidly dismissed from their places in social and governmental organizations. While this change was born out of a popular sense of disenfranchisement for Hutus, who made up approximately 85% of the Rwandan population, this simplistic inversion did nothing to undercut the colonial rhetoric which had instigated powerful ethnic aggression across Rwanda. Rather, the inversion of Hutu over Tutsi reinforced the political definitions of ethnicity introduced by the Belgian authorities. Even the United Nations recognized the danger of this ill-considered manipulation of Rwandan social and political order, as “a UN commission reported that the Rwandan revolution had, in fact, ‘brought about the racial dictatorship of one party’ and simply replaced ‘one type of oppressive regime with another.’ The report also warned of the possibility ‘that some day we will witness violent reactions on the part of the Tutsis’” (Gourevitch 61).

Rwandan independence began on July 1st, 1962. However, the impact of colonial rule and the dramatic changes in Rwandan social and political order had not prepared the nation for peaceful self-rule. The attacks on Tutsi citizens which began just before independence now escalated into state-legitimated acts of violence. Hutus new to authority and aware of the power vacuum created by the Belgian exit were anxious to assert control over the Tutsi population. In

1963, the first of several Tutsi massacres occurred, an event which succeeded in drawing

16 Colonel Logiest served as the special military resident in Rwanda from 1959-1962, and the High-Representative of Belgium in 1962. He was the highest ranking military officer throughout his time in Rwanda, which made him an extremely important person during the final days of colonial rule. 90 international attention. The response of the international community to this attack is telling;

Gourevitch quotes Bertrand Russell’s description of the scene in Rwanda as “the most horrible and systematic massacre we have had occasion to witness since the extermination of the Jews by the Nazis” (65). In light of the genocide of 1994, this response is compelling on multiple levels.

Russell, like many others, uses the European analogy of the Holocaust to frame the conflict between the Hutus and Tutsis. Russell’s response suggests a clear victim and perpetrator, which simplifies the conflict between Rwanda’s citizenry, undercuts the complex reasons for Hutu outrage towards Tutsis, and negates any discussion of the colonial role in the violence. Finally, this statement, like many that were made during the genocide of 1994, was ultimately dismissed by the international community without any commitment to action. This quotation, offered at the outset of organized violence against the Tutsi population in Rwanda, highlights how removed international responses were from the lived challenges of Rwandan citizens. Moreover, it demonstrates for readers how little international constructions of Africa have changed in the neocolonial era.

Colonies, during and often after colonialism, tend to be constructed for the global imagination through the narratives of the colonizer rather than through acts of local self-expression. To counter this tendency, it is important that independent nations reclaim the value of precolonial culture and identify the social, cultural, and political changes imposed by colonial rule, particularly if such changes cause tensions within the colonized society. As the colonial exchange undercuts the voices of the colonized, postcolonial writings that forefront any local perspective can be seen as representative of a disenfranchised perspective. In Rwanda, this disenfranchised position can refer both to the Hutu population, who were excused from 91 governance during colonial rule, as well as Tutsis, who were blocked from power in the postcolonial Rwandan nation. While both groups were in power and autonomous for a time, there was little discourse which did not revolve around ethnicity across this time period. This has meant that Rwandan culture, while produced by Rwandans, has been innately tied up by the discourse of ethnic hierarchy introduced during the colonial era. It has been only in post- genocide productions, literary, narrative, creative, and political, that a range of internal perspectives have begun to redefine Rwandan culture. Actively rejecting the discourse of ethnic difference, modern Rwandan voices have recognized their own disenfranchisement within the neocolonial system and begun to assert local perspectives to counter the narratives of the observing Western world.

The Belgian authorities exited Rwanda, leaving the local population divided and without the uniting force of shared cultural touchstones. This made Rwanda a likely candidate for internal conflict as colonialism gave way to neocolonialism. Sibomana writes that “in the wake of [Alexis] Kagame, all historians, whatever their ethnic origin or their political opinions, dressed up Rwanda’s history and turned it into a tool for political propaganda” (80). The politicization of identity in Rwanda fundamentally changed the way that history was applied in public discourse, and in the neocolonial period, Rwandan history became the basis for the dangerous internal politics of the Rwandan Genocide. Neocolonialism, distinct from but in many ways similar to colonialism, is neatly defined by Kwame Nkrumah, the first president of

Ghana: “the essence of neo-colonialism is that the State which is subject to it is, in theory, independent and has all the outward trappings of international sovereignty. In reality its economic system and thus its political policy is directed from outside” (ix). This definition demonstrates an early insight into this legacy of colonial history; in the neocolonial era, this term 92 applies even more broadly as colonial influences shape social, cultural, economic, and political exchanges between nations.

As observed by Gourevitch and Courtemanche, the neocolonial era in Africa is marked by the presence of non-African actors, such as aid agencies, international government officials and representatives, and religious workers. Demonstrating the variety of neocolonial influences helps these authors to establish the nature of international engagement in pre-genocide Rwanda.

Gourevitch describes Rwanda’s relationship to other nations in the neocolonial period with a notable sense of sarcasm:

Belgium shovelled money into its own stomping ground; France, ever eager to expand its

neocolonial African empire – la Francophonie – had begun military assistance to

Habyarimana in 1975; Switzerland sent more development aid to Rwanda than to any

other country on earth; Washington, Bonn, Ottawa, Tokyo, and the Vatican all counted

Kigali as a favourite charity. The hills were thick with young whites working, albeit

unwittingly, for the greater glory of Habyarimana. (76)

Belgium and France are positioned here as actively engaged in Africa for their own benefit, and other nations, among them the US, Canada, Japan, and Germany, view Rwanda as an underdeveloped space in need of Western aid, reflecting continued colonial definitions of Africa.

Gourevitch recognizes the efforts which ground-workers put into the development of Rwanda, but he also notes their failure to understand the political environment in which they are working.

Courtemanche paints a similar picture of the nuanced motivations of the aid workers in Kigali, noting particularly their refusal to work collaboratively in order to improve the lives of Rwandan citizens: 93

Around the pool, Québécois and Belgian aid workers vie in loud laughter. The Belgian

and Québécois aren’t friends; they don’t work together, even though they are working

towards the same goal: ‘development.’ That magic word which dresses up the best and

most irrelevant of intentions. The two groups are rivals, always explaining to the locals

why their kind of development is better than the others’. The only thing they have in

common is the din they make. (3)

While Western aid in Africa is a well-understood concept, efforts on the ground are shown to fall short of the ideal often conjured by media coverage and news reports. The Belgians and

Québécois, despite sharing a language and an objective, prefer to compete with one another than to commit their energy to real improvements. Courtemanche also draws attention to the use of catch-phrases to validate the continued involvement of former colonial powers and neutral countries in Rwandan development. While much of the aid offered to African nations is beneficial, both authors demonstrate frustration and distrust of aid workers who are ultimately there to improve the perception of their own countries on the global stage rather than to transform local Rwandan lives.

While direct commentary on the role of foreign aid workers helps to establish the enactment of neocolonial influence in Rwanda society, Courtemanche also offers a powerful view of the hierarchical organization of Rwanda, one which exemplifies the power of neocolonial influence over Rwandan lives:

All around the pool and hotel in lascivious disorder lies the part of the city that matters,

that makes the decisions, that steals, kills, and lives very nicely, thank you. The French

Cultural Centre, the UNICEF offices, the Ministry of Information, the embassies, the

president’s palace (recognizable by the tanks on guard), the crafts shops popular with 94

departing visitors where one can unload surplus black market currency, the radio station,

the World Bank offices, the archbishop’s palace. In circling this artificial paradise are the

obligatory symbols of decolonization: Constitution Square, Development Avenue,

Boulevard of the Republic, Justice Avenue, and an ugly, modern cathedral. Farther

down, almost in the underbelly of the city, stands the red brick mass of the Church of the

Holy Family, disgorging the poor in their Sunday best into crooked mud lanes bordered

by houses made of the same clay. Small red houses – just far enough away from the

swimming pool not to offend the nostrils of the important—filled with shouting, happy

children, with men and women dying of AIDS and malaria, thousands of small

households that know nothing of the pool around which others plan their lives and, more

importantly, their predictable deaths. (2)

This long but significant description of Kigali, beginning at the Hôtel des Mille Collines and moving outward to convey the city as a whole, is compelling precisely because it links geography with politics, both international and local. The centre of Kigali is described here through the architecture of the neocolonial authorities, who stand together and claim a large segment of Kigali’s public space. These forces, marshalled together, are reminiscent of colonial authority; religious and economic influence demonstrate alternative means of control, while the aid offices are a reminder of Africa’s long history of international aid, and the cultural presumptions that have accompanied that aid. Beyond this powerful district are streets and spaces named after the ideals of decolonization, despite the fact that many of these ideals have yet to be instituted in Rwanda. Finally, decentred in this description of the city are the citizens of

Rwanda, whose lives are fundamentally detached from the power wielded over them by foreign 95 actors. Courtemanche gives half of the paragraph to their description, developing a minute glimpse into their lives even as he observes their disempowerment in the neocolonial system.

Aware of the complexity of aid work in Africa, Courtemanche avoids simplistic representations of neocolonial involvement in Rwanda. He is critical of decisions made by remote actors who do not understand the realities of daily life in Rwanda and pointedly demonstrates the ways in which Western solutions do not always solve African problems:

When you’re discussing these things in an office in Washington or drawing econometric

curves on a computer, it all seems logical. In a hospital, it doesn’t hold up at all. You

begin by charging admission fees. Half the patients stop coming to the hospital and go

back to the leaf-doctors – that’s what they call the witch doctors or charlatans. The cost

of medications goes up because they’re imported and structural adjustment devalues the

local currency. (124)

This is an important point, as many African economists have pointed out the dangers of establishing African services based on international aid rather than more permanent sources of funding17. Courtemanche’s protagonist Valcourt explores the challenge of integrating international support into current Rwandan social structures without undermining local practices and frequently faces newly-arrived bureaucrats who assume their pre-fabricated plans can be imposed wholesale onto Rwandan social structures. However, these bureaucratic failures are contrasted by the representation of several deeply devoted and respectful aid workers, the most compelling of whom is Elise:

17 There are a number of texts on African aid and development, particularly the dangers of aid and the failures which financial support has created in Africa. The following three authors are noted for the depth and breadth of their examinations: Alex de Waal’s Famine Crimes: Politics & the Disaster Relief Industry in Africa, Fiona Terry’s Condemned to Repeat? The Paradox of Humanitarian Action, and David Rieff’s A Bed for the Night: Humanitarianism in Crisis. 96

Two years in Rwanda; hundreds, thousands of AIDS patients. The same cautions

tirelessly repeated, the words a thousand times said announcing the end, the

encouragements whose effectiveness she doubted, this permanent companionship with

the death of people she learned to love day by day as they confided in her—nothing

undermined her determination. (52-53)

Her efforts are carefully focused to respond to the needs of the Rwandan population without bias or judgement; her commitment is unwavering and apolitical. While the actions of the bureaucrats are, for Courtemanche, calculated and politically motivated, he does see the possibility for unbiased interactions between Rwandan and international citizens in characters like Elise and Valcourt. As one of the few Western characters who is informed about Rwanda and empathetic towards Rwandan citizens, the character of Elise demonstrates that the genuine presumption of equality between Western and Rwandan actors holds the potential for productive cross-cultural interactions.

For Rwandan citizens, the aid community and other international actors present opportunities and challenges. Both authors depict Rwandans responding to the assumptions that underpin the international perception of Rwanda in the international community. Describing the interactions between Rwandans and non-Rwandans, Courtemanche writes that Rwandans require

“a smile too broad that must stand up to sixteen hours of temperament, condescension, impatience, ill-concealed mistrust and sometimes a kind of third-worldism so pleasantly warm that the employee would paint his situation the blacker to please the lonesome White” (46).

Because of the pervasive construction of Africa as poverty-ridden and chaotic, even simple exchanges become battles between reality and perception. Here, the Rwandan citizen is expected to perform the role conjured by colonial-era prejudice in order to affirm external 97 neocolonial assumptions, particularly those which deepen the imagined divide between Western and African. The low-grade hostility directed towards Rwandans by Western actors reflects the more generally inequitable attitude towards Rwanda demonstrated by the international community. Notably, this hostility is imparted by the same individuals and nations who claim to offer aid to Rwandan citizens. Though this spare description, Courtemanche conveys the complexity of neocolonial prejudice and specifically the ways in which discrimination is embedded into the larger rhetoric of international aid.

Courtemanche also explores the Rwandan conception of whiteness the discourse of international aid. The Rwandan character Raphaël explains to Courtemanche the Rwandan view of white lives outside the borders of Rwanda:

Sex with a White man is like a lifebuoy. A dress from Paris…a duty-free piece of

jewellery, a little money so you can leave the Muslim quarter and move up the hill

into a house with a hedge and a guardian. Then, God willing, liberation, paradise,

a shack in Canada or Belgium or France or Tashkent, as long as there are no more

Hutus and Tutsis, just Whites who look down on Blacks. Intolerance doesn’t kill. (35)

This statement demonstrates acceptance of a fundamental inequality between white and black individuals, both within and beyond Rwanda. Moreover, Raphaël elaborates here on the nature of racial exchanges within the neocolonial environment: African sexuality has a market value within the international community in Rwanda. Sex can be exchanged for a variety of goods and experiences, all of which are a means of escaping local poverty and local dangers. “Liberation, paradise” (35) is here defined as a life of poverty in a distant country away from the racial politics of Rwanda; Raphaël accepts the prejudice of non-African nations as a necessary evil of escaping the internal ethnic politics of Rwandan society. Raphaël’s statement that “intolerance 98 doesn’t kill” (35) puts into stark relief the real dangers that exist for Tutsis in Rwanda, framing the Rwandan acceptance of racial inequality with foreigners within the larger reality of racial inequality inside Rwanda itself. For Raphaël, neocolonial bias is less dangerous than the politics of postcolonial, pre-genocide Rwanda. What Courtemanche makes clear is that Rwandans understand the inequality of the neocolonial exchange; they do not accept it blindly, but rather, understand that it can provide access to comforts that are otherwise denied to them. In itself, this refutes the common perception of Rwanda as passive; here, Raphaël is shown to work within the socio-political structures that shape his life.

In a scene representing the dynamics between Rwandans and the international community, Valcourt takes Jean Lamarre, a novice Canadian Consular official, to the local hospital in Kigali to strip him of his ignorance concerning the value of international aid in the lives of Rwandan children. There, Lamarre is overwhelmed by the lack of supplies, beds, and staff, and avoids contact with the children stacked three to a bed in makeshift wards. As the children crowd Lamarre, Valcourt urges him to “take some pictures, Monsieur Lamarre. Don’t be shy. They’ll like it. Every time someone takes pictures or movies of them, a little hope of help to come is born. Anyway, they’ll die before they realize that no capital city in the world cares about them” (127). Two realities are conveyed by this statement: the children’s expectations of aid and Valcourt’s jaded recognition of the futility of current international aid practices. These children understand that race determines power: whites give aid; Rwandans receive aid. They assume that becoming visible will ensure their survival, unaware that photos of sick African children are heavily over-represented in global images of Africa and increasingly fail to muster international response as compassion fatigue becomes more pervasive. Indeed, these images only affirm the stereotypes which are most strongly connected with Africa. 99

Valcourt’s cynicism about this exchange undercuts the well-established narrative of international aid as fundamentally beneficial to African communities, a theme which Courtemanche explores repeatedly in the novel. For non-African readers, particularly those based in countries engaged in this neocolonial management of African nations, Courtemanche represents international exchanges from the Rwandan perspective, prompting the reader to see themselves and their nations critically. The children’s ingrained faith in the spectre of international aid demonstrates their internalization of colonial and neocolonial rhetoric which asserts foreign superiority.

While the neocolonial management of Rwanda is explored by both Gourevitch and

Courtemanche to differing degrees, they both focus carefully on the build up to genocide. While

Tutsi massacres occurred in Rwanda in 1959, 1962, 1963, 1967, and 1973, the rhetoric of ethnic violence intensified in 1990 and lead to more aggressive and wide-spread attacks on the Tutsi population. This protracted history of conflict based on ethnicity was simplified by international media reports as a civil war rather than a series of calculated, government-sanctioned attacks on a minority population. In order to counter this inaccurate representation, these two novels offer additional details which help readers to better understand the nature of the conflict. Gourevitch clarifies the identity and mission of the RPF, commonly identified as rebels during coverage of the genocide: on “October 1, 1990, a rebel army, calling itself the Rwandese Patriotic Front, invaded north-eastern Rwanda from Uganda, declaring war on the Habyarimana regime, and propounding a political program that called for an end to tyranny, corruption, and the ideology of exclusion ‘which generates refugees’” (82). The use of the term "rebels" suggested to many that the RPF was challenging the accepted governance of the nation, when in fact the RPF 100 represented a challenge to the dangerous rhetoric of violence propounded by government officials through the national military and local Hutu Power leaders.

Courtemanche’s writing demonstrates, rather than directly identifying, the increasing tensions in the pre-genocide period of the early 1990s; he writes of Gentille that “danger was on all sides. A discontented Belgian, a drunk and infatuated German, a passing soldier, a love- struck civil servant. All of them possessed her potentially and all of them could kill her.

Increasingly, in Kigali and even more in the country side, life hung on a word, a whim, a desire, a nose too fine or a leg too long” (33). Gentille here is under threat from local and international actors and no protection is available for her. While the threat from Rwandan members of Hutu

Power is expected, Courtemanche reminds the reader that neocolonial forces are also a threat to her, fundamentally undercutting the common perception that international involvement was neutral or helpful for Rwandan civilians. Regarding the international peacekeeping force installed in Rwanda in October 199318, Gourevitch observes, “distrust of UNAMIR was the one thing which Hutu Power and those it wanted dead shared as deeply as their distrust of one another” (102). This is a compelling statement, for it demonstrates that many Rwandans, regardless of their political beliefs, saw international involvement as dangerous. Only months later, UNAMIR would prove that it did not have the ability to effectively protect hinder the onslaught of violence that would commence on April 6, 1994.

Because of the continuous propaganda supporting the Hutu Power movement in Rwanda in the months before the genocide began, citizens were well aware of the threat of violence; many assumed that the next rash of killings would be like the massacres before: swift and brutal,

18 UNAMIR was the United Nations Assistance Mission for Rwanda, which was established during the Arusha Peace Agreement signed by Habyarimana’s government and the RPF leaders on August 3, 1993. The objectives of the peacekeeping force were to implement aspects of the Arusha Accord, such as assuring the security of Kigali, aiding in the preparations for elections, and monitoring the ceasefire agreement between these two parties. Further details of this force can be found in United Nations records. 101 but isolated. Valcourt, as a white man, is not directly threatened by the impending genocide, but local characters vocalize their fears about the danger they face. Lando, a Rwandan man well aware of the horror he is awaiting, addresses the ability of the international community to ignore the coming deaths of Rwandans:

You still don’t understand. Good little Westerner that you are, all tied up with fine

sentiments and noble principles, you’re witnessing the beginning of the end of the world.

We’re going to plunge into a horror never seen before in history. We’re going to rape,

cut throats, chop, butcher…We’ll have the savage efficiency of the primitive and the

poor. With machetes, knives and clubs we’ll do better than the Americans with their

smart bombs. But it won’t be a war for television. You won’t be able to stand fifteen

minutes of our wars and massacres. They’re ugly and you’ll think they’re inhuman. It’s

the lot of the poor not to know how to murder cleanly, with surgical precision, as the

parrots of CNN say after their briefings from the generals. (62-63)

Lando predicts that neocolonial prejudice towards Rwanda as an African nation will fundamentally blind the international community to Rwandan suffering and prevent any effective response. As this is precisely what did occur, Courtemanche is asking readers to recognize the assumptions and prejudices which determine international action and inaction. That these words are spoken prior to the genocide demonstrates something often forgotten in the neocolonial exchange: just at the international community has preconceived notions of Rwanda and Africa more generally, Africans and Rwandans have preconceived notions about countries on the international stage. The political reality of neocolonialism is clear to Lando, and he knows that this genocide is only going to affirm the popular constructions of Rwandan identity in the

Western imagination. As an active participant in this political exchange, although disempowered 102 by virtue of his nationality and race, Lando reminds readers that Rwandans can be shrewdly aware of the nuances of the stereotypes which define them, inside and beyond national borders.

Valcourt understands the ill-informed prejudice which will ultimately permit the deaths of his Rwandan friends, and he condemns it vocally. His commentary becomes pointed when he considers the conventions through which African identities are constructed in global media coverage:

An article, an in-depth report might perhaps stir public opinion and influence his

government, which in turn would talk about it to another…But what a fool I am!...It takes

ten thousand dead Africans to furrow the brow of even one left-learning White. Even ten

thousand’s not enough. And they aren’t noble deaths, either – they make humanity blush.

The media don’t show dead bodies cut up bymen and shredded by vultures and wild

dogs. They show the pitiful victims of drought, swollen little bellies, eyes bigger than

TV screens, the tragic children of famine and the elements – that’s what moves people.

Then committees get set up and humanitarian souls get busy and mobilize. Contributions

flow. Encouraged by their parents, rich kids break open their piggy banks.

Governments, feeling a warm wind of popular solidarity blowing, push and shove at the

humanitarian aid wicket. But when it’s men like us killing other men like us, and doing it

brutally with whatever’s handy, people cover their faces. And when they’re expendable

men, like these in this country…. (111-12)

This invocation of the international response, in advance of the onset of genocide, demonstrates the rigid nature of the neocolonial system of relations. Regardless of the violence that will descend on Rwanda, there will not be a reaction. Rwandan and Canadian alike know this to be true, and Courtemanche is determined that the reader should recognize that the dismissal of 103

Rwanda is predicated on the nature of the crisis facing Rwandan citizens. As Moeller suggests, the framing of Africa within the humanitarian paradigm predetermines Western reactions, and so limits political development between African and Western countries. There will be no deus ex machina to protect Rwandans from this conflict set in motion during the colonial era, and

Rwandans are aware of this as a neocolonial fact. These vocalizations of mistrust are powerful because they identify international responses as politically motivated rather than benevolence in the face of threat. There is, particularly in Lando’s commentary, an internalized sense of lesser worth as a result of colonial and neocolonial political practices and discourse.

Valcourt is present to witness the initial killings that marked the beginning of the genocide but he is evacuated within four days of Habyarimana’s death. Despite being recently married, Valcourt is not permitted to leave Rwanda with Gentille and their adopted child, orphaned in an early bout of ethnic killing, because Gentille has such strong Tutsi traits. The militia guards at the airport knock Valcourt unconscious and put him on one of several planes carrying citizens of non-African nations who were evacuated by their governments. As Father

Louis predicts, “they’re not coming to stay and save the country. They’re giving themselves three days, then they’ll be gone again” (224). Certainly, this rapid evacuation of foreign nationals demonstrates the ability of distant nations to mobilize the protection of their citizens in light of threats of violence. More importantly, it demonstrates a pervasive sense in the international community that Rwanda’s problems were for Rwanda’s government to solve.

Since the government was behind the genocide, there would be no protection for those not permitted on the planes. While immediate international efforts established routes of escape for foreign nationals, the international coverage of the onset of genocide was limited. As Valcourt narrates, 104

in its major international bulletin CNN spent twenty seconds on the recurrence of ethnic

problems in Rwanda, giving assurances, however, that foreign nationals were safe. Even

the perspicacious BBC said little more. Radio-France Internationale talked about

recurrent confrontations and ancestral tribalism. Wondering if Africans would ever be

able to rid themselves of their ancient demons that kept provoking the most dreadful

atrocities. (226-27)

This minimal coverage, emphasizing the safety of non-Rwandans over Rwandans, and relying on tropes of African violence to explain the killings by Hutu militias are demonstrative of neocolonial prejudice. Both Courtemanche and Gourevitch make clear that the international community knew enough about the threat of violence to protect their own citizens, but used a variety of political excuses to avoid acting on behalf of Rwandans. For readers, this effort to protect Western citizens while avoiding public discussion about the instigation of genocide in

Rwandan is a powerful demonstration of the nuances of neocolonial influence, as it can enable or deter action for its own ends.

This early political response to the genocide is mirrored by a similar military response.

Both authors note that Dallaire, the commander of the UNAMIR mission, had a Rwandan informant who warned him about the impending genocide but that his superiors dismissed this intelligence, ordering him to give his information to Habyarimana’s office for further review.

Dallaire, working with limited resources, and himself under threat as the limited authority of

UNAMIR became clear, was quick to develop a possible military response. Gourevitch states that

on April 21, 1994, the UNAMIR commander, Major General Dallaire, declared that with

just five thousand well-equipped soldiers and a free hand to fight Hutu Power, he could 105

bring the genocide to a rapid halt. No military analyst whom I’ve heard of has ever

questioned his judgement, and a great many have confirmed it…Yet, on the same day,

the UN Security Council passed a resolution that slashed the UNAMIR force by ninety

percent, ordering the retreat of all but two hundred seventy troops. (150)

In juxtaposing these two pieces of information, Gourevitch highlights the fact that there were preliminary actors on the ground in Rwanda who could have responded to the outbreak of genocide directly, had they been given international support. Dallaire, on the ground in Rwanda since October 1993, understood the overwhelming threat of large-scale violence. However, the reduction of his mandate and resources in the face of demonstrable genocide in Rwanda is evidence of a lack of interest in responding to this crisis. This is, fundamentally, a neocolonial response; foreign nations involve themselves in former colonial spaces when it suits their interests, but step away from involvement when it becomes socially or politically difficult to remain. The US was particularly determined to avoid vested responsibility in Rwanda;

Gourevitch notes that Madeleine Albright, Clinton’s ambassador to the UN, opposed leaving any troops in Rwanda (150).

The recognition of this international refusal to act is important because it was not part of a larger public discourse around the events unfolding in Rwanda. Media coverage was minimal and emphasized chaos over solutions, governmental statements avoided use of the term genocide so that political commitments at the end of WWII would not compel them to act on Rwanda’s behalf, and UN decisions were under-discussed in public forums. Gourevitch’s commentary is echoed in the analysis of the United Human Rights Council, who say of the international response to the Rwandan genocide that international leaders 106

declined for weeks to use their political and moral authority to challenge the legitimacy

of the genocidal government. They refused to declare that a government guilty of

exterminating its citizens would never receive international assistance. They did nothing

to silence the radio that televised calls for slaughter. Even after it had become

indisputable that what was going on in Rwanda was a genocide, American officials had

shunned the g-word, fearing that it would cause demands for intervention” (“Genocide in

Rwanda”).

Gourevitch offers a powerful analysis of this concerted effort to ignore Rwanda’s genocide, writing that the “desertion of Rwanda by the UN force was Hutu Power’s greatest diplomatic victory” (150). The Hutu Power movement was unintentionally protected and validated by the international community for much of the genocide, its actions and objectives sheltered by an international desire to avoid commitments on African soil. Gourevitch makes a compelling point to his readers; international powers would rather support genocide by inaction than prevent genocide by valuing Rwandan lives as equal to Western lives. The perversity of this political logic should compel critical evaluation of the political enactment of neocolonialism, demonstrating that socio-political education, offered through literature, can create a more politically engaged citizenry.

It was not until June 22, 1994, that the Security Council rubber-stamped Opération

Turquoise, a formally impartial deployment of French military personnel with permission to use aggressive force on the ground in Rwanda (Gourevitch 155). However, as the violence peaked in April and May, this late deployment was not a means of ending genocide but rather an attempt to marshal social order. As knowledge of the genocide was increasingly a matter of public record, this was an effort to be seen as active in Rwanda. However, even this delayed effort 107 demonstrated ignorance of the facts of genocide. Gourevitch writes that “the signal achievement of the Opération Turquoise was to permit the slaughter of Tutsis to continue for an extra month, and to secure safe passage for the genocidal command to cross, with a lot of its weaponry, into

Zaire” (160-61). Because there was not a clear understanding of the politics behind the genocide, génocidaires were able to hide in plain sight among the fleeing Rwandan refugees. In an effort to reassert local order, the French soldiers repeatedly threw their support behind local leaders, failing to recognize that these leaders were complicit in the violence the French claimed to condemn (Gourevitch 158).

Re-examining Rwandan history reveals the very real connection between colonial and neocolonial influences and the genocide of 1994. Discussing the pervasive assumptions made about Rwanda during the genocide, Gourevitch notes that

Rwanda was regarded in much of the rest of the world as the exemplary instance of the

chaos and anarchy associated with collapsed states. In fact, the genocide was the product

of order, authoritarianism, decades of modern political theorizing and indoctrination, and

one of the most meticulously administered states in history. (95)

While media representations, individual governments, and the UN painted this violence as the product of savagery and tribal conflict, careful study demonstrates how colonial politics, rooted in an emergent and politicized sense of Rwandan nationhood in 1962, created an atmosphere ripe for further conflict. Tschudi offers the term “cognitive imperialism” (55) to account for instances where two individuals or groups have radically different interpretations of the same event. He states that in such cases, two possibilities exist: either one party lacks full access to information, or one party has an “irrational, biased, or distorted view” (55). In the response to the genocide in Rwanda, it is clear that the biases of the neocolonial political system rendered the 108 most powerful international actors unwilling to recognize the role that Western racial politics played in instigating and naturalizing this violence. Both We Wish To Inform You That

Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families and A Sunday at the Pool in Kigali draw attention to the ways that international biases blocked accurate understanding of the causes of the genocide, instead hiding behind the tired rhetoric of the colonial era. These literary narratives responds to the need for public education about the local and international factors of this genocide, allocating some responsibility for this genocide on international influences that have refused to admit their culpability, both in word and in deed.

Gourevitch offers, towards the end of his narrative, a comprehensive list of all of the factors that contributed to the Rwandan genocide of 1994, a list which evinces the international nature of this conflict. Moreover, his inclusion of this list makes it easy for readers to understand at a glance the interaction between local and international tensions:

the precolonial inequalities; the fanatically thorough and hierarchical centralized

administration; the Hamitic myth and the radical polarization under Belgian rule; the

killings and expulsions that began with the Hutu revolution of 1959; the economic

collapse of the late 1980s; Habyarimana’s refusal to let the Tutsi refugees return; the

multiparty confusion; the RPF attack; the war; the extremism of Hutu Power; the

propaganda; the practice massacres; the massive importation of arms; the threat to the

Habyarimana oligarchy posed by peace through power sharing and integration; the

extreme poverty, ignorance, superstition, and fear of a cowed, compliant, cramped – and

largely alcoholic – peasantry; the indifference of the outside world. Combine these

ingredients and you have such an excellent recipe for a culture of genocide that it’s easy

to say that it was just waiting to happen. (180) 109

This list of collective factors prompting the Rwandan Genocide does make the genocide seem inevitable, which was precisely the rhetoric of the international media as they covered the developing situation. However, this media analysis reflected assumption rather than the concerted failure of understanding. This list reflects both the influences of the international community and the complexities of internal politics in Rwanda. Gourevitch here conveys the complexity of the genocide while simultaneously undercutting the excuse that the event was not understandable. What remains clear is that it was the prolonged Western disinterest permitted by neocolonialism which allowed the media to frame the genocide as chaos.

Both Gourevitch and Courtemanche focus on the external influences which shaped

Rwanda’s genocide to bring attention to several of the causes that were never fairly identified as having a role in the genocide. The Rwandan genocide was not only a reflection of Rwandan, or even African politics; this genocide was an international creation, demonstrating the very real outcomes of colonial and neocolonial influence. Many factors of the genocide connect back to the ethnic politics made concrete during the colonial era, and this information is important for

Western readers, as few would know enough from media representations to be able to explain how external pressures caused the genocide. As the media coverage of the Rwandan genocide did not consistently identify the causes for violence, it was easy for foreign viewers to confuse colonial and neocolonial myth and fact. Susan Moeller writes of the coverage of genocide that

“it’s easy to run a map indicating where Bosnia is or a graphic clarifying who’s who in Rwanda.

More difficult, more time consuming, more expensive in terms of both money and energy is for the media to show their readers and viewers why they should care about Bosnia and Rwanda”

(315). Gourevitch and Courtemanche, aware of the superstructures which influence information exchange in Western news media, attempt to fill in this gap by educating their readers. Texts 110 such as these explain Rwandan history in order to challenge the misperception that this genocide was the product of an independent Rwandan civil society.

Although the genocide did not motivate significant political or financial support outside of Rwanda Rwanda’s subsequent humanitarian crisis was extremely compelling to external audiences. Throughout the genocide, many Rwandans had crossed the borders of Rwanda for the relative safety of the surrounding nations. Moeller reports that “in mid-July, after the genocide was over, but at the height of the refugee crisis, Oxfam received more than 1,000 calls in 24 hours, raising $50,000 – more money in one day than the past four months…In the case of

Rwanda, clearly, the famine images touched people. The genocide pictures did not” (235).

However, these images of displacement and chaos were not clearly explained to viewers, who often did not understand the complexity of the refugee crisis:

All too often, television in particular, would forget to remind its viewers that the

refugees were not fleeing the massacres. In fact, many of those fleeing had

participated in the killings or were just escaping, gripped by the fear of rebel

retribution. If the massacres had never happened, there would not have been a refugee

exodus. (qtd. in Moeller 296)

Viewers, primed by years of media narratives about Africa, were well able to understand these images of victimized Africans in a way that they had not been made to understand the complexity of the Rwandan Genocide. Significant aid was not offered by the international community until the representation of Rwandan need was in line with accepted constructions of

Africans in the Western imagination. This distinction reveals public reliance on stereotypes as a powerful method of enforcing neocolonial political policies. Gourevitch explains that while the genocide garnered little action among global citizens, the response to the narrative of Rwandan 111 refugees without food, water, or shelter in appropriate numbers instigated “the largest, most rapid, and most expensive deployment by the international humanitarian-aid industry in the twentieth century” (165). This response exemplifies the practice of neocolonial involvement in former colonial spaces like in Rwanda. Tropes of African suffering motivated a strong public response, affirming the perception that such crises are endemic to some nations over others. By juxtaposing these two responses, Gourevitch urges readers to consider the role of their own preconceptions of Africa on their socio-political engagements. However, once Rwandans were framed as victims and the focus was on need rather than on Rwandan violence, a greater response was offered.

The international involvement in Rwanda’s recovery also demonstrated the specific nature of neocolonial interest in Rwanda. Rwanda was strongly encouraged to use international channels to enforce justice at the close of the genocide. While this was possible for those who planned and gave orders during the genocide, the sheer scale of the violence and the number of perpetrators involved meant that the protracted jailing of perpetrators would dangerously strain

Rwanda’s prison system. Gourevitch raises this practical limitation with Gerald Gahima, an RPF officer and the Deputy Minister of Justice in Rwanda, who notes that in Rwanda, “we’re trying to see how to get as many ordinary people off the hook as possible…It’s not the justice the law provides for. It’s not the justice most people would want. It’s only the best justice we can try for under the circumstances” (250). As a massive proportion of the Rwandan population were involved in some way in the genocide19, with estimates ranging between tens of thousands and

19 Scott Straus offers a detailed discussion of this number, considering the estimates of other researchers as well as his own empirical evidence, gathered during his seven-month stay in Rwanda in 2002. His conclusion is that approximately 200,000 Rwandans perpetrated violence against the 800,000 Rwandans killed over the course of the genocide. The specific article is entitled “How many perpetrators were there in the Rwandan genocide? An estimate*,” published in the Journal of Genocide Research in March, 2004. 112 three million, the practicality of using a justice system modeled on the International Criminal

Courts simply did not exist in Rwanda.

However, neocolonial influence in post-genocide Rwanda remained evident as Rwanda established its own means of affecting local recovery. Gourevitch quotes a Rwandan diplomat who explains that the newly established Rwandan government requested help from the UN to arrest those responsible for the genocide who had fled to various protective countries, like

France, and return them to Rwanda to face justice in their own country (252). Disinterested in affirming Rwandan justice, but anxious to appear involved in the search for justice, despite having ignored the genocide, “the UN created the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, which was essentially a subset of the tribunal that had been established for the ugly Balkan war of the early 1990s” (Gourevitch 252). Both the ICTR and the ICTY (International Criminal

Tribunal for Yugoslavia) were to share a single prosecutor for the duration of the search for justice (Morris). The ICTR, on which much attention has been focused, dealt an additional blow to Rwandan identity in the wake of the genocide; while the international community refused to be involved in protecting Rwandan citizens, it took on a powerful role in determining the punishment or non-punishment of génocidaires. This UN solution did not take into account the fact that executing justice is a powerful means of reasserting national control, something that was desperately important in the early months and years of recovery in Rwanda.

The ICTR limited its scope to the crimes committed only during 1994, which frustrated

Rwandans who had lived through threats and acts of violence in a prelude to the genocide

(Morris). Furthermore, the UN refused to allow the death penalty as a punishment for any convicted génocidaire, and also refused to transfer any case to Rwandan courts until the

Rwandan government rescinded its use of the death penalty (Mujuzi 239). Because the death 113 penalty was permitted in Rwanda but not in the ICTR, the leaders of the genocide faced less aggressive justice than local génocidaires who stood trial in Rwanda. Mr. Bakuramutsa, the

Rwandan Ambassador to the United Nations during the establishment of the ICTR, said of this disparity that the “situation is not conducive to national reconciliation in Rwanda” (Morris).

Indeed, Rwandan justice was limited by international involvement, and this limitation was felt as an additional burden to the recovery of many Rwandan citizens. The critical examination of the actions and objectives of the ICTR are particularly beneficial for readers who presume the UN to be a non-partisan organization. As UN actions throughout the genocide have clearly demonstrated, the politics of neocolonialism encroach into all facets of the political landscape.

However, by making this clear, Gourevitch’s text lays the foundation for an increasingly engaged readership.

Rwandan efforts to assert their own justice, however challenging, was a means of initiating recovery and reasserting the value of the legal and judicial system in Rwanda. As these systems had had no power to stop or mitigate the genocide, their reinstitution into the daily lives of Rwandans served to assure the population of collective safety. Of the 1997 trial of génocidaire Froduald Karamira in Kigali, Gourevitch writes that “many Rwandans later told me that seeing this once immensely powerful man so humbled had been cathartic in itself” (344). In part, justice done is justice that is seen to be done and Rwandans who lost everything in the destruction of the genocide took comfort in witnessing the public judgement and punishment of those responsible. Post-genocide, the traditional Rwandan form of justice known as the Gacaca court system was reinstituted to expedite the processing of low-level perpetrators of genocide.

These courts were reliant on public accusations and the limited facts available concerning each perpetrator brought before the court. This sort of justice allowed survivors to face their attackers 114 and initiated valuable public discussions which prevented the genocide from settling, unresolved, out of public discourse. The value of these courts to individual recovery is more thoroughly addressed in Combres’ Broken Memory in chapter four. There were reduced sentences for those who confessed freely and punishments reintegrated perpetrators to the community through community works projects. While far from perfect, the Rwandan gacaca system dealt efficiently with prisoners, enabled victims to be a part of the process of justice, and demonstrated the return of law and order to Rwandan communities.

While the international community was interested in the ICTR, interest in the recovery from the genocide was limited, even as the needs of the genocide survivors increased. Recovery in Rwanda took multiple forms; practically, homes, schools, places of business, churches, and public spaces required clean-up and rebuilding, while survivors required emotional, mental, and physical aid in order to begin recovery. Many children had escaped violence through the protection of their parents but were now orphaned and needed social assistance, supervision, and community care. Justice, while important, was only one aspect of Rwanda’s recovery, but tellingly, the international community fixated on the hunt for justice instead of throwing its weight behind the practical needs of survivor recovery. Of the Rwandan effort to find international aid for internal recovery, Gourevitch writes that “the government had no program for survivors. ‘Nobody wants to help them,’ Kagame’s adviser, Claude Dusaidi, told me. He meant no foreign donors, no aid agencies. ‘We say, ‘Give us the money, we’ll do it.’ Nobody is interested’” (315). This lack of sustained interest in realizing a Rwandan recovery demonstrates compassion fatigue. Overwhelmed by need, without a sense of how recovery is possible, and with no understanding of the conflict, international observers remained, on the whole, observers.

The international interest in justice rather than recovery also demonstrates how neocolonial 115 forces pushed international modes of justice onto Rwanda, thereby enacting recovery on Western terms rather than on Rwandan terms.

Educating readers about the complex history of Rwanda from the precolonial to the neocolonial era, texts like Gourevitch’s and Courtemanche’s situate the genocide within a larger series of historical, social, political, and economic forces. They acknowledge the role that external factors had in shaping this event, challenging the belief that the genocide was fundamentally a product of Rwandan tribalism. These texts do not overly-demonize the colonial and neocolonial system of involvement in Rwanda, but clarify that the ethnic nature of the conflict was rooted in the colonial prejudice which informed the identity politics in the independent nation of Rwanda.

Furthermore, the pervasive neocolonial authority of Western nations allowed the Rwandan

Genocide to occur without accurate representation, appropriate response, or respectful aid during recovery. Because Rwanda has never been permitted equality on the global stage, the Rwandan

Genocide occurred without drawing sufficient interest from either Western citizens or political leaders. As Rwandans tend to produce oral rather than written narratives, few Rwandans have asserted their view of history for an international audience. As such, texts like Gourevitch’s and

Courtemanche’s endeavour to offer counter-narratives that represent Rwandan constructions of history and identity to a broad readership. Aware of the complex challenge of writing for another, both journalists spent extended time in Rwanda and spoke to hundreds of Rwandans in an attempt to most accurately voice Rwandan concerns. While colonial and neocolonial officials have imposed their own narratives on Rwandan citizens, these writers succeed in allowing

Rwandans to speak through them. As such, these texts offer readers insight into the lived details 116 of history that have long been ignored, particularly by Western actors who speak of Africa rather than from Africa.

Stepping away from the socio-political engagements in Rwandan history, these authors also explore in their narratives their experience of the physical space of Rwanda. While recovery efforts typically focus on social, economic, and political recovery, it is also important that readers gain a clear vision of Rwandan beyond the images of destruction which effectively conveyed Rwandan victimhood to Western viewers. In all places, particularly in places previously subject to colonial control, it is essential to remember that “physical geographies are bound up in, rather than simply a backdrop to, social and environmental processes” (Woods 3).

As such, physical geographies also offer an avenue for challenging neocolonial constructions of

Rwandan identity in the Western imagination. The writings of Gourevitch and Courtemanche model a powerful sensory and tactile engagement with Rwanda. These texts convey the experience of travelling through the distinct culture and society of Rwanda. Gillian Whitlock writes that “life narrative is instrumental in debates about social justice, and narratives can inspire readers’ imaginations to rethink communicative ethics in ways that engage with difference without resorting to either identification (which produces the empathic response) or othering (which looks to the antithesis of the self across cultures)” (13). In this instance, these

Western authors use their own experiences of moving through Rwanda to engage their readers and position their broader historical, social, and political commentaries.

There is a long tradition of travel writing in Africa, generally with the aim of exoticizing

African spaces and people. However, in this case, the authors record their lived responses to

Rwanda as a geographic and cultural space. Most notable is that their comments about Africa do 117 not reiterate the common tropes of Africa as a place of urban and rural poverty, or Africa as a space of rudimentary cultural practices. Gourevitch describes Rwanda as

spectacular to behold. Throughout its center, a winding succession of steep, tightly

terraced slopes radiates out from small roadside settlements and solitary compounds.

Gashes of red clay and black loam mark fresh how work; eucalyptus trees flash sliver

against brilliant green tea plantations; banana trees are everywhere. On the theme of

hills, Rwanda produces countless variations: jagged rain forests, round-shouldered buttes,

undulating moors, broad swells of savanna, volcanic peaks sharp as filed teeth. During

the rainy season, the clouds are huge and low and fast, mists cling in highland hollows,

lightning flickers through the nights, and by day the land is lustrous. After the rains, the

skies lift, the terrain takes on a ragged look beneath the flat unvarying haze of the dry

season, and in the savannas of the Akagera Park wildfire blackens the hills. (20)

This description defines Rwanda as vibrant, complex, nuanced, and evocative; the nature of the description challenges the static images of Africa as a land of poverty and want. Rwandan geography is presented as a visual spectacle, avoiding the tropes of external social and political constructions.

Courtemanche’s narrative contains a similar consideration of the physical space of

Rwanda; Valcourt’s growing attachment to Rwanda is not solely a matter of relationships, but also of his connection to the land:

When the sun goes down over Kigali, the beauty of the world brings joy to the

beholder. Great flocks of birds delicately embroider the sky. The wind is gentle and

cool. The streets are transformed into lazily slipping, brightly coloured ribbons,

thousands of people, like swarms of ants, leaving the city centre and slowly climbing 118

their hills. On all sides smoke rises from cooking fires. Each column that shows against

the sky speaks of a tiny house. Thousands of laughing children run about in the earthen

streets, kicking burst footballs and rolling old tires. When the sun goes down over Kigali,

if you’re sitting on one of the hills surrounding the city and still have the remains of a

soul, you cannot do otherwise than stop talking and watch. (85)

His description highlights the natural beauty of the landscape, as well as the sense of harmony and community which pervade the scene. There is a strong statement of joy contained within this commentary, which is simultaneously a compelling invitation to the reader to see and imagine Rwanda in a new way. While the political construction of Africa in international rhetoric often emphasizes lack and need, we see here a functioning and even thriving community, a community which seems to enchant Valcourt all the more as the novel progresses.

Drawn in by the environment, Valcourt finds a sense of connection to this place and a revitalization of his interests: “he had been deeply moved by the landscape, the hills sculpted by thousands of gardens, the mists caressing the valley floors, and by the challenge he was being handed. At last he was going to be really useful, was going to change the course of things. My life is really beginning, he said to himself” (19). Valcourt’s connection with the landscape and the people of Rwanda bind him to Rwanda’s fate; his relationship with local Rwandans allow him to see Rwanda through their eyes, and in this way, he comes to find deep affection for the nation. This is significant because Valcourt is a war reporter; he has traveled through countless war-zones and lived in a number of places, but has never felt a connection to space and people the way that he feels connected to Rwanda: “for all this time, he had had a house but no country.

Now he had a country to defend and it was Gentille’s, Méthode’s, Cyprien’s and Zozo’s. He had come to the end of a long road and could say at last, “Here is where I want to live’” (182). For 119

Valcourt, Rwanda becomes a place he is willing to defend, a powerful statement in the face of an imminent and all-encompassing genocide. In coming to know and understand the geography and culture of Rwanda, Valcourt finds a value that he did not expect, and his loyalties shift dramatically under this change: “my real country is the country of the people I love. And I love you [Gentille] more than anything in the world. My country is here” (144). Rwanda, a poor, developing country with complex internal and external tensions, is nonetheless found to be a place of fundamental value by Valcourt. This representation demonstrates for readers a new experiential view of Rwanda which fundamentally undercuts the dominant global perception of

Africa as the destination of Western aid and not Western affection.

Valcourt’s connection to Rwanda becomes even more outwardly demonstrable after he meets Gentille’s family and announces their engagement. It is at this point, as his connection to this Rwandan community becomes more deeply felt, that he begins to actively protect it by drawing the attention of the international community to the coming genocide:

I’m starting to ply my trade again. Trying to say what’s hidden behind the bogeymen, the

monsters, the caricatures, the symbols, the flags, the uniforms, the grand declarations that

lull us to sleep with their good intentions. Trying to put names to the real killers sitting in

offices at the presidential palace and the French embassy. They’re the ones who draw up

lists and give orders, and the ones who finance the operations and distribute the weapons.

(116)

He writes to protect Gentille, and Rwanda more generally, awoken from jaded complacency by the love and connection he feels for this physical space. His attention is not on the low-level actors in the genocide, but the powerful Rwandan and international actors who acquiesced to 120 genocide without consideration of the lived trauma that would cripple Rwanda for years after the final machete blow.

It seems at times that Valcourt’s love of Rwanda is tied up in his love of Gentille, a Tutsi woman who works in the hotel Valcourt stays at and who eventually succumbs to his tentative romantic advances. Valcourt and Gentille are separated as they attempt to leave the country and she dies soon after the end of the genocide of the rapid onset of AIDS contracted as the prisoner of a local Sergeant. Valcourt returns to Rwanda to rescue her, but finds her close to death and unwilling to engage with him. Valcourt’s commitment to Rwanda remains even in light of her death, and he throws himself into the recovery effort. Courtemanche writes that

Bernard Valcourt is still living in Kigali, where he works with a group that defends the

rights of people accused of genocide. Recently the government, now dominated by

Tutsis, threatened to expel him. When ignorant and slightly drunk foreign journalists ask

him to explain Rwanda, he tells them the story of Kawa. He lives with a Swedish woman

his own age, a doctor who works for the Red Cross. They have adopted a little Hutu girl

whose parents have been condemned to death for their part in the genocide. Her name is

Gentille. Valcourt is at peace with himself. (258)

These lines which conclude the novel demonstrate Valcourt’s commitment to Rwanda as distinct from his love for Gentille, and demonstrate the possibility of international engagement in

Rwanda on an individual level. Valcourt’s adoption of a Hutu child speaks to his own desire to aid in recovery, as well as his rejection of the ethnic narratives that characterized Rwandan discourse in the years leading up to the genocide.

By critically examining Western and Rwandan interactions throughout the colonial and neocolonial period in Rwanda, Gourevitch and Courtemanche provide readers with a clear 121 understanding of the genocide as an event shaped by known socio-political superstructures.

Such writing offers many benefits, particularly as the superstructures which have long limited

Rwandan authority on the international stage remain in place. For Western readers who have been encouraged to dismiss African voices through subtle and less subtle demonstrations of neocolonial indifference, these texts examine the historical engagements which established and cultivated systemic racism. These authors demonstrate a palpable affection for Rwanda which comes from their active rejection of the narrative tropes applied to Africa, their accurate understanding of Rwandan history, and their willingness to make connections with local

Rwandans. As Lionel Grossman argues, “evidence only counts as evidence and is only recognized as such in relation to a potential narrative, so that the narrative can be said to determine the evidence as much as the evidence determines the narrative” (26). As past histories and the media coverage of the genocide demonstrate, facts can be omitted or ignored in order to fit particular social and political frames of reference. In opposition to this trend, both Philip

Gourevitch and Gil Courtemanche forge a new narrative of Rwanda by including Rwandan perspectives and colonial/neocolonial facts that have habitually been excluded in international narratives of Rwanda and offer a “challenge to normative history…an enlargement of the picture, a corrective to oversights resulting from inaccurate or incomplete visions” (Scott 58). The focus here on broadening historical understandings of Rwanda as a colony and as an independent nation positions the genocide as the product of complex international forces instead of as evidence of an innate African violence. The narrative exploration of Rwanda as a physical and emotional space further help to elaborate international imaginings of Rwanda outside of the tropes of neocolonial African representations. 122

Chapter Four: Exploring Rwandan Identity and Experiences of Genocide through Literature

It was as if all the pain in the world had found a voice. Yet had I known such pain was in the next room, and had it been dumb, I believe – I have thought since – I could have stood it well enough. It is when suffering finds a voice and sets our nerves quivering that this pity comes troubling us. H. G. Wells, The Island of Dr. Moreau, 38.

The colonial and neocolonial rule of Africa by Western nations maintains control to a large extent by using literature and public discourse to affirm cultural, political, and racial hierarchies which naturalize inequality. The colonial mission in Africa required that oppositional

African voices be silenced to create the illusion of acquiescence to European rule. In order to naturalize European authority in Africa, both for Africans and Europeans, tropes were developed which conveyed African inferiority through the representation of African identity. Early representations of African individuals and communities, like Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness in 1902, emphasized savagery and violence; later representations, such as Joyce Cary’s Mister

Johnson in 1939, emphasized volatility and ineptitude. What is consistent between these two novels, and the larger collection of colonial-era writing about Africans, is the positioning of

African individuals as “other,” a framing which has remarkable flexibility while always negating

African authority. Thus, early twentieth-century writings about Africans served a political purpose by establishing a perceptive framework for European individuals. In the neocolonial era, these tropes are challenged by the emergence of African voices in Western socio-political discourse, but continue to frame dominant representations of African identity, particularly in

Western nations.

During the Rwandan genocide, the established colonial and neocolonial tropes of representing Africans were once again used with a political objective: to quell objections to the 123 decision, made at multiple levels of government, to avoid Western engagement in Rwanda. The coverage emphasized the spectacle of destruction and reiterated the trope of Africans as either victims or perpetrators of violence. As such, Rwandans were depicted as silent and dejected, or brazen and aggressive. This framing encouraged compassion fatigue rather than critical engagement with the facts of the genocide. Rwandan suffering was not made knowable, and the impact of the genocide on Rwandan communities was not considered information worthy of broadcast. This means is that for many Western viewers whose understanding of the genocide relied on media reports and political discussion, Rwanda remains another African country mired by internal politics and civilian divisions. Thus, a defining moment in Rwandan history, set in motion in part by the arrival of colonial forces, has become for Western citizens an affirmation of the colonial notion that Africa is a space of chaos and danger. Predictably, the media did not return to Rwanda in significant numbers to convey the collective mourning and the massive recovery efforts of the nation and its conscious and subconscious decolonizing mission to

Western viewers. By ignoring the narrative of Rwandan recovery, the international media served to reaffirm colonial and neo-colonial notions of Africa and ensured that Rwanda would remain a space synonymous with genocide rather than productive social recovery.

Many of the collaboratively produced literary texts which explore the Rwandan Genocide reject the common tropes used to represent the Rwandan experience of genocide. Rwandans were consistently positioned in the popular presentation as the perpetrators and victims of genocide and observers to their own recovery. Such representations did little to develop meaningful understandings of the lived traumas of genocide and post-genocide recovery.

However, as Joan Scott observes, “seeing is the origin of knowing. Writing is reproduction, transmission – the communication of knowledge gained through (visual, visceral) experience” 124

(58). Writing which enables Western readers to fully understand the challenges and victories of

Rwandans during and after the genocide counter the fragmented and dehumanized representation of Rwandans that have been prevalent in Western media and political discourse since the colonial era. Literature, with its flexibility of form and narrative structure, as we will see in this chapter’s examination of a young adult novel, a graphic novel, and a novella, offers a fruitful space in which to create and recreate experience at length, thereby providing a basis for complex representations of Rwandan identity and community interactions. Literature, particularly the novel, long used to naturalize hierarchies for the colonial and neocolonial regime, is employed by Western writers to add depth to representations of Rwandan identity which circulate in

Western society, while also critically evaluating Western actors in Rwanda. As such, these texts reclaim the novel as a form of writing which can be used to empower, as well as subjugate,

Rwandan voices.

Many of the texts written about the Rwandan Genocide demonstrate a clear interest in decolonizing the representation of Rwandan by emphasizing personal experiences and memories that have consistently been ignored. Affirming the value of the collective memories of others begins social and political recovery, as “the subject of memory is…a social subject…the alienation or exclusion of any individual from social memory will be tantamount to both social extinction and deprivation of identity… testimonial fiction and postcolonial writing are recognized as important bearers and construction sites of cultural memory” (Crewe 75-76).

Colonial control over Africa resulted in a systematic dismissal of African experience for Western audiences and the neocolonial era has continued this pervasive disinterest in African voices. The violence of the genocide has instigated the increased representation of Rwandan perspectives; the trauma and suffering of the people in Rwanda, and the disproportionate attention paid to Western 125 concerns over Rwandan concerns throughout the genocide has demonstrated the imbalance of representational power and its impact on Western understanding of this conflict. Ann

Cvetkovich, who writes of trauma and public cultures, observes that “trauma puts pressure on conventional forms of documentation, representation and commemoration, giving rise to new genres of expression, such as testimony and new forms of monuments, rituals and performances that can call into being collective witnesses and publics” (7). Certainly, the genocide has instigated a new interest in the representation of Rwanda for an international readership, in factual and fictional forms. One such effort was the Fest’Africa: “Écrire Par Devoir de

Mémoire” (“Duty to Memory”) project set up in 1998, during which Nocky Djedanoum invited ten other Franco-African writers to Rwanda to undertake a creative residency in Rwanda and write about the genocide. This large-scale project was an attempt to reverse the fact that

“Africans had too often been silent about the events of the genocide” (King vii). This undertaking asked African writers to respond to the genocide publicly, instigating a discourse about the Rwandan Genocide which asserted the value of African perspectives. These narratives have been published and made available to the reading public, although the issue of language remained a limiting factor for the widespread distribution of texts written in a language other than English.

The texts produced during the “Écrire Par Devoir de Mémoire” project, like most of the literary texts that have been published about Rwanda since 1994, are not intended for Rwandan readers. These narratives taken written form and are intended for global audiences, specifically those reading in English or French. However, they remain a means of negotiating a new relationship between Africa and the world. Literature that represents the concerns of Rwandan citizens during and after the genocide have political potential; “narrative ensures that the 126 personal becomes political because literature depicts the joys, sadnesses, and small beauties of lives that are put under erasure by large-scale politics. Thus telling one’s story becomes an act of reaching out to others” (Handlarski 71). These texts, written with an active effort to represent an authentic Rwandan experience during the genocide, educate readers about aspects of Rwandan identity and the lived costs of the genocide. Moving past the construction of Rwanda as a space of chaos and death, readers follow the lived experiences of individual Rwandans and come to understand their individual responses to personal loss and social disorder.

This subject has a political value: “literature as social testimony does not only demand attentive writing but attentive reading, as well. Active listening and a conscious and attentive use of imagination and mimesis are necessary in the process of creating narrative transmissions and transformations of traumatic memory” (Kopf 6). It is precisely because these texts weave personal and political truths that they can add dimension to a reader’s understanding of the genocide. Improving comprehension of the complex impacts of genocide on Rwandan survivors resists the simplification of Rwandan suffering that was so pervasive in Western media coverage.

Jenny Edkins, who studies the interaction between large-scale trauma and politics, writes that

the way in which events such as wars, genocides and famines are remembered is

fundamental to the production and reproduction of centralized political power. However,

memory is central not only to the production of these forms of power but also to their

contestation: certain types of memory, the memory of catastrophic events, for example,

provide specific openings for resistance to centralized political power. Ways of

remembrance then are not only a site of political investment but also a site of struggle and

contestation. What is at stake is the continuing existence of a particular form of power

relation: sovereign political authority. (101) 127

While Edkins here considers how memories of national trauma can serve as a means of resistance to national or governmental political structures, the same argument can be applied beyond the scope of the Rwandan border. Memory-based texts refute international narratives that dismissed Rwanda as

“small, poor and globally insignificant” (Sciolino) throughout the genocide and have largely ignored Rwanda since. Representing Rwandan suffering in detail, these texts reveal the belief that

Rwandans are unimportant to be a fallacy borne of Western media practices and political tropes, and the reticence of international citizens to involve themselves in African politics. The benefits of this detailed narration are initially cultural and social, but as Edkins suggests, it is possible for there to be larger political benefits as well related to nation-building and decolonizing agendas; such possibilities are considered in chapter six. Just as false social narratives within the central European societies were used to disempower Africans over centuries, the same channels of cultural dissemination can be used to supplant prejudice and introduce accurate narratives of citizen experience into wider social and political discourses.

There are three specific texts under consideration in this chapter, all of which explore the Rwandan genocide in a very direct and personal way. In line with the linguistic trend observed earlier, all of these English texts were originally published in French in either France or Belgium before being translated for English audiences. Moreover, all three texts were written by non-Rwandan authors who did not experience the genocide directly, but who had personal knowledge of and interest in

Africa generally or Rwanda specifically prior to the genocide. Broken Memory: A Novel of Rwanda is a young adult novel written and published by Élisabeth Combres in 2007 in France; Shelley

Tanaka’s translation was republished for English audiences in 2009. Combres was born in Bouches du Rhone, France, and worked as a journalist covering West Africa and Europe before becoming an 128 author of fiction. Deogratias: A Tale of Rwanda is a graphic novel written by Jean-Philippe Stassen in 2000 and published in Belgian, and translated by Alexis Siegel and published in English in 2006.

Stassen is Belgian by birth but traveled extensively throughout the world before settling permanently with his family in post-genocide Rwanda. The third text, The Oldest Orphan, is a short novella written by the Francophone Guinean writer Tierno Monénembo in 2000 as the culmination of his participation in the “Duty to Memory” project. His work was translated into

English by Monique Fleury Nagem and republished in 2004. Conscious of their choice to write about the Rwandan genocide as non-Rwandans, all three writers chose to adopt a Rwandan perspective in their work and the narrators and most major characters are Rwandan.

Nigel Hunt, in his work Memory, War and Trauma, states that “creating a coherent story about a traumatic event is essential to trauma recovery” (117). The benefits of such an effort are not limited to the author; readers also benefit from the access to lived experiences and a greater understanding of how individuals and societies reform themselves in the wake of violent clashes. In reading trauma narratives, Hunt highlights four aspects of the narrative which the reader must be attentive to in order to understand the traumatic experiences under exploration: the use of sensory or emotive details, narrative disorganization or fragmentation, interruptions to the temporal context, and the nature of the narrator’s references to him or herself (119). All of these offer important clues to the way that the narrators are responding to and recovering from trauma. The three narratives under consideration here are rich in the authorial details emphasized by Hunt. Despite the fact that there are three different genres represented by these texts, showing the diversity of possible approaches to this topic, there are also striking shared concerns evident as well.

All three authors chose child narrators over adult narrators. This narrative frame of reference deliberately highlights the experience of children during the genocide, and emphasizes the 129 destruction of the family, local community, and larger social order. Children are vulnerable persons; they are at greater risk during genocide because they are less able to protect themselves.

The rapid dissolution of familial and social order is felt most deeply by children, who must struggle to reassert normalcy in their lives. Child narrators are potentially more sympathetic to readers than adults, as their role in creating the genocide is minimal to non-existent and the reader may presume that they are guiltless in genocide. Such a representation could seem a simplistic ploy for the sympathy of the reader, however, these authors are careful to nuance their characters; these children do not claim easy sympathy and at times, they are more difficult than adults to organize into simple categories like “victim” or “perpetrator.” Beyond this, the resolute response of the narrators in the face of horror demonstrates their personal strength and serves to comment very effectively on the chances of recovery in Rwanda. While the range of violence described in each text is different, it should be noted that these authors do not shy away from placing their narrators as witnesses of extreme violence, nor do they assume that children would be unaffected by this violence. It is perhaps more disconcerting to hear genocide narrated by a child, and Monénembo’s narrator

Faustin certainly pushes the line in this regard, as he alternates rapidly between vicious bravado and dejected silence.

A second similarity across these texts is the use of complex character identities. While the media coverage of the genocide relied on simplistic identifications of the Rwandan population as either Tutsi or Hutu, which then were translated into subject positions of either “victim” or

“perpetrator,” these texts seem to deliberately push back against such classifications. Two of the texts address the flexibility of “Hutu” and “Tutsi” in Rwandan culture prior to the genocide and all three texts take care to show how these two categories have become more political than cultural in terms of meaning. Perhaps the most compelling exploration of identity categories is the 130 representation of those who are both victim and perpetrator. Certainly, each text contains a character, and in two cases, it is the narrator, who exists in the nebulous space between innocence and guilt. These representations, while developing the complexity of the narrative, also explore

Rwandan identity politics after the genocide. That these victims who also perpetrate violence are children challenges the reader to understand how fragile these categories are in a space of genocide.

As might be expected in explorations of a genocidal and post-genocidal society, fragmentation of the narrative serves both a formal and emotional function. Fragmentation of a narrative challenges the reader to make sense of information presented with some degree of incoherence. The narrative fragmentation is indicative of the narrator’s state of mind, and can suggest trauma even when the narrator seems unaware or denies his or her trauma. Irene Kacandes argues that

literary texts can be about trauma, in the sense that they can depict perpetrations of violence

against characters who are traumatized by the violence and then successfully or

unsuccessfully witness their trauma. But texts can also ‘perform’ trauma, in the sense that

they can ‘fail’ to tell the story, by eliding, repeating, and fragmenting components of the

story. (56)

Both Deogratias and The Oldest Orphan convey the experience of the genocide through a narrative failure to clearly explain their experiences. Having to piece together narrative details, the reader is drawn into the subject position of the narrator, and experiences through narrative form the uncertain world in which the narrators exist. This intentional narrative failure requires a greater commitment on the part of the reader, but can provide a richer, more personal understanding of the difficultly of narrating genocidal experiences. This fragmentation also serves as a functional representation of the lack of social order in a post-genocide space. As these children attempt to assert order in their 131 own lives, they are aware of the lack of order, or the efforts to regain order, in their wider community. While some structures of public order exist, such as a strong military presence and the public Gacaca courts, other more basic structures, like functional family units or schools, are shown to be absent. Thus, the fragmentation of narrative can serve as a representation of the wider social chaos with which these narrators must grapple.

Finally, all of these texts look beyond experiences of genocide and consider the potential for individual and social recovery in Rwanda. This is an important narrative effort, as Western media coverage of the genocide did not cover the recovery process in any significant or prolonged way.

These texts remind the reader that recovery from trauma is a multi-faceted effort that is personal and social. Boris Diop, who contributed to the “Duty to Memory” project, has suggested that he did not feel that the five years between the end of the genocide and the writing project was enough time to attempt a literary approach on the subject (Kopf 2). For him, the experiences of the genocide needed to settle into the background of everyday life and find a place in the national discourse before being reconstructed through narrative. However, by offering a commentary on the recovery of the narrators from the events of the genocide, these narratives attempt to show this process of integrating the genocide into the narrative of local and national identity. In Broken Memory, this integration is successful; in Deogratias and The Oldest Orphan, the narrators can find no place for themselves in a recovering Rwanda, highlighting the reality that the aftershocks of genocidal violence can continue for an extended period of time and have dire consequences on those who survive.

Analysis of these texts as a cohesive collection reveals five consistent themes that inform this consideration of the role of post-genocide literature in instigating productive Western understandings of Rwandan identity. The first narrative concern is the nature of individual identity, 132 both during and after the genocide; second, the impact of violence on family and community relations; third, local Rwandan perceptions of Western involvement, which explores the actions of religion, the military, and the international media in Rwanda during the genocide; fourth, the larger social context of trauma and memory; and fifth, the means and limitations of recovery, both emotional and judicial. These issues will be discussed in order, considering how each concern is raised and dealt with in each literary text. It should be noted that each of these areas of narrative consideration work collectively to refute the representative tropes of African identity which obscured the complexity of Rwandan suffering during the genocide. By exploring Rwandans as individuals and communities, these texts offer depth to Western understandings of Rwandan national identity and challenge the political structures, in particular the imperial- colonial/neocolonial divide, which have long limited African representation.

The issue of identity and subject position in genocidal societies becomes one of the utmost importance. During the Rwandan genocide, victims were identified by numerous sources: government issued identity cards, lists generated by local Hutu militias, and ethnic stereotypes, broadly applied. Regardless of how Tutsis were identified, it remains true that Tutsis were the targets of concerted violent efforts by Hutu militants. News stories during the genocide offered up this simple binary as an explanation for the genocide, casting Tutsis as victims and Hutus as perpetrators. However, human actors rarely fall into such simple categories. While such a stringent view of good and evil may seem accurate on the surface, narratives of the Rwandan genocide have troubled this type of binary by putting forward characters who do not fit easily into either category.

In order to provide compelling stories for the reader, “it is necessary to distinguish the different positions and contexts of encounters with trauma” (Kaplan 2). This is particularly true in the case 133 of the Rwandan genocide, as the colonial identity categories of Tutsi and Hutu became well-known and generally misunderstood monikers applied to the citizens of Rwanda. Societies recovering from mass violence and serious socio-political fractures need to ensure that all experiences are accepted as part of the local and national narrative of lived experience. Hunt accurately warns that

“it is difficult to generate political inclusivity in collective memory after a civil war” (110), but in the case of genocide perpetrated by citizens against citizens, it is only by including all into the collective memory that practical divisions might begin to fall away. This process begins with the narration of a single experience, permitting the reader to explore the world from the narrator’s point of view. It is not only the narrator’s words that shape their identity, but the way they locate themselves in relation to others: “the positionings of the self in personal narratives indicate the performance of identity” (Hunt 45). The very act of narration can serve as a basis for the interpretation of character and identity. As these narrators are not neutral but instead are influenced by their experiences, their style of narration provides insight into how they locate themselves in the wider social environment. Additional characters demonstrate the complexity of defining ‘victim’ and ‘perpetrator’ in post-genocide Rwanda, and therefore challenge the reader to question the usefulness of such theoretical identifications.

Combres’ Broken Memory explores multiple victim positions. The narrative centers on the character of Emma, who witnesses the murder of her mother and flees into the Rwandan countryside, wandering until she is taken in by Mukecuru, an older Hutu woman who lives alone.

The opening lines of the text introduce the genocide, and particularly Emma’s experience as a witness to her mother’s killing: “they are there. Behind the door. They are yelling, singing, banging, laughing. Mama’s eyes are wide with fear. Soon she will be nothing more than suffering on the ground. Cut up and bleeding. Then, finally, set free by death” (15). This introduction to the 134 narrative demands that the reader engage with the explicit violence of the genocide. By prefacing the introduction of the character with the character’s perceptions, the reader is asked to understand

Emma within the context of her immediate reality. This moment is the only direct representation of the genocide in the text, as the rest of the narrative is set in post-genocide Rwanda. However, this short chapter, set alone on the first page, also takes the form of a testimony, describing the sensory details of the moment of her mother’s murder in a way which sets up a clear perpetrator/victim binary. “They” are dangerous, perpetrators without feeling; “Mama” is a victim, a person in the process of becoming only “suffering on the ground” (15) with her personhood revoked. Emma’s own identity for the reader hinges on this moment, as it becomes a central fact of her identity and one which she labours under throughout the narrative. The present tense of the narrative begins in chapter two, and it is here that Emma’s character begins to take a clear shape. The opening line serves to connect the past and the present: “Emma woke up with a start, exhausted by the same nightmare that she had almost every night” (17). Despite the passage of time, although it is not made clear how much time, Emma remains haunted by the memory of her mother’s death, thereby emphasizing that in trauma, the past remains a poignant part of the present. Emma is isolated by her experiences, or, more accurately, she isolates herself from others in her adoptive community, and develops a quiet daily routine with Mukecuru. Emma is a simple victim; she is a Tutsi who escapes murder through her mother’s protection. She is burdened by the severity of what she has experienced, but while she is withdrawn from strangers in her community, she is supported in her slow recovery by her adoptive mother. Her suffering, deeply painful, is the suffering of someone who has been victimized and must find a way to incorporate that pain into a functional social identity. 135

As a novel for young readers, not surprisingly it depicts the protagonist as easily identified within the binary of victim/perpetrator. However, the character of Ndoli is more complex, challenging the reader’s understanding of guilt and innocence. Ndoli, also a survivor of the genocide, remains far more traumatized than Emma. When he is introduced into the text, Ndoli is

“wearing rags spattered with mud, his head bent, his arms glued to his sides and his fists pressed to his stomach. As if he [is] holding himself together, afraid of seeing his body fall apart in pieces”

(31). Such a description suggests that, indeed, Ndoli is a victim of the genocide; certainly, his physical and emotional tensions are aptly brought to the fore here. His rags suggest that he lacks parental support and his alienation from those around him, including Emma for the first half of the text, demonstrates that he is not yet able to form trusting relationships. Interestingly, Ndoli’s outward behaviour is shown to shift over the year, and he is most deeply haunted by his memories of the genocide during April, the official month of commemoration in post-genocide Rwanda:

“every year at the same time, the young boy would lose a grip on reality. He stopped going to school, no longer went back home to his aunt, his only remaining relative. He turned into a kind of wandering monster, eaten up with guilt and madness that became a little more rooted in him each year” (49). In demonstrating this shifting burden, the author encourages the reader to recognize that being a victim of the genocide is not a static identity, but rather one that can change radically over time and under specific circumstances. This small point is valuable particularly because the simplistic construction of African victimhood is so pervasive in Western media; asserting the complexity of victims of the Rwandan genocide requires readers to recognize the fallacy of Western media and political simplifications.

Ndoli is a complex victim because the burden of the genocide changes for him as the society around him changes; commemorations bring his memories to the fore, while at other times he is 136 able to control his memories and attempt a life of normalcy. However, the nature of Ndoli’s trauma also marks him as a complex victim. Deeply buried in the narrative, and revealed slowly to the reader, Ndoli’s genocide experience is not one of witness so much as traitor, a dubious designation, but a self-assigned one that the character is unable to escape. Ndoli was a resident of Bisesero, a noted location of resistance during the genocide, although the civilian resistance to the militias was eventually overrun. During the battle of Bisesero, which lasted weeks, Ndoli was captured and tortured until he gave up the location of his family and members of his community to the militias.

Badly beaten, he escaped only to witness the violent murder of his entire social community. He, like Emma, eventually finds someone to care for him, but his reintegration into Rwandan society is hampered by his own sense of guilt, as well as the reproaches of those who know of his role in the battle of Bisesero. While he is far harder on himself than others, he is consistently identified as a perpetrator rather than a victim, and so exists on the margins of the recovering Rwandan society.

The categorization of perpetrator, in the context of Ndoli’s experiences, seems unfair to the reader, and so demonstrates how one can be simultaneously a perpetrator and victim of the same conflict.

This precarious social position, although it improves within the context of the larger social recovery of Rwanda, remains a defining feature of Ndoli’s identity. Emma, who shuns social contact, becomes interested in Ndoli and seeks out his friendship. Despite the label of perpetrator,

Emma can see that she and Ndoli have a similar response to the horrors of the genocide: “it was reassuring to have Ndoli there, lurking in the background. He’d shown her that someone could be interested in her, even watch over her for an entire night. And even if his past made her shudder, she knew that they shared the same pain” (65). The friendship which develops between Emma and

Ndoli demonstrates the power of shared understanding to bridge past experiences and affirm human 137 connection. By making these characters understandable to a Western audience, Combres lays the groundwork for positive and honest understanding between Western and Rwandan citizens.

The protagonist of the graphic novel Deogratias is Deogratias, a young teenage boy identified in the text as a Hutu, but who, prior to the genocide, rejects the increasingly political rhetoric of ethnicity embedded in his education. He has strong relationships with Tutsis in his community, specifically with Apollinaria and Benina, two school friends whose mother is also a

Tutsi. The heavy use of flashback in this narrative allows the reader to witness Deogratias’s character before the genocide. He proves himself to be a good-natured young man, playful and at times, disobedient, but always mindful of keeping others happy and safe. He is in love with

Apollinaria, although he later sleeps with her sister Benina when Apollinaria spurns his clumsy advances. Moments after their first sexual experience, Deogratias and Benina learn that the

President’s plane has been shot down, and his first response when several Hutus knock on his door is to protect Benina by hiding her in the closet. Despite her protests and frustration at being held away from her family, Deogratias refuses to let her leave his room, seeking to protect her even as she demands to be released.

Deogratias is a complex character. He is not a victim, nor is he tortured into cooperating with the militias who swept through Rwanda. However, he becomes a perpetrator under duress and certainly against his instincts. The announcement of the shooting of the President’s plane comes over the radio is accompanied by the rhetoric of the Hutu Power movement: “Rise up, brothers!

Rise up and go to work! Sharpen your tools, pick up your clubs! This race of cockroaches must be eliminated” (58). Deogratias dismisses this invocation to violence, and immediately begins to plan for Benina’s safety. As the first of the Hutu militias begin organizing, Julius, a Hutu extremist 138 known to Deogratias, arrives at his door with a group of men and several knives and clubs, demanding Deogratias’s compliance:

Julius: Take your stuff and come, we have work to do. We’re setting up a roadblock in

front of the Umusambi Hotel.

Deogratias: I don’t take orders from you, Julius.

Julius: Watch it, Deogratias. Everyone knows you like Tutsi pussy. Show the true

colour of your blood. (59)

This dialogue highlights two important discourses that shape the definition of victim and perpetrator. Julius does not ask Deogratias to join his militia; rather, Deogratias is ordered to join in the “work” (59) that is about to begin. It must also be stated that Julius does not speak as an individual, but for the powerful roving militias that did the majority of the killing during the genocide. Deogratias admirably attempts to stand up to this figurehead of ethnic violence, asserting his own authority and rejecting the call to arms. What follows is a complex statement in which the discourses of ethnicity and national duty are intertwined. Julius’ warning to “watch it” (59) carries a heavy weight; in the first days of the genocide, the rhetoric of the Hutu Power movement was at its zenith, insisting that it was the duty of every devoted Hutu to fill the rivers with the bodies of

Tutsis (Des Forges, “Call to Genocide” 48). To show hesitation on this issue was seen as proof of complicity with Tutsis, and was likely to mean a swiftly-enacted death sentence. Julius’ command to “show the true colour of your blood” (59) naturalizes the ethnic tensions and turns Deogratias’s resistance into a failure to live up to his national duty as a Hutu.

The implicit threats, and Deogratias’s young age serve to mitigate his identity as a perpetrator, and the text is coy in its representation of his crimes. His actions are never stated directly, although the reader can make inferences. As this is a graphic novel, there are also brief 139 images of violence that shape the reader’s understanding of what occurs in front of the Hôtel

Umusambi. After the genocide, Deogratias is not arrested or considered a perpetrator, although it is clear that he is traumatised by his experiences of genocide and feels himself to be a perpetrator. He meets Bosco, an RPF officer, after the genocide has ended, and Bosco comments on Deogratias’s continued freedom: “We’re not going to lock you up now…You’re not all guilty, you lot. And you, you poor crackpot, you’re not suspected of anything in particular. Besides, the jails are full, there’s no more room” (17). While his crime has been publicly overlooked, his own sense of guilt defines his existence. His reaction to his role in the genocide is compelling; Bosco’s mention of “no room for dogs” (17) refers to the fact that Deogratias, in the present tense, transforms visually into a dog and loses all ability to think or act rationally when he is overcome by memories of the genocide or his sense of guilt. As contact with others tends to trigger his transformations, he is wilfully isolated in his society, wearing ragged clothes and sleeping in a church yard. In this depiction, Deogratias is a self-defined perpetrator, forgiven or dismissed by others, but unable to forgive himself.

The final novel under consideration, The Oldest Orphan, explores the impact of the genocide on the main protagonist, Faustin. As this novel, like Deogratias, relies heavily on flashback and fragmented narrative, it is possible to see the pre and post-genocide Faustin as two distinct characters which, in relief, reveal a great deal about the way that genocide changes identity.

The text opens with a striking narrative voice:

My name is Faustin, Faustin Nsenghimana. I’m fifteen years old. I’m in a cell in the

Kigali central prison. I’m waiting to be executed. I was living with my parents in

the village of Nyamata when the advents began. I can’t keep from thinking back on

those days. And each time I do, I tell myself I had just turned ten for nothing

[Emphasis in the original]. (6) 140

This statement locates Faustin within the larger social context of his life and the directness of his commentary is startling, particularly his statement that he is awaiting execution at fifteen. This statement also identifies the genocide as an event long over, even if the recovery is still ongoing.

Such identification helps to give shape to the fragmented nature of the narrative, as it establishes a clear five-year timeline in which most of the novel’s events will occur.

Pulling together the remembered thoughts, feelings, and actions of the pre-genocide Faustin is not a simple task, particularly because the present-tense narration of fifteen year old Faustin is unreliable and deeply cynical. However, in his memories of the days leading up to the genocide,

Faustin recounts asking his father “‘Father Théoneste, tell me, am I a Hutu?’ I wanted to make absolutely certain…‘It’s good to know who you are, right? Especially in these times’” (85). In asking this question, his concern over his own identity is made clear. His father explains the custom of ethnic identity passing from the mother, which makes Faustin a Tutsi despite his father being a Hutu. Upon hearing this, Faustin “rush[es] over to see the Brazilian nuns” (85) who live in his village to ask “‘Mother Superior, since God is magnanimous, do you think He’ll be willing to protect me when the killings start?’” (85). These questions reveal a child deeply concerned with his identity and aware of the impending threat of genocide. Despite the fact that both adults assure him of his safety, he remains unconvinced, fearful that his Tutsi ethnicity will eventually make him a victim.

When the Nyamata village church is attacked and he flees, Faustin is aware that the social chaos has simplified identity categories into either victims or perpetrators, and it is precisely this confusion that makes him afraid to come into contact with others: “in one village I would have been called génocidaire and in another, informer [Emphasis in the original]” (56). While neither of these designations are appropriate for Faustin, his concern over the perception of his role in the genocide 141 demonstrates his awareness of the binary identity politics of the genocide. Faustin, hiding in the forests, is captured by a young RPF soldier and taken back to the RPF camp to be questioned. The assumption is made that because he was hiding, he is a génocidaire. When Faustin questions the young soldier about his assumptions, the soldier explains “‘everyone is [a génocidaire]! Children have killed children, priests have killed priests, women have killed pregnant women, beggars have killed other beggars, and so on. There are no innocents left here’” (23). Such a statement powerfully summarizes the chaos implicit within Rwandan civil society during the genocide; the scale of the violence pushes authorities to see all civilians as dangerous. Faustin is soon released from the RPF camp once it becomes clear that he is not a perpetrator. Indeed, he commits no crimes of genocide in this text, although he is a witness to much violence. This role of witness changes Faustin dramatically over the course of the novel, although the reader must work to see the character’s response to the genocide develop in a linear way. By the close of the narrative, Faustin is in prison and narrates his story as if he is impervious to emotional weakness. Claudine, an aid worker who looks over Faustin at various points in the novel, bursts into tears upon learning of his death sentence, while Faustin remains imperturbable:

I had witnessed lots of things the three years after my twelfth birthday. But that was

too much. I wanted to jump in her arms and cry with her. That must be what love is. To

cry, openly, and sincerely this time. Only, not a single tear came to dampen my eyes. I had

lost that habit as I had lost the habit of swimming, trapping tree squirrels and ground

squirrels, or washing my hands before meals. (71)

Faustin’s present identity has been fundamentally changed by his efforts to protect himself from the very real threat of violence. Far from the innocent questions of a fearful child, Faustin is a victim so hardened by what he has seen and felt that he becomes a threat to the efforts of recovery, both his 142 own and in a larger social context. Escaping the genocide, Faustin becomes a victim of social chaos, a position from which he lacks the skills to escape.

All three texts contain simple and complex identity positions as a result of the genocide.

While simple victims like Emma, or simple perpetrators, like Julius, are more easily understood by the reader because they conform to standard tropes, many Rwandans emerged from the genocide not as guiltless victims but as complex victims or complex perpetrators. Even witnessing the violence of the genocide is shown to be a powerful force of change for several of the characters, often with violent consequences. The value of this spectrum of identity for readers should not be underestimated; news reports maintained a simple binary that linked ethnicity with guilt or innocence, constructing a false vision of the way that genocide altered identity formation in

Rwanda. These texts undercut simplistic rhetoric and reveal the variety of ways that citizens can be affected by large-scale social violence. These characters are nuanced individuals even before the genocide, and they respond to the chaos of their societies in different ways. Fleshing out the lived experiences of these characters ensures that the consequences of the genocide are mapped onto complex individuals rather than flat ethnic generalizations, as were so common in Western media representations. By creating complex characters, these texts allow readers to productively consider the impact of genocide at the level of the individual.

Complex representations of the individual’s response to genocide takes on even greater meaning when developed within a social context. All three texts contain protagonists who are orphaned at some stage, and so are more reliant on communal, rather than familial, care. This interweaving of the individual and the social performs another important task: serving as a rebuttal to the media reports that ignored the impact of the genocide on communities in favour of depicting the sheer scale of violence and death in Rwanda. Susan Moeller, commenting on the trends of 143 representation during the genocide, asks, “tired of the bodies tossed by the roadside? Take a look at the bodies bloating in the rivers. Tired of the bodies in the rivers? Take a look at the bodies decomposing in the churchyard. The permutations were endless. And the graphic portrayal of horror, like the acts themselves, was ratcheted increasingly higher” (301). The sensationalism of the genocide coverage drew attention to the history of other conflicts within Rwanda, but did not spend significant time reporting on the way that the genocide influenced the communities under attack. Images of the dead and suffering were broadcast far more regularly than intact families and communities. Reports created a sense that families had been obliterated and that larger social structures no longer existed. Their absence fell neatly in line with colonial and neocolonial assumptions that Africa was without order, the font of perpetual chaos.

This issue of the visibility of functioning social supports and a wider social fabric is essential in genocide, both in the media coverage and in the literature. Writing on memory and war trauma,

Hunt observes that “low perceived social support is seen as a predictor of traumatic stress. If a person experiences a traumatic event and they do not perceive that they have good social support, then they are more likely to be traumatised than if they perceive that they have good social support”

(3). Media representations of the genocide consistently positioned Rwandans as simple victims, isolated by the destruction of normal social order. While genocide literature represents this same reality, these texts also demonstrate the protagonist’s need for social connections in order to survive and begin recovery from the genocide. Emma, Ndoli, Deogratias, and Faustin have all lost family and friends, and carry the burden of that loss, but they also attempt to connect with others and reform a functional and supportive social network. In these narratives, the complexity of mourning personal loss in the midst of widespread social destruction serves to affirm the value of these 144 familial and communal structures in pre-genocide Rwandan society. These texts demonstrate the real importance of Rwandan communities to the people of Rwanda, particularly during recovery from the genocide.

Ann Kaplan states that “trauma conflates or blurs the boundaries between the individual and the collective” (19), and this is true both for those who observe and those who experience trauma.

The coverage of Rwanda in the spring and summer of 1994 teemed with people whose identities had been whittled down, first by the militias and Interahamwe and second by the media coverage, the status of their victimhood. Individuals faded into the background, replaced by restless crowds and the bodies of the dead. To observers, Rwanda became a place of horror and suffering, and of victims hunted by killers. This pervasive victimhood made the experiences of any one individual impossible to discern amidst the chaos. However, Rwandans also experienced this in their own lives during the genocide. As families and communities were separated or killed en mass, individual identity fell away. This loss of identity is demonstrated by several of the characters, and they begin to understand themselves in generic ways shaped by the new communities they enter into. In exploring the ways that these characters redefine themselves post-genocide, it becomes possible to understand the full weight of the social chaos that these survivors bear, and the recovery which they have become enacted for themselves.

In Broken Memory, Emma is rendered an orphan when her mother is murdered in the opening chapter. She flees, with others, into the forests of Rwanda, travelling alone within a crowd that slowly dwindles until she is alone, “walking between the dead bodies that blackened the fields and the roads” (18-19). Very much alone, and a child of five years old, she eventually turns to a stranger for help. However, she is careful in this decision, watching an old woman’s movements

“for two days from her hiding place in an empty old chicken coop. Finally, something about the 145 woman’s gentle movements made her cast caution aside and approach her” (19). Notable is the fact that a young child demonstrates such a clear understanding for the need for prudence in her actions.

Despite a practical need for care, Emma resists forging a new connection in order to ensure her own safety first. Interestingly, the text also explores the larger social context of this rescue; “the old woman was a Hutu peasant, so she was not in danger. But by protecting the little girl, she was condemning herself to death” (20). Emma’s request for food is far more complex than she understands at the time, as Mukecuru places herself in danger in order to support the little girl. This narrative detail serves to remind the reader of the real dangers undertaken by Hutu Rwandans who did not support the genocide and protected those targeted by militia attacks. Far from only victims and killers, Mukecuru stands as one of the many Hutus who did not support the Hutu Power objectives, and were themselves trapped between binary identity positions.

Emma’s relationship with Mukecuru is one of subtlety. This woman watches over Emma with quiet concern but Emma is withdrawn and reserved, explaining little of what is on her mind.

Emma is also very reticent to enter into relationships with others in the community, despite having been there for nine years. Emma’s first prolonged interaction is with Ndoli, a young man traumatized by the genocide. This relationship is founded on their mutual recognition of pain and fear, a powerful connection between them. Early in their relationship, Emma sees the men who killed her mother being taken to Gacaca court, and falls into a non-responsive state. While others try to rouse her, and fail, Ndoli watches over her throughout the day, reminding her by his presence that comfort is available. This act of care is motivated by their shared sense of trauma; although they have very different experiences of the genocide, they labour under trauma in a similar way.

What is compelling is that a shared vulnerability becomes the basis of their relationship; “Emma knew that she, too, troubled Ndoli deeply. That night he had spent at her side had opened 146 something up in him, had somehow broken through the fog of his existence. When that truck passed and she fainted, he had recognized the demons that were so similar to the ones that haunted his own days and nights” (53). These two characters, who understand their role in the genocide differently, nonetheless forge an intimate bond on the basis of a shared sense of social isolation. In part, this isolation is self imposed as a mean of avoiding the ethnic tensions that remain in the community. At one point, Emma is approached by a stranger and warned:

They say you live with an old Hutu,’ she said, her voice low and threatening. ‘What

are you doing with her? She’s one of them, one of the assassins. Don’t you know

that?’...‘And who’s to say she wasn’t denouncing others at the same time she was hiding

you?’ she went on, her voice raised. ‘It happened often’… ‘Be careful, girl,’ she said, her

voice low once again. ‘Look around. The murderers have come back. (37-38)

This woman’s commentary, shown to be baseless in the text, remains as evidence of the continued fear felt by Rwandan citizens years after the genocide. Of particular note here is the fact that this woman relies on the language of the genocide and perpetuates her own sense of social mistrust and insecurity. Thus, this text demonstrates the necessity of developing new communal relationships in order to recover from the violence, while simultaneously depicting the challenge of excising fear from communities torn apart by ethnic rhetoric.

Unlike Emma, Deogratias from Deogratias has no home or family to return to after the genocide. He begs for food and beer from those who knew him before the genocide and sleeps in the destroyed local churchyard. The use of flashback ensures that the change in Deogratias’s life is notable. Prior to the genocide, Deogratias is shown to have a wide circle of friends: Rwandan,

European, old, young, Hutu and Tutsi, Deogratias is shown to be central to, and centered by, his community. He attends the local school, works as a casual errand boy for a French sergeant, is 147 involved in the church, and tours the newly arrived priest Brother Philip around the local countryside. Deogratias is friendly and engaging, and most of all, proud to educate others about

Rwandan customs: “this evening, Brother Philip, I’ll take you out to try Urwagwa. You really have to taste banana beer if you want to understand our culture” (9). This version of Deogratias, accessed through memory, is nowhere to be found in the present narrative of the text. In the present, Deogratias alienates himself from nearly everyone in his community and shuns contact with others. He is traumatized by his role in the genocide, as well as the horror that he witnessed, and it is clear that he no longer trusts those around him. He meets Serg, a French sergeant stationed in Rwanda in the early days of the genocide who has returned for a vacation, at a local tavern and after handing him a beer, warns him: “Sergeant, you shouldn’t drink from a bottle that’s already been opened…because you never know if someone’s poisoned it. You know, people here like to poison their fellow man” (6). This references a Rwandan custom of sharing beer in order to be sure that it is safe to drink, but in this context, it also serves as an indication that Deogratias is no longer the open and trusting individual he used to be, and is now suspicious of those around him.

Deogratias has no means of re-establishing a community because he does not trust anyone.

The memories of the genocide are powerful for him, and he runs from social situations when overcome with emotion and confusion. In these moments, he becomes even more ragged and wild looking than usual, and in some moments, turns into a dog completely, a device which signals his break with humanity and self-esteem. This graphic signifies a complex narrative that is woven throughout the text; at the onset of the genocide, Deogratias witnesses French soldiers shooting the dogs eating corpses left on the street in the wake of violence. This image is one which stays with

Deogratias, and he links the barbarity of the genocide with the perceived barbarity of the dogs that ate human bodies. His transformation from boy to dog symbolizes Deogratias’s sense of his own 148 lost humanity. Thus, Deogratias’s social exile is a self-imposed penance for his crimes, and one which precludes any chance of a supportive social network. What is particularly interesting is that a few characters reach out to Deogratias, offering companionship, if not friendship. However, he shies away from any emotional relationship, demonstrating for the reader that while some communities can be repaired, collective recovery is also an issue of individual recovery, which takes place in its own time, if at all.

In The Oldest Orphan, Faustin witnesses his parents’ murder and loses his siblings in the chaos of his escape. However, Faustin’s admiration for his father, as well as his need to invoke memories of his past life, prompt him to repeatedly restate the lessons taught to him by his father.

Made to feel young by an RPF soldier, his “father’s famous words came back to [him]: ‘Beards aren’t everything, you know! If that were the case, then the billy goat would be the wisest one in the village’” (21). Asked to lie about his experiences of genocide by Rodney, the international reporter, he remembers his father’s words: “‘Lying and Truth are the first inhabitants of the earth.

Truth is the older brother but since Lying is more gifted, well, he’s the one who runs the world.

Don’t you ever forget that, kid’” (63). In these instances, and there are several others in the text,

Faustin turns to the lessons of his father to direct his actions, demonstrating the importance of family for him in the wake of the genocide. When first running from the attacks, Faustin meets

Funga, the local witch doctor, who warns Faustin of the value of companionship and community in the face of large-scale violence. His logic, while grim, is apt advice to a ten-year old boy hoping to survive the genocide: “I repeat, come with me! You’re safer with a group; before they can reach you, they have to exterminate those around you. It’s better than to be all alone’” (8). This statement emphasizes the practical protection afforded by a crowd, but Funga’s warning also speaks 149 to the emotional support derived from social interactions, and stays with Faustin throughout his short life.

Faustin, while adopting the glib tone of a teenager in his narrative, nevertheless does repeatedly attempt to re-establish a family for himself. Early in the narrative, while on the run,

Faustin is discovered by an RPF soldier and taken back to RPF headquarters. Because he was present at the attack on Nyamata, he is a person of great value to the RPF, and is treated with care and respect at the makeshift headquarters. His testimony is recorded and “the chiefs got interested in my lowly person” (26). Being a young boy, recently orphaned, and receiving care after weeks of traveling alone, Faustin understandably latches onto this place, insisting “I had found a new family.

There’s nothing I’d have liked better than to end my days there” (26). However, he mistakes protection with love, an error which is quickly corrected when he is released to fend for himself once again. Faustin travels to Kigali, where he falls in with a group of orphans who roam the city in search of food and money, and who live in an abandoned building project. The building becomes known to the children as HQ and the unofficial head of the group, Musinkôro, “actually look[s] like a schoolteacher or the head of a family, not like a gang leader” (29). In this new family, the children organize themselves into roles, and provide for the collective as best they can:

The girls were supposed to look pitiful enough to move the rich pedestrians yet dressed in

clean enough outfits that, if the opportunity presented itself, they could slip between the

sheets of some lecher loaded with dough. And the boys, besides their jobs as shoeshines or

porters, were supposed to stash in hiding places all the food or jewellery they could pinch

without getting caught. At night the oldest would make the rounds of the hiding places, and

we’d bury our loot in a hole we’d dug under the avocado tree. The girls would cook while

we’d entertain each other with jokes and smoke grass or sniff glue…Those were happy 150

times, among the best in my life. In fact I rarely thought about my parents. It was an

ordinary life, fulfilled and orderly, and it distracted us from thoughts of the past or the future

(32).

The casual nature of this explanation reveals both the significant efforts these children are making to survive, and the escapist nature of this space. Faustin says this is an “ordinary life” (32) when it is clear that it is far from the ordinary life he had when his parents were alive. His acceptance of the circumstances of survival emphasizes his strong desire for normalcy and order, and most of all, for a stable collective unit to belong to.

When HQ is broken up, Faustin is taken by Claudine to Una, an Irish nun who runs an orphanage called the City of Blue Angels. This space marks the third home that Faustin tries to create for himself. This orphanage frustrates Faustin, who has become used to complete independence at HQ. It also holds a mystery which stresses Faustin to no end, which is the

absolutely unbearable hysterical weeping off and on, day or night, coming from the girls’

wing…the cries were so intense they scared us more than the bursts of thunder coming from

the bowels of the tin mine next door. No one could ignore them…According to those who

had seen them, there were three (three girls, or else two girls and a boy, depending on the

person’s eyesight). They had been wandering through the brush among the wild cats and

monkeys when an old priest found them. They were in such a state of hysteria and

malnutrition that they had to be bottle-fed and then they were locking in a windowless room

for fear they would break the panes, for fear they would set fire to the dormitories, for fear

they would eat the Hirish woman alive…They had been here a year and they never set foot

in the halls, had never discovered the vegetable garden or tried to play on the swings! (38-

39) 151

His response to this suffering is interesting; he is frustrated by the cries of these other children, but does not clearly link their suffering to the genocide which he also experienced. Whereas his character is hardened by the violence he witnesses and the life he lives to survive the lack of social order and familial control, these children appear fundamentally trapped by their experiences and unable to move past the first onset of horror. While Faustin uses the collective “us” (39) to describe himself at the orphanage, these children are isolated and unable to find any community outside of themselves.

When Faustin runs from Nyamata, he believes himself to be a solitary orphan. His sisters and brother were taken by the neighbouring Brazilian nun hours before the Tutsis of Nyamata were ordered to the local church and massacred, and Faustin never assumes their survival. However, when he catches a glimpse of these three isolated children, he recognizes them immediately and faints before having a seizure. This moment of recognition, as experienced by Faustin, is itself a trauma:

I broke the director’s glasses and hurled the metal chair where they usually kept my phials

and my tablets as well as the compresses used to mop up my sweat, and I screamed so loud

I could be heard a half-day’s march away. ‘One of them is named Esther, the other

Donatienne! The little boy, that’s Ambroise! They’re my brother and sisters. My brother

and sisters, you idiots. (42)

As a boy without family or a strong social connection, there is a certain desperation in this moment of claiming. These children connect Faustin very intimately with his home and memories of his life before the genocide, and his desire to be near them is nearly overwhelming. However, they do not recognize him and in their trauma, see him only as a threat. He is held at bay by their terror, in a position to reclaim his family if only he can recover their memory of the world before the genocide. 152

This is a compelling moment, as Faustin can only help his siblings by recreating a semblance of their familial experience, even as he has failed to help himself in this same way.

Faustin is initially unable to calm the children, and they shriek in horror at being approached by a stranger. However, Faustin does not give up, racking his brain to find a way to connect with his siblings through memory:

That’s when I remembered the lullaby our mother used to sing to us. Ambroise alone

reacted; the others, knowingly averting their bulging and bloodshot eyes, carried on with

their horrible wails. I threw my arms open wide as Mother use to when she’d return from

the fields with ripe avocados and delicious passionfruit juice. He curled up in a ball like a

kitten and began to sob, but finally let me kiss him. I walked around rocking him, trying my

best to imitate Mother’s voice and gestures. The sobs became less frequent. He snuggled

against my chest and a minute later was sleeping like a log. No doubt contagion spreads; the

girls, now quiet, were watching the whole thing with the kind of curiosity I had when there

were love scenes on the TV screen at the Fraternité Bar! I stopped humming the lullaby and

began to pray to all the powers I could think of: Imana and the Holy Spirit, the rock of

Kagera and old Funga’s charms. I hoped they’d all pool their miracles together to sustain

forever the calm now reigning. (43-44)

The obvious pleasure Faustin feels at having calmed his siblings is a compelling reminder of the value he places on family, and the kind of solace that he has been seeking, however well hidden by bravado. In adopting the role of parent, he comforts his siblings; in recreating home in their presence, he comforts himself. His desperate prayers to Rwandan, Christian, and magical deities suggests his acute awareness of the lack of authority he can count on in his life, and the value that he places on the “calm” (44) of being with family. This emotionally compelling family reunion 153 reminds readers of the simple needs of recovery, and the momentous obstacles, social, political, and practical, which make communal recovery so difficult.

Faustin, pragmatic, glib, and at times, caustic, is deeply changed by the recovery of his siblings. He remains at the City of Blue Angels with more patience than he had before he reclaimed his siblings. He also indulges in a complex fantasy in which his parents return to life and the Rock of Kagera, which Funga said was purposely unsettled by colonialists to undermine local faith, is re- set into place. This fantasy suggests his desire for higher authorities and structure in his live. In this fantasy, the traditional festivals resume and the banana harvest is followed by games and challenges between his cousins and himself. He watches over his sisters until they marry and he imagines the marriage ceremony and the celebrations that follow. He imagines that he is a powerful warrior and has twelve mistresses (46). It is compelling that Faustin’s fantasy-life is dedicated to re-establishing social order and taking his place as the patriarch of his family, as these are aspects of communal identity that he lacks in his real life. In this vision, he is in control, respected in his community. He is powerful and loved. The recovery of his family is the cause of this vision, which can be seen as the beginning of a new identity path for him. His actions to this point have been to recreate the family, but with his siblings recovered, he begins to dream about recreating a community in which he is the man his father was.

Once the children are more generally recovered, Faustin takes them from the orphanage to the city of Kigali, anxious to exercise his new identity as patriarch. His motivation is clear: he believes that his siblings are recovered from their trauma, and he wants to leave the City of Blue

Angels, which is filled with suffering victims. In rationalizing his actions, he thinks “I’d finally be able to give Ambroise the ball he’d been wanting. Children have this advantage: they have no sense of tragedy. Life is still a game even in times of disasters” (57). It is notable that Faustin does not 154 include himself in this category of children, as he is still very young and carries his own burden of trauma, although he ignores it. However, by going to the city, he can begin providing for them as his father had. However, being in the city has its own stresses; Faustin is hyper protective of his family, and particularly his two sisters, who attract the attention of men in Kigali:

The first time I learned about that was when I was with my sisters in front of the Caritas

Bookstore. Lewd faces appeared behind picture windows, motorcycles tooted, cars abruptly

put on the brakes when they got near us…Without my noticing it, Esther and Donatienne

had become women. A gnawing anger mixed with an incomprehensible feeling of shame

took hold of me. These fevered looks directed at their bodies reminded me of a swarming of

caterpillars on a newborn’s back. That was the day I decided to have a gun too. (51)

This young boy is determined to defend his sisters as he imagines their father might have. Faustin rarely acknowledges how the genocide impacts his choices, but it is clear to the reader that his defensiveness and the method of protection he chooses are, in part, responses to the violence he witnesses during the genocide. He settles into a routine with his family at HQ, which is once again filled with orphan children, and for a short time, his life is complete.

Part of Faustin’s identity as the patriarch of his family is providing for their needs, and to do so, he travels with a reporter for days at a time, leaving his siblings in the care of HQ. However, upon returning home after an extended trip with Rodney, he discovers that his fears have come true:

I lit a candle and went toward the corner where my brother and my sisters used to sleep to

make sure they were there…It’s strange, I had never thought about it before, but as soon as

he said that, I knew instinctively what I would discover a few seconds later: Esther naked on

a straw mattress and Musinkôro sprawled on top. I aimed at the hoodlum’s head and fired

until I ran out of bullets. (69) 155

This is a defining moment for Faustin for several reasons. Having witnessed a great deal of sexual violence in the days and months of the genocide, Faustin makes the presumption of violence in this instance, and fires on his friend Musinkôro without hesitation, choosing protection of family over loyalty to anyone. The language here is also notable; Faustin calls Musinkôro by name, but then refers to him as “the hoodlum” (69) when describing the shooting. This demonstrates Faustin’s sense of insecurity in his relationships; people can be friend and enemy in the same breath.

Violence is his first response in this situation, and the zealotry of his reaction is evidence of his desperation to protect his family, regardless of how his actions might influence his own future.

Finally, Faustin is repeatedly helped by Claudine, a Rwandan aid worker who takes a particular interest in him. He initially presumes her interest in him is sexual, and entertains a fantasy of love for her, but he is also resentful and difficult with her when she tries to guide his actions. It is she who most directly advocates for the importance of community, reminding Faustin of the Rwandan proverb that “he who thinks he can do without others will die!” (35). Moreover, she chastises him for remaining in the fabricated community of HQ instead of attempting to re- establish ties with survivors from his home community in Nyamata. Her words position individual recovery within a larger collective recovery, and introduce the idea of duty into Faustin’s recovery:

How long ago did lightning strike? Six months, nine months, a year! That’s plenty of time

to find out who’s dead, who’s not, who was able to flee, and who’s in jail!...That doesn’t

give you the right to isolate yourselves! If you don’t need others, others need you.

Isolation, that’s the source of our woes. Here, everyone withdraws on a hill as if the

neighbours had eyes in the middle of their foreheads…Take that any way you wish, but I

don’t have the right to leave you alone! (36) 156

Claudine’s speech is a reminder of the heavy reality Faustin must face if he is to reintegrate himself into any functional community, but she also inverts the system of recovery, reminding Faustin that he has the potential to aid in the recovery of others, as he does for his siblings. Despite the bravado which he routinely demonstrates around Claudine, she is his most consistent friend, and Faustin broods over his behaviour, fearful that she will grow tired of his resistance and leave. He admits “I was afraid of losing her. It’s like that, even when you’re irredeemable, even when you’re in hell, you need someone as a link to the world” (52). Despite his insistence that he needs no one but himself, Faustin is indeed reliant on community for his practical and emotional survival. His youth and need blind him to the distinction between congregation and community, but he consistently fabricates families in order to reassure himself of his place in post-genocide Rwanda.

All three protagonists are profoundly affected by the loss of their families and communities, and strive, in different ways, to allay the absence of structure in their lives. The fact that this personal loss takes place within the wider chaos of Rwanda means that there is little formal support for these children to fall back on. However, Emma and Faustin find help in a variety of places and re-form communities, however temporary and fragile they might be. What is significant about this representation is precisely that both simple and complex victim positions are shown within their wider social context rather than alienated and alone. These texts remind the reader that while genocide hacks at the fabric of society, it cannot destroy all bonds of community and loyalty.

Genocide heightens the value of connection as a means of survival and protection, and these depictions emphasize both the dynamic social structure of pre-genocide Rwanda, and the need for communal connection in all efforts to recover from the genocide. Far from presenting isolated victims outside of their larger social context, these narratives explore the impact of genocide on individuals and communities, revealing that survival and recovery are made increasingly possible 157 within a social context. These varied representations also assert the productive social networks which existed prior to the genocide and which are under reconstruction in the lives of each of these characters.

One of the most dominant themes in the media coverage of the genocide was the depiction of actors from the West as the heroic saviours of the Rwandan people. This, as Melissa Wall points out, was juxtaposed by representations of Rwandans as disempowered victims or unfeeling villains. Such a dynamic reifies the traditional colonial and neocolonial representation of Africans more generally.

However, these three narratives undertake a bold objective in representing to Western readers

Rwandan perceptions of the Westerners who were in Rwanda throughout the genocide and recovery. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o reminds readers that “what immediately underlies the politics of language in African literature…is the search for a liberating perspective within which to see ourselves clearly in relationship to ourselves and to other selves in the universe” (87). Literature in the colonial era served as a means of affirming inequality between Africans and Europeans, but increasingly, literature has been used as a mediating space between distinct cultural identities.

While the media coverage of the genocide was dominated by Western actors, literature which adopts a local perspective attempts to represent Rwandan perceptions of Western intervention.

Such representations are a valuable challenge to the simple binary which first brought the genocide to the attention of the world in 1994. By empowering Rwandan perspectives, these texts challenge the hierarchical discourses which have limited representational authority to those with the upper hand in the colonial and neocolonial exchange.

Across the texts under consideration here, there are three specific categories of Western aid represented: the religious, the military, and the media. Authors avoid simplistic inversions of 158 good and bad in order to make political points. Rather, these intersections between cultures comment as much on the institutions as the individual characters represented in the text. By emphasising the Rwandan perception of external actors, the texts demonstrate a respect for

Rwandan perspectives. Because these texts are aimed at English-speaking readers, they give readers a rare chance to consider Western actors from a non-Western perspective. As a political tool, such depictions have the potential to undercut the tropes which position Western actors as capable and inherently heroic. Generally, there is an assumed altruism that accompanies the phrase “Western Aid” but these depictions show that such aid can take many forms and is rarely without cost to the locals.

Combres’ Broken Memory does not address the issue of Western aid in any direct way but the reader is shown the exodus of foreigners of various nationalities when the violence begins. As part of Mukecuru’s larger explanation of the causes of the genocide to a confused

Emma, she explains “how the whites had left the country” (69) to avoid the genocide. While their engagement with this issue is fleeting, this statement reflects the racial bias which protected whites while ignoring Rwandan desires to escape the coming genocide. As this is a book for young readers, it is likely that Combres avoided wider political discussions in order to convey

Emma’s more personal story of loss and recovery.

The graphic novel Deogratias focuses its representation on military and religious figures.

Representing the French military is a sergeant stationed in Rwanda at the onset of the genocide who returns after the genocide as a private citizen for a vacation. Both before and after the genocide, Serg, or Boss, as Deogratias calls him, demonstrates a notable callousness in his dealings with local Rwandans. When a school bus is pulled over by the Sergeant and a small local force of men, Apollinaria questions why they are held without reason. Serg’s response is 159 aggressive: “You don’t see us fucking things up in your country, do you…Shut it sweetie.

You’ll talk when we tell you to and everything’ll be all right” (23). This textual moment is heightened by the image accompanying it; the Sergeant holds Apollinaria’s face as he snarls at her. Serg’s caustic tone is echoed by his bitter sense that he is responsible for dealing with a mess created by Rwandans. This sense ignores the very real impact of colonial imposition on

Rwandan definitions of ethnicity; by ignoring history, Serg is able to maintain a sense of superiority over those it is his duty to protect. His demand for Apollinaria’s silence is also compelling because she is challenging his authority as a black woman. In the midst of the early hours of the genocide, Serg finds Deogratias trying to escape the Hutu militias and shouts “Good damn savages! Even when you’re among your own you’re at one another’s throats! …Well, if he wants to get butchered by the others, it’s his business” (72). Stassen’s use of the term

“savages” (72) as well as the implication that Rwandans are inherently violent with one another exposes Serg’s colonial-era assumptions about Rwandan identity, and reflect a common discourse about Rwandan identity in Western ideology. Serg’s ugly attitude compels readers to recognize the ways in which the discourse of Western aid can function as a cover for Western racism; as Western involvement in Africa is typically portrayed as heroic, Serg’s character reminds readers of the dangers of generalizing about Western, as well as Rwandan, identity.

When Serg returns to Rwanda as a civilian, he demonstrates fundamental callousness.

He runs into Deogratias and without a word about Deogratias’s survival or state of mind, he comments

Holy shit! Deogratias, check out those two bitches….Man, those Tutsi girls! You

know what I mean, right, Deogratias? That’s what I missed the most…And it’s such a

shame, when you think about it. All those beauties who won’t be sharing their soft little 160

things with anyone anymore. All those sweet pieces of ass hacked to bits with

machetes…What a waste! (2-3)

His statement, crude and shockingly self-involved, undercuts the severity of the genocide by focusing solely on what he has lost in the deaths of 800,000 people. While he is a representative of the French soldiers in Rwanda, Serg’s language is closely reminiscent of the violent sexual rhetoric of the Hutu militias as they swept through the Rwandan countryside during the genocide. That he says these things openly on the streets of Rwanda demonstrates his lack of interest in national recovery, as well as a more fundamental disrespect for Rwandan women. As a reflection of non-Rwandan military actors, Serg embodies the arrogance of colonial authority as he dehumanizes most of the Rwandans with whom he has contact. His conversations with

Deogratias and the impudence of his behaviour in Rwanda exhibit insensitivity to the personal and social costs of the genocide. As evidence has proven that the French army were both training and supplying arms to the Rwandan militias in the days before the genocide, this representation also reveals the hypocrisy of the belief that in this conflict, the Rwandans were alone in practicing horrific brutality.

Stassen scrutinizes religion in this text through the characters of Brother Prior and

Brother Philip. Brother Prior is a long-time resident of Rwanda and the leader of the local church, while Brother Philip arrives in the build-up to the genocide as a second church minister.

Brother Prior is more complexly situated in the local community because of his time in Rwanda, but it is made clear that he has strayed from his role as a religious leader here. Deogratias, upon being scolded for a minor trespass, accuses Prior: “everybody knows Venetia was your mistress!

And everybody knows you’re Apollinaria’s father!” (12). While Prior does not confirm this, it is made clear later in the text that this is true, as Prior was responsible for saving Venetia from one 161 of the early massacres of Tutsis in the years before the genocide. As Prior’s internal world is never revealed in the text, it is not clear whether this relationship is sexual, emotional, or both.

However, as the genocide draws near, Prior’s limited devotion to Venetia and his daughter

Apollinaria is revealed. Hutu militias approach the church, which is sheltering local women and children, and Brother Prior deters the men from attacking, reminding them of the sanctity of the church. However, moments later, Brother Philip and Brother Prior are shown in a truck, leaving for the border. In this frame, Prior rationalizes his decision, explaining “You are young, Brother

Philip…and although I know you love this country…I also know that you haven’t experienced the soul of its people long enough to know just how dark it can sometimes be” (61). This suggestion that Rwandans have a particular propensity for violence directly echoes the assessment of early colonial visitors to Africa, and in this situation, is used to justify Prior’s own questionable actions. This scene reminds readers of how easily racism can be mobilized to evade questions of moral and political significance, and demonstrates the value of interrogating generalizations which enable simple excuses to complex issues.

When Philip and Prior meet Venetia, she is shocked to find that her two children are not with Prior. Parked on the border and about to escape the threat of death, it is Venetia and not

Prior who turns back to seek the girls. Instead, Prior makes excuses about why he left

Apollinaria’s fate to be decided by the waiting militias surrounding the church. As a father and as a man of God, Brother Prior is an important character; he becomes a symbol of failed religious promises and protection. As the history of the genocide is replete with religious figures who not only permitted but at times aided the militias in their hunt for Tutsis, the author shows that

Brother Prior cares more for his own safety than those he would profess to care for in Rwanda. 162

He also relies on stereotypes of inherent darkness and violence, and suggests to Philip that with enough time, he too will come to understand these “facts” about Rwanda.

Acting as a foil to Prior’s callous disregard for those he has lived with for more than twenty years, Brother Philip is deeply concerned about the survival of the locals he has briefly come to know, although he does leaves the country with Prior at the onset of the genocide.

Philip marks himself as particularly interested in Rwanda even before he arrives, struggling with the language on the plane and happy to be taken around the city of Kigali by Deogratias upon arriving. When asked by Brother Prior about his sense of Africa, Philip responds “well, I still haven’t seen anything, but…the air feels so light…It’s wonderful to be here” (9). This positive impression and his interest in learning about Rwandan culture marks him as notably different from other Westerners presented in the text. When the genocide begins, Philip takes the young daughter of Venetia’s friend Augustine abroad with him, choosing to keep her safe rather than leave her with Augustine, who is murdered shortly after. Most importantly, Brother Philip returns to Rwanda after the genocide, and seeks out those he knew during his short stay. In a notable contrast to the character of Serg or Prior, Philip demonstrates genuine concern over

Deogratias’s tattered clothes and strange behaviour, and also asks after Venetia, Apollinaria, and

Benina, all of whom died during the genocide. In this way, Deogratias demonstrates a range of

Western actors and offers criticism as well as praise in the depiction of Western responses to the genocide. While the military is represented very negatively, the religious characters are more nuanced and demonstrate a less aggressive prejudice against Rwandan citizens. For readers used to seeing these figures as stabilizing forces in foreign nations, particularly in situations of chaos, these depictions convey the need for a more nuanced considerations of military and religious involvement in foreign spaces. Here, Rwandan perspectives of Western actors provide a 163 valuable opportunity for self-refection on the real value of such one-sided involvement in other cultures and societies.

In The Oldest Orphan, the role of religious actors and the Western media come under scrutiny. There is also a more general comment about the colonial forces in Rwanda offered by

Funga, the witch doctor who guides Faustin immediately after the massacre at Nyamata. Despite the chaos of this moment, he pauses to asks if Faustin has ever heard of the legend of the Sacred

Rock of Kagera, to which Faustin replies, “‘a thousand times, Funga: no one must move the sacred rock of Kagera! The whites knew that when they deliberately moved it. That’s why they conquered us, and that’s why there are catastrophes’” (9). In this moment of destruction, Funga is anxious to ensure that Faustin understands the history of Rwanda and moreover extracts a promise that Faustin will “put the rock of Kagera back in its place one day!” (9). This is an interesting exchange, as it emphasizes the colonial context of the genocide, which has been under-represented to Western readers. Affirming the value of Rwandan culture, Funga reminds

Faustin that overcoming the destruction of the present can only occur by embracing traditional

Rwandan beliefs. Later in the text, Faustin comments on the role of Western actors in his society, saying “it’s hard to talk with whites; our worlds were made as if the feet of one were the head of the other. They’re francophones, belgeophones, or swissophones. But all we speak is

Kinyarwanda. Hutus, Tutsis, Twas, everyone speaks Kinyarwanda” (55). This is an interesting comment which evaluates the disparate cultures which have arrived in Rwanda, and compares them to the single culture that unites Rwandans. Faustin is critical of the fundamental lack of communication between Rwandan and non-Rwandan individuals, and his simplistic observations convey the enormity of the failed discourse between Rwandan and Western actors. While 164

Faustin speaks literally, it is evident to the informed reader that his evaluation is astute; there is no effective communication between these cultures, even as they live and work side by side.

Monénembo deliberately positions Una, the Irish nun who cares for Faustin after the genocide, and who reunites him with his siblings, as representative of the role of Christian religion in Rwanda. That Faustin is suspicious of her from the outset, and complies with her orders only to please Claudine, is telling. Somewhat ironically, Faustin states: “I’m not saying she wasn’t nice, Miss Human Rights. But her country was unknown under our sun, and frankly, we were better off without her” (38). He has a strong sense that she is foreign and thus, not to be trusted, which reflects more generally on the behaviour of Western visitors to the country that on the perception of religion in Rwanda. His sarcasm towards her work with the poor is demonstrated by the mocking moniker “Miss Human Rights” (38) and suggests a frustration that his country needs foreign aid to survive. After leaving the City of Blue Angels with his siblings, when Faustin tries to buy a gun, his friend Sembé assumes Faustin wants the gun in order to steal the operating funds for the orphanage from Una. When reflecting on this possibility, Faustin decides “I don’t like the Hirish woman much, but I would never do that to her. If I weren’t so ungrateful, I should be calling her Mama” (51). While he never directly thanks her for her efforts on his behalf, this statement demonstrates the role that she has played in his recovery.

The brief suggestion of sentiment is one of the few moments in the text when Faustin admits need or dependence. Beyond Faustin, the text makes clear that Una’s work is providing a valuable place for orphans to recover from the genocide and begin to plan their next steps.

Religion, represented as a social force after the genocide more clearly than before, is shown in this text to be generically well meaning. 165

The author’s representation of the media in this text is compelling and damning. While religion is shown to be a force of potential recovery, the media is interested only in capturing trauma. The character of Rodney is introduced into the narrative after the genocide has occurred and while Faustin in living at HQ with his siblings. Rodney bounds onto the scene, brash and self-involved. Introducing himself to Faustin, he explains his journalistic work:

There’s an earthquake in Columbia and Rodney’s there. A strong monsoon in India, and

here comes weird Rodney and his strange gear. A massacre in Somalia, they call

Rodney. Rodney is everywhere there’s trouble. Rodney is a doctor who arrives hoping

things are even worse. And as you can see it, Rodney’s fit as a fiddle. Ha! Ha! (59)

Rodney is seemingly unaffected by the horrors he has witnessed and dispatched back to his producer, and his casual approach to work is summed up in his own words: “‘Pierre’s tears?

Honey for Rodney’” (59). When asked why he is in Rwanda so late after the genocide, Rodney explains that “I come only when I’m called. And this time no one called me” (59). This comment is a barbed commentary; the genocide was largely ignored by the media and there were only a handful of reporters on the ground in Rwanda at any point during the genocide. The

Oldest Orphan is heavily critical of the way the media engaged with Rwandan trauma, and

Western readers are encouraged, through the character of Rodney, to recognize the detachment from human suffering that is enabled through the use of narrative tropes.

Rodney has been hired by news services to cover the genocide and he is delighted at the prospect of three weeks of work. He hires Faustin as a local tour guide and the pair set off to record the impact of the genocide on the Rwandan population. However, this working relationship itself demonstrates Western disinterest in the lives of Rwandans post-genocide.

Having hired a whore at the local bar, Rodney dismisses Faustin, saying: 166

You can see I don’t need your company anymore. Now that you’re rich, go wherever

you want to, sniff your glue or stick a needle in your arm. Do it to your heart’s content,

just don’t do it where I can see you. It’s not morality making me say this. It’s so I won’t

have anything to reproach myself for in case you croak. (61)

This callous disregard for Faustin and the prejudicial assumptions explicit in this statement are evidence of a media bias that Monénembo develops over the course of the novel. What is particularly clever is that Rodney, the man sent to get images and narratives in order to make the genocide more understandable for Western viewers, is himself disinterested in the lives and suffering of those around him. He does not care, for example, about Faustin’s particular difficulties; rather, he spends his off hours, much like Serg from Deogratias, indulging in the attention of local prostitutes. As a representation of the moral character of the media, Rodney epitomises an enterprising neocolonial spirit who takes what he needs and avoids accepting any responsibility for those around him.

What these representations of Western actors in Rwanda demonstrate is the danger of engaging tropes to understand individuals. Western actors have long represented themselves as heroic and socially productive forces in Africa, while positioning African identity as a foil, a binary opposite. Here, in the post-genocide literature of Rwanda, binaries of all kinds are rejected and individual characters are used to explore the range of Western actors involved in

Rwanda, prior to and after the genocide. Readers are encouraged to see that social occupations, be they militaristic, religious, or journalistic, do not determine identity, just as racial identity does not determine identity. In adding complexity to the literary representation of Western actors who played a role in the Rwandan Genocide, these texts remind readers of the dangers of presuming that social designations can accurately indicate individual identity. By valuing 167

Rwandan perspectives of Western actors, these texts allow the periphery to comment on the centre, channelling a socio-political commentary which is an asset for Western readers who wish to engage more knowledgeable in cross-cultural politics.

The role of memory in genocide is complex. To remember is to remember horror; to forget is to forget the world as it was before the genocide, as well as to forget the means by which survival is possible. As Duncan Bell reminds us, “forgetting is not simply a violation of a duty to the dead, it also endangers the future” (23). Recovery, both individual and national, requires the experiences of genocide be integrated into larger personal and social narratives. The traumatic nature of genocide can influence the ways that the self, others, and the world is understood. Of trauma, Hunt states that “traumatic stress is fundamentally different to ‘ordinary’ stress, in the sense that there is a fundamental rift or breakdown of psychological functioning (memory, behaviour, emotion) which occurs as a result of an unbearably intense experience that is life threatening to the self or others” (7). Hunt explains that trauma often becomes embedded in the mind to ensure that, if encountered again, the same trauma could be survived, although a prolonged state of trauma is also likely to cause lasting damage to the psyche. There are three ways of coping with stress: withdrawal, suppression, and processing (Hunt 8). All of these reactions are evident in the protagonists of the texts under discussion, even as these children actively work to construct personal narratives about their experience of genocide. This act of narration is a representation of trauma as much as a reconstruction of experience.

Discussing the relationship between individual agency and narrative, Bamberg and

McCabe state that “people strive to configure space and time, deploy cohesive devices, reveal identity of actors and relatedness of actions across scenes. They create themes, plots and dramas. 168

In so doing, narrators make sense of themselves, social situations, and history” (iii). Evidence of constructions in progress occur when an individual’s actions and narrations are at odds with one another. This can suggest an unresolved internal conflict or confusion over the disparate worldviews that exist in the aftermath of any large-scale violence. Memory and the construction of identity through memory also has larger social implications, as personal memory is “central to the construction of individual and collective identity” (Duncan Bell 2). Social recovery requires that all perspectives are heard and respected, and so the proliferation of individual narratives and multiple subject positions become particularly important. As “memories of trauma are, potentially, a mode of resistance to a language that forgets the essential vulnerability of flesh in its reification of state, nation and ideology” (Edkins 100), individual narratives of the genocide can take on a larger political significance.

In Broken Memory, as the title would suggest, forgetting is initially used as a means of protection. Emma’s mother orders Emma to forget the scene she has yet to witness, knowing that the crowd on the doorstep promises impending violence: “slide behind there, close your eyes, put your hands over your ears. Do not make the slightest move, not the slightest noise.

Tell yourself that you are not in this room, that you see nothing, hear nothing, and that everything will soon be over. You must not die, Emma!” (17). However, Emma does not forget glimpses of her mother’s murder and is haunted by this memory, even while she cannot remember her mother’s face or name. For this reason, Emma has shifting emotions about the role of memory in her life. Early in her recovery, she is bitter about her identity as a survivor and cannot see the purpose of her life given the horror she witnesses as a five-year old child. She gives voice to this pessimism, saying “the ones who survived, they might as well be dead, too”

(36) and “not caring whether Mukecuru heard her” (36). In part, she is at war with her mother’s 169 final words; she has not moved beyond the moment of her mother’s murder, but is compelled by her mother’s command to survive at any cost.

As Emma’s adoptive community begins to hold Gacaca courts in order to determine the guilt and innocence of those involved in the genocide, Emma witnesses several men being brought to the court and recognizes the voice of one of the men. This voice brings up the memory of her mother, evidence of the degree of reflexivity between the past and the present in

Emma’s mind. She feels “a sharp pain cut through her chest. She trie[s] to run” (39) but instead collapses on the ground. In this moment when memory surges over her, Emma withdraws from her surroundings and returns to her moment of genocide:

The real world faded around her as the roar of the assassins, their blows, the pain of her

mother and her own terror took shape. Then, just as she had done that night, she took

shelter against a nearby wall, crouching down and burying her head in her arms. A few

women tried to lift her up, children poked her to make her react. But it was no use. So

little by little, life carried on around her, and her huddled figure eventually blended into

the peaceful countryside at the end of an ordinary day. (39-40)

This passage juxtaposes the brutal impact of these memories on Emma with the normalcy of the world around her in this same moment. In part, this demonstrates the complexity of experiences of genocide; Emma’s panic is fundamental to her experience of this moment, while others are unaffected. The severity of her response is also important, as it demonstrates how memory can transform functional into non-functional. Emma cannot be reached at this stage of traumatic remembering, so deeply is she reliving her initial trauma. The final image of Emma, “blended into the peaceful countryside” (40), is suggestive; there is a sense that the world around her has 170 recovered, or begun to recover, from the genocide, and that Emma can find safety in the landscape even when she does not find it in her interactions with others.

As the narrative progresses and years begin to pass, Mukecuru consults a local doctor about Emma’s lack of recovery and gently pushes Emma to see the doctor to help her with her nightmares. While Emma is distrustful of him, her confidence is won over because he expects no disclosures from her. Instead, he speaks of his own experiences as a Tutsi during the massacres of 1963, 1973, 1990, and 1991. It is this active narration of trauma that serves as the foundation to Emma’s recovery, as she begins to see the historical framework, however horrific, of the 1994 genocide. The doctor also stands as a model of recovery and proof that beyond traumatic memory, recovery is possible. However, Emma refuses to discuss her mother’s death with anyone until she happens across a drawing done by another patient: “Emma could just see the blood running off the page and over the edge of the desk to form a bright red pool on the floor. That’s when she grabbed a fistful of pencils. It was her turn to try to tell her story” (100-

101). It is not until she engages with the trauma of others on a shared visceral level that she is able to being to process her own experiences. Her expression is not without cost; once she begins to draw, she “let the voices, the beating, the crying come back , and she pictured the crime in her head. What she saw was unbearable. Her breathing speeded up, then stopped. She thought she was about to drown when the old man’s voice broke into her nightmare. ‘Tell me what you see, Emma. Don’t keep it to yourself’” (104). This is the moment that Emma’s recovery begins; this act of narrating, in visual and verbal form, is an act of identification as well.

The doctor’s urging to share her memories is also an encouragement to reconnect to her community. Through these small narratives, readers are shown that large-scale recovery is 171 possible, as shared expression eases the burden of memory that weighs on all survivors and within the collective memory more generally.

In Deogratias, memory is emphasized by the formal structure of the narrative. The shifting between timeframes is initially difficult to track until the borders of each image frame are inspected; memories have no border while events in the present are lightly bordered in black.

Memory intrudes into the present tense narrative consistently, a demonstration of the fragmentation of the narrator’s mind and his inability to weave one coherent story out of his experiences. One of the most consistent emotions in Deogratias’s present is rage; in post- genocide Rwanda, Deogratias fixates on those he blames for the violence. Each of these people played a specific role in the genocide, and as Deogratias is trapped by memories, these figures loom large for him. In the present, his anger is directed at local characters like Bosco and Julius, who propagate politically loaded discourses and are themselves trapped by the fact of the genocide. Bosco, a member of the RPF, clings to a precolonial myth of Rwanda as a country without any ethnic tensions or divisions, which is inaccurate, but allows him the satisfaction of blaming the genocide entirely on Western intrusion rather than Rwandan politics. While colonial influence had a massive impact on the politicization of ethnicity in Rwanda, Bosco’s ideal of historically harmonious ethnic identity is a construction rather than a reflection of reality. Bosco takes false comfort in his imagining, as it allows him to believe that the genocide does not reflect

Rwandan identity, but rather, Western influence alone. Conversely, Julius, a violent member of the Hutu power movement during the genocide, continues in the present to speak hatefully about

Tutsis and advocate the return of genocidal practices. He pressures Deogratias into joining his efforts to reinitiate public violence, and while Deogratias refuses, he is also deeply unsettled by this influence. Finally, Deogratias is troubled by Serg, who has returned to Rwanda and speaks 172 in ethnically loaded sentiments, sexualising and denigrating Tutsi women. It is Serg who troubles Deogratias the most, in part because he seems unable to openly challenge Serg’s rhetoric or shake the pseudo-friendly attention that Serg pays to him. However, even the memory of Serg prompts repeated outbursts of “Bastard! French piece of shit!” (24).

What is notable about these three characters is that they all rely on the genocide-era rhetoric of ethnicity to understand post-genocide Rwanda. This suggests a shared failure to recover from the political moment of the genocide and develop new, non-ethnic definitions of

Rwandan identity. As these three characters are the only community left to Deogratias, their political discourse traps Deogratias in the past and leaves him no outlet for discussions of his personal trauma. Although recovery is dependant on coherent personal narratives, Deogratias has no one with whom to share his memories and explore his trauma, and so he withdraws from those around him. In part, these failed avenues of recovery demonstrate to readers how important collective recovery is to the individual, as well as how important individual recovery can be to the greater collective.

Deogratias is trapped by his memories of the past, and at times, he is only faintly aware of the world around him. While Deogratias’s transformation into a dog is intended to visually represent the onset of his memories of the genocide, others in the text witness it as well and their response is often mocking. Remembering his earliest advances towards Benina, prior to the genocide, he seems oblivious to the taunts of “Arf! Arf! Hey, Deogratias, doggie! How’s it going? Still see too many stars?” (14) from passing schoolchildren. As the reader understands the importance of these memories in defining Deogratias’s pre-genocide identity, this type of taunting seems callous, but the children cannot understand his trauma because he is unable to vocalize his thoughts and feelings. The text emphasizes the importance of collective 173 understanding and shared experiences in recovery, but shows that even when recovery is underway within a community, individuals can find it difficult to claim a place in their society.

The novel delays the revelation of Deogratias’s memories of the genocide until the end of the narrative, as his terror while a dog grows. As some local children throw stones at him, he begins to panic and relive some of his memories of the genocide, revealing them to the reader for the first time: “my head’s spilling out into the day: the insides of bellies are blending into the inside of my head…and sharp, sharp, blades plunge into women’s genitals…” (53). This statement, striking in its violence, does not clarify Deogratias’s role in this memory, but does begin to express the violence that Deogratias is wrestling with. More importantly, this declaration marks a shift in the narrative as it prompts more visceral memories and more erratic behaviour by Deogratias. The novel makes clear that his contact with Bosco, Julius, and Serg unsettle Deogratias, making it harder for him to contain his memories of genocide. However, it is the return of Brother Philip that forces Deogratias to face his actions most directly. Asking after Venetia, Apollinaria, and Benina, Deogratias is thrown back into the earliest moments of the genocide, and begins to narrate his experience: “We had done good work. Our roadblock was here, in front of the hotel” (70). It becomes clear that despite Deogratias’s resistance, Julius successfully pressures Deogratias to join the Hutu militants on April 6th, the first night of the genocide. The use of the word “our” is notable, as Deogratias rejects Julius’ earlier attempt to recruit him with the words “I don’t work for you, Julius” (59), which establish a clear division between these two individuals. One of the victims at this roadblock is Augustine, a friend of

Deogratias. When Augustine asks Deogratias where Apollinaria and Benina are, Julius begins to brag of their murder: 174

Julius: “What? The two little whores?...The black one, Deogratias had already fucked

her, so he left her to us. But the mulatta, he kept her pussy for himself. That’s the kinda

guy Deogratias is: he likes refined stuff!”

Deogratias: “Julius, stop.”

Julius: “Aw, c’mon, Deogratias, don’t be modest. You did good, that little whore got

nicely fucked. And the best part is, the little whore was a virgin!...Ha! Ha! The whore

was a virgin!”

Augustine: “Deogratias, what is he saying?”

Deogratias: “Augustine, you don’t understand”

Augustine: “You filthy dog!”

Deogratias: “They forced me, don’t you see?” (71)

This is a powerful confession, and a moment when Deogratias, a clear victim of the genocide, is also identified as a perpetrator. Like the character of Ndoli, Deogratias defies the simple distinction between victim and perpetrator and becomes a perpetrator under duress. While it is clear that there were other victims at the roadblock, Deogratias is devastated by his complicity in the rape and murder of two close friends, particularly as he and Benina had had consensual sex for the first time hours before. This scene also reveals the inception of Deogratias’s sense of being a dog, as Augustine demarcates Deogratias’s failed humanity with the expression “you filthy dog” (71). As a young man surrounded by forces he cannot resist or understand,

Deogratias can find no way of redeeming himself after this moment. Although he tries to explain to Philip “they wanted to die…I loved them” (74), it is clear that he feels his guilt as a fundamental aspect of his life post-genocide. Augustine’s reaction to the splayed bodies of

Venetia, Apollinaria, and Benina is one of rage and horror, and to silence him, Julius murders 175

Augustine as well. It is at this moment that Deogratias resists Julius and refuses to be involved in anymore violence. Because Augustine functions as a voice of reason amidst the wild violence of the moment, ultimately enabling Deogratias to escape Julius’ authority, Augustine’s murder weighs heavily on Deogratias as well.

Deogratias is defined by his own guilt, precluding the possibility of a future. This guilt marks Deogratias as distinct from other characters in the text who perpetrate violence and survive without evidence of remorse. Julius, Bosco, and Serg all witness and are complicit, to some degree, in the violence of the genocide, and Deogratias has no doubt about their guilt. In an effort to right the balance of good and evil in his world, Deogratias channels guilt into revenge. Although it is not clear until the end of the text what he has been achieving with each visit, Deogratias travels to each of the people he believes to be guilty and poisons them through the ritual of sharing banana beer. In his rapid confession to the astonished Brother Philip,

Deogratias explains

for the sergeant, he’s white, so it was easy…I just put the poison in the beer bottle. He

didn’t worry that it was already opened…For Bosco, I had to play it smarter: I had to put

the poison in the empty bottle I’d brought to take Urwagwa to go. He tasted and after I

left I emptied out the rest of the bottle. For Julius…. (69)

What is clear to the reader is that Deogratias, unable to coherently narrate his experiences and without any productive social supports, cannot move past the violence of the genocide.

Moreover, that violence is beginning to spill over into the present. In killing Serg, Bosco and

Julius, Deogratias tries to exact retribution on those who continue to propagate divisive rhetoric within Rwanda. This can be seen as a misguided attempt to regain social harmony by rejecting those who represent social discord. His confession, which begins spontaneously when he re- 176 encounters Brother Philip after the genocide, suggests that he wants to explain his actions, and is an attempt to convey the personal coherency of his recent choices. However, even to Brother

Philip, his narration lacks sufficient context; Deogratias is not able to annunciate the deeper reasons why he feels that needs to earn absolution through violence because he still cannot face his complicity in the murder of Apollinaria and Benina. For readers, this text emphasizes the need for personal and social coherence in order to begin recovery. Deogratias, who lost his sense of personal identity when forced to perpetrated violence against members of his own community, lacks the support required to reconcile his pre and post-genocide self. Those around Deogratias, similarly caught up in the ideology of the genocide, only increase the fragmentation of his identity. Deogratias’s failure to recover has a detrimental impact on his own life, as well as the lives of those around him.

The Oldest Orphan is a complex text because Faustin’s narrative tone makes him hard to trust. Faustin adopts a protective bravado in the aftermath of the genocide, which makes him an unreliable narrator. The fragmentation which pervades the text is also a sign of memory under negotiation. While the genocide is the first major action in the chronological narrative, it is not represented until the final page of the novel. As a reader, it becomes necessary to accept effect before cause. This formal element of the text accentuates the experience of trauma that Faustin is grappling with in the aftermath of the genocide. Like Broken Memory, The Oldest Orphan depicts the importance of memory as a tool of survival; early in the novel, Faustin explains “in prison you realize that memories serve a purpose. If I’ve survived as long as I have, I owe it to my soccer games. By focusing my thoughts on them, I can overcome my fears and get some sleep” (11). Later in the narrative, Faustin’s ability to remember his mother’s tone and movements allows him to comfort his siblings by temporarily recreating her presence for them. 177

His enactment of family rituals allows him to make an emotional connection with his brother, and Ambroise’s response to Faustin’s performance further affirms the value of memory, especially for children.

In this post-genocide space, Faustin frequently shelters himself from his own experiences by adopting a glib and sarcastic attitude towards weakness and suffering. This is most compellingly demonstrated in his relationship with Rodney, the reporter who travels the

Rwandan countryside with Faustin in search of compelling images and narratives. Despite having been saved from Nyamata church amidst a swath of bodies three days after the militia moved through, Faustin speaks of trauma with a disaffected air. Worse, he is happy to invent narratives of his own suffering for the camera, and with Rodney’s encouragement, he performs traumas not his own with concerning gusto:

When we left the BBC people, I had become as good an actor as those I used to see on

the TV at the Fraternité Bar, writhing and falling off horses as if they had been hit by real

bullets. Swiss television took us to Rebero, CNN, to Bisesero. It’s as if pal Rodney’s

and my renown had become worldwide. The Norwegians dragged us to Musha, the

Australians, to Mwuliré. I didn’t need directions anymore. Rodney would set up his

camera and the film rolled all by itself. In places where I had never set foot, I’d

immediately recognize the charred hovel my parents had been dragged out of; the yard

filled with hibiscus where their hamstrings had been slashed; the church hall where they

had been murdered; the old wooden brewery where their blood had been used to make

banana beer; the stove where their ears and intestines had been roasted and seasoned with

peppers to serve as meals for the attacking forces, who had proved to be the bravest. I’d

remove my cap to show the scars across my head, lift my sweater to expose the machete 178

cuts on my shoulders and my torso. Some film directors would shed tears. So then I’d

invent some heroic deeds to move them even more. I’d describe how I had been able to

repel my assailants, to jump on a bicycle lying around and pedal through the bush to the

nearest forest. Then Rodney, with a satisfied smile, would promptly raise this thumb to

show that it was good but it was over, and we’d do it again somewhere else…I was going

to be rich! (66)

What Monénembo emphasizes for readers in this passage is Faustin’s distance from the suffering which he describes; he performs without seeming to recognize that these horrors are real. His ability to invent stories about his own wounds and scars also points to the suppression of his own memories in place of imagined traumas. His fixation on becoming rich through his performances suggests his dispassionate attitude regarding his actions, although given that this scene occurs when he is living at HQ with his siblings, there is also a practical element to this comment.

After Faustin shoots Musinkôro at HQ, he abandons his siblings and disappears into the city to evade arrest. However, it is clear from the shift in his narrative that this shooting has unhinged his memory. In order to avoid facing his experiences, he withdraws from the communities he earlier strove so hard to maintain and convinces himself that he exists outside of humanity:

Three months went by. You don’t have to believe me, but life as a wild animal isn’t so

bad. The world of refined men and I were now an ocean apart. I was comfortable in my

hole. I didn’t need the outside world. My parents, my sisters, my brother? Their

memory had deserted my head all on its own. I regretted nothing, I felt no blame. I

didn’t need any other place: neither Kigali, nor Tanzania, nor this green paradise in the 179

Psalms that Father Manolo had so often promised. I had blotted out the world and

believed that in return the world had done the same with me. (77)

This withdrawal does little to help Faustin avoid the memories of the genocide, which begin to enter the text frequently once Faustin is arrested and court proceedings begin. It is clear that as he feels more threatened in the present, he has more trouble suppressing his memories of the past.

As with Deogratias, Faustin’s experiences with violence are clearly linked to his memories of the genocide. Narrating his memories instigates considerations of his present day acts of violence, and conversely, acts or reminders of violence prompt him to recall and narrate earlier violence witnessed at the onset of the genocide. When he sees his traumatized siblings at the City of Blue Angels for the first time, he falls into a violent coma, but awakes with a sudden memory of Italian words: “slowly the fog in my mind lifted, the words became more precise, the images clearer, more evocative…Salsiche, queija, risotto, café com lette, ciao, certo, arrivederci, muito obrigado, grazie [Emphasis in the original]” (42). While this is not explained at the time, it is clear from Faustin’s later memories that this memory is linked to the pre-genocide violence that Faustin witnesses while still living with his family in Nyamata. This memory is revisited in far more detail after he is told that he must face the court for shooting Musinkôro:

I was getting ready to go to school when they arrived. Some were armed with clubs,

others with machetes. I don’t know what came over her but she couldn’t find anything

better to do than to go outside to look. They grabbed her on her doorstep. They hit her

on the back of the head. They dragged her to the church. They hacked her into pieces.

(75) 180

Without identifying this woman, it is clear that he is referring to the murder of Antonia Locatelli, an Italian volunteer in Rwanda who was murdered by members of the Presidential Guard for phoning the Belgian Embassy and the BBC to inform others of the massacres of Tutsis in

Bugesera in 1992. What is significant here is that Faustin’s ability to suppress violent memories is undone by his own acts of violence; he uses violence to cope in his new life, but this violence unsettles him and makes it harder for him to ignore his memories of genocide in his family home.

It is Faustin’s realization that he has been sentenced to death for his crime that unlocks the memory of his parents’ death in the Nyamata church. This narration is the final memory of the text, and the horror of Faustin’s experience is revealed:

Thick smoke was rising from the power station. It must have been the signal. The peaceful

small groups I had seen earlier under the mango trees and in front of the service stations

jumped up in the air brandishing hammers, machetes, and studded clubs while vehicles of

militias were entering the village. It was the same scenario as the time before except that,

this time, it was for real. I now understood the meaning of the red crosses on the walls:

those were Tutsi houses. Some of them on fire, others surrounded. Women were trying to

save their kids. They were quickly caught. They were made to lie down in their own yards

and their tendons were slit. Their children’s heads were smashed against the walls. (93)

In this narration, the author consciously makes the reader becomes a witness to the onset of the genocide in one specific community; Faustin’s need for community throughout the narrative is instantly more understandable as the reader bears witness to this destruction of his home and everyone he knows. The final paragraphs of the novel enter into the church and describe the genocide from Faustin’s point of view: 181

We heard someone shout some orders. The stained-glass windows shattered, the icons

crumbled to dust, dozens of mangled brains splashed against the ceiling and the walls. They

were throwing grenades. My memory of the genocide stops here. The rest, I was told later,

or it resurfaced on its own in my tattered memory, in spurts, like muddy water pouring

out of a clogged pump. I don’t know who died first, my father or my mother. Did they die

from a grenade or finished off with machetes or hammers? (96)

The fact that Faustin is finally speaking about the horror that he has worked so hard to suppress throughout the novel is compelling; either his fear of his fate has made it impossible to ignore his trauma anymore, or he no longer sees the point in avoiding this trauma when his own death is so near. Regardless, his trauma finally demands a voice, and his narrative, full of avoidance and suppression, becomes complete in this moment of narration. This link between old and new trauma is an interesting one, as these moments in Faustin’s life are directly linked; the massacre at Nyamata is the beginning of Faustin’s death sentence, protracted as it proves to be. That he withholds this initial trauma from the reader until his final trauma has occurred serves to highlight this connection and demonstrate the role of memory in shaping the actions and experiences of those survivors of genocide.

Exploring the role of memory in the lives of these three children, each text attempts to demonstrate how memories of genocidal violence propagate further challenges for genocide survivors. Western media representations of the genocide emphasized the deaths of Tutsis and sympathetic Hutus but the struggles of survivors to process their experiences and recover from horror are too complex to be accurately conveyed in brief news segments. Through literature, the reader gains access to the experiences of protagonists while the formal structures of the narrative indicate the ways in which memory can become a trap for survivors. The way that each narrator 182 discusses or fails to discuss his or her experiences can serve as a telling indication of the degree to which they have processed their memories of the genocide. This allows the reader valuable insight into the cascading impact of the genocide for survivors, as media emphasis is generally put on death tolls and physical destruction during large-scale conflicts. These texts convey the challenges of integrating lived experiences of genocide into healthy personal and communal interactions, as well as the invisible destruction of the social fabric that can occur even after genocide has ended.

Survivors are not without deep, and at times, destructive trauma, and while they may survive genocide, these texts make clear that many do not survive the aftermath of genocide.

Recovery after genocide, particularly one perpetrated within a single society, is a complex thing.

While practical elements of recovery are a matter of organization, funding, and execution, emotional, political, and ideological recoveries are far more difficult to orchestrate. The Rwandan

Genocide was predicated on a fragmented sense of national identity, and at the end of the genocide, this fracture was even more fundamental to Rwandan identity. Once violence ended, tensions remained understandably high and ran along ethic lines. The simple binary of the genocide, in which Tutsis were victims and Hutus were perpetrators, remained a pervasive threat to the opportunity for a recovery of the social order, but stepping away from this binary, as during the genocide, remained a risk. The process of social recovery depends on the creation of a new concept of national identity that can accommodate all Rwandans, and more specifically, all Rwandan experiences of the genocide. It is essential to keep in mind that “a person traumatised by war is traumatised via the culture in which he lives, and any treatment or therapy for trauma must take account of that” (Hunt 198); while individual recovery is personal, it also depends on the recovery of larger social structures which can help to frame the genocide within a social context. Collective 183 memory, which can accommodate multiple perspectives, develops through the act of narrative and can empower the individual as well as the community. Considering the role of speech in recovering identity, Smitherman writes that “testifying [is telling] the truth through ‘story’…The content of testifying, then, is not plain and simple commentary but a dramatic narration and communal re- enactment of one’s feelings and experiences. Thus one’s humanity is reaffirmed by the group and his or her sense of isolation is diminished” (151). This commentary affirms the value of being able to construct a coherent personal narrative in a post-genocide society, as it can forge connections between people while also laying the foundation of national recovery.

However, in a country where Hutu-led organizations were actively seeking to exterminate

Tutsis, the integration of Hutu narratives of the collective memory of the genocide can be a fraught subject. It need not be said that some Hutus rejected the rhetoric of the Hutu Power movement, and made themselves targets while doing so. Moreover, many Hutus became perpetrators under the threat of death by militias. These realities, and the testimony that accompanies them, can strain the process of constructing a collective narrative of the genocide because they cloud the simple dichotomy on which the genocide was predicated. However, in considering the reconstruction of

South Africa after the end of apartheid, Singh and Chetty agree that “if one’s memory and its narration are denied within cultural and social spaces, one cannot successfully belong to a nation, particularly if that memory is of a trauma inflicted by the nation-state” (2). Regardless of the ethnic tensions that existed prior to the genocide, it is imperative that Rwandans, as well as global citizens, let go of binary categorizations and consider the web of individual actions that lies at the heart of every experience of the genocide. One way to begin such a massive project of interwoven experience is through literature, as writing can bring the dynamic impulses of the individual to the fore and give voice to complex experiences of genocide for the larger national and international 184 community. Such writing can address multiple aspects of recovery, as “trauma cultures may be doing the work of therapy, in a collective sense, but also in an inherently political one” (Meskell

162).

Despite the challenges that Emma faces in Broken Memory, this narrative emphasizes the possibility of personal, social, and political recovery. Emma’s artistic breakthrough and ability to put her experiences into words marks the beginning of her recovery. Moreover, witnessing the

Gacaca courts, while initially traumatic, assures her that there is a public space for expressions of anger and loss. Particularly important for her recovery is witnessing Rwandan citizens commence public discussions and instigate restorative justice through the Gacaca court system. This social acknowledgement of loss and suffering is a means of individual recovery as coherent narratives are constructed and publicly affirmed but also serves a larger social purpose of demythologizing the genocide. Seeing the prisoners held for their turn at court, Emma realizes how her fear has transformed her understanding of these perpetrators: “in the middle of the group, some prisoners were laughing. Others sat on the edge of the truck, their heads bowed. Emma didn’t know what to think. She had been prepared to see monsters, men with faces full of cruelty. Instead she saw simple peasants” (68). For Emma, the rhetoric and experience of the genocide fundamentally changes the way that she understands the citizenry of Rwanda. The spectacle of violence looms large in her perception of those around her, making it difficult for her to recognize that humanity and monstrosity can take the same form. However, this is an important insight; realizing that acts of genocide do not preclude the possibility of remorse and contrition allows Emma to see perpetrators as people. Although a small detail, this establishes the possibility of interpersonal recovery as well as a movement away from the essentialising narratives of genocide. 185

In order to claim government aid as a victim of the genocide, Emma must return to her mother’s village and the site of her experience of genocide. Initially, this is frightening for her, as she is wary of strangers and of Rwanda as a place, as it carries the stigma of the genocide in her mind, even nine years later. However, these twin concerns begin to fade as she leaves the safety of her adoptive village and begins to walk to her mother’s village. As Rwandan roads are generally filled with pedestrians, she soon finds herself surrounded by others, and “she was surprised at how free and easy it felt to be anonymous. For the first time ever, it felt good to be surrounded by people, walking with them or past them, invisible in the crowd” (109). While she has isolated herself with Mukecuru, this journey allows her to reclaim a place in the broader Rwandan society.

It also has a profound impact on her understanding of Rwanda. Because she has been, up to this point, consumed by her trauma, she understood her country in terms of genocidal experience alone.

However, having shared her trauma with others, she is now able to see past the events of the genocide and construct a new vision of Rwanda as a place:

Emma realized just how little she knew about her own country and how inexperienced she

was. At the beginning of the journey, she had been ready for anything to happen, especially

the worst. She never imagined she would be surprised by so much, feel so carefree. She

could see no signs of the past horror, no scars. She saw nothing on the faces around her that

reminded her of the tragedy she had lived through and that had shaped the entire country.

This journey showed her a Rwanda that seemed to be at peace. She could see things with a

positive frame of mind – places and people that had looked blacker than hell to her ten years

ago. And for the first time, she felt strong enough to face the future, as uncertain as it was.

(113) 186

This evolving definition of Rwanda is an important element of Emma’s recovery and future and it demonstrates to the reader the importance of re-defining places of large-scale violence once a measure of recovery has been achieved. Like Emma, many Western citizens continue to see the genocide as a defining feature of Rwandan identity. In doing so, they allow this traumatic event to take precedence over the significant efforts of recovery that have taken place. Emma’s insight into

Rwandan’s emerging national identity occurs only once she has explored the Rwandan countryside and engaged with other Rwandan citizens, and the text urges readers to also consider the effort towards recovery which have marked the post-genocide era in Rwanda.

When Emma returns to burnt remains of her mother’s home, her memories return and she is initially unable to approach this building. However, this journey through a recovering Rwanda has allowed her to excise her fears, and she eventually builds up the courage to enter the ruins. While her memory of her mother’s murder is a powerful force in this scene, the memory of her mother’s life is ultimately more compelling to Emma. Finding a surviving photograph of her mother, Emma suddenly recovers her memory of her mother. The weight of this remembrance is difficult for

Emma to bear, but the fact that she regains her memory is a testament to the fulfilment of her recovery: “exhausted, she lay down on the ground. She had finally managed to rebuild the walls of the ruined house where she had been born, and where her mother had died. The murderers had failed to crush her memory” (126). It is in this village that she learns her mother’s name, Pacifique, and her age at her death, 22. The narrative here demonstrates the importance of exploring trauma in order to recovery identity, and this journey is ultimately empowering for Emma. Although a fictional text, Combres includes an epilogue in which Emma’s final recovery is detailed and her future set out with hope: “today she is twenty-four years old…She is now at peace with her past, and she looks to the future with confidence” (131). This is an interesting narrative decision which 187 helps to emphasize the possibility of recovery and the importance for Rwandan citizens of integrating the genocide into personal and national constructions of identity. This epilogue makes an effort to assert, via narrative, the continued survival and success of genocide survivors and to emphasize that as recovery occurs, Rwanda as a nation, and citizens as individuals, must balance their identities as survivors with their identities as Rwandans.

In the post-genocide world of Deogratias, Deogratias has no family or community from which to draw support. He is mocked by local children for his belief that he is a dog. As his delusions reflect his experiences during the genocide, this mockery suggests that those who cannot effect personal recovery after the genocide may have a difficult time finding social support.

Deogratias’s recovery efforts are violent; he kills the three men who remain a part of his life in an attempt to enact justice for their role in his crimes during the genocide. For Deogratias, justice can be gained through violence and his guilt can be assuaged through further killing. Prior to the genocide, when Deogratias takes Brother Philip to a local Urwagwa tavern, the Rwandan trust exercise of sharing Urwagwa (Rwandan beer) is established. However, Deogratias’s use of trickery in this custom to murder Bosco, Julius, and Serg can be seen as a metaphor for a breakdown in the larger social customs and traditions of Rwandan culture in the post-genocide era. Deogratias’s misguided actions demonstrate the dangers of failed post-genocide recovery, as the social and political environment can become loaded with hate, bitterness, and suffering. Individuals unable to process the realities of genocide can become liabilities to the larger social recovery. This same reality can also be applied to observers outside of Rwanda. Western readers should see in

Deogratias’s inability to recover that failing to recognize the efforts and successes of recovery can perpetuate Rwanda as a nation of genocide and social chaos, which can inhibit the development of

Rwanda as a post-genocide nation. 188

Brother Philip’s reaction of disbelief and horror mimics the response of the reader as

Deogratias reveals his actions. What is compelling is that at the end of recounting his involvement in the rape and murder of Venetia, Apollinaria, and Benina, he openly pours poison into a Primus beer and slides it towards Philip, saying “drink a beer with me, Brother Philip…Like in the good old days…Now it’s your turn to drink the poison” (76). It is not clear why Deogratias would put

Philip in the same category as the lecherous Serg, militant Julius, and disaffected Bosco, as these men actively promoted the ethnic conflict and violence of the genocide. Perhaps as a Westerner,

Deogratias sees Philip as meddlesome and blames him for the genocide. More likely, Philip serves as a reminder of Deogratias’s world before the genocide began, and Deogratias feels compelled to silence all such reminders. Either way, Philip is shocked by the change in Deogratias, responding

“oh, God of mercy!...I will pray to the Lord and ask Him to forgive you, Deogratias…and beg Him to give me the strength to forgive you – for today, I cannot” (76). Deogratias’s response is revealing: “I don’t need your forgiveness! Nor the mercy of your god! I’m only a dog! It wasn’t a confession!” (76). His disassociation with reality in this moment demonstrates his more fundamental break with his society. He no longer feels human, and seems confident that this fact will exempt him from further punishment. Compellingly, he transforms in this frame into a dog, demonstrating the chaos of his memories in physical form. His participation in the genocide has confused the concepts of right and wrong, good and evil in his mind, and he is consumed with the need to reinstate order by executing those he deems guilty.

Moments after this confession, the Rwandan authorities arrive and arrest Deogratias, who is still a dog, and still violently urging Philip to drink the poison. This arrest initially suggests a return to social order, as these killings are being brought within a larger system of justice. However, one of the policemen explains that it is for the Sergeant’s death that Deogratias is under arrest; as a 189

French tourist, his death is termed an “assassination” (77) and so receives the full weight of

Rwandan and international attention. There is no mention made of the deaths of Bosco and Julius, who are both Rwandan. This is a moment when the text demonstrates for the reader the existence of neocolonialism in Rwanda; Western lives, however despicable, are protected, while Rwandan lives are not. In the effort to recover civilian systems of justice, Western actors are deemed more valuable than local individuals. Deogratias leaves the final page as a dog, fully immersed in his trauma and likely never to recover. It is clear that his actions, no matter what inspired them, identify him as a perpetrator of violence, and that the crime of killing a Westerner will weigh more heavily against him than his role in the genocide did. The internal logic of his actions is not recognized by those arresting him, and one policeman asks Philip, “friend of yours, that madman?”

(77). In this moment, the person Deogratias was before the genocide is gone, and in his place is a

“madman” (77) who is seen as a danger to himself and others.

The final words of the text belong to Philip; holding the hand of little Marie, Augustine’s daughter rescued from the genocide, Philip can say only that Deogratias “was a creature of God”

(78). While subtle, this reminder of Deogratias’s identity before the genocide draws attention to the complex ways that good people, facing inhumanity, can themselves become inhuman. Deogratias’s personal recovery is stunted by a lack of community and the perceived absence of justice for those who committed crimes; trapped by memories which he cannot address alone, Deogratias is compelled to enact his own version of justice. However, the text does not make it clear whether the system of justice will take these extenuating circumstances into consideration when deciding his fate. Certainly, the reader is encouraged to recognize that Deogratias’s guilt is mitigated by the larger circumstances of the genocide. To define Deogratias as a perpetrator without contextualizing his crimes is to oversimplify these categories, and this lesson reminds readers of the need to 190 exercise similar critical thinking when engaging with the discourse of the Rwandan Genocide more generally. Readers are not offered the assurances of recovery found in Broken Memory, but

Deogratias’s failed recovery demonstrates to Western readers the complexity of recovery for individuals and their communities.

As in Deogratias, The Oldest Orphan is a text with a complex representation of trauma and recovery. While Faustin attempts to recreate a stable family structure in the years following the genocide, once he shoots Musinkôro and is arrested, Faustin loses all interested in connections to his society. Claudine, an advocate for a number of young men in prison, asks Faustin “if you all let yourselves go, then who’ll build Rwanda?” (17). His disaffected answer demonstrates the degree to which the genocide, and his struggles to reclaim family and community in post-genocide Rwanda, have alienated him from his nation: “I don’t give a damn about Rwanda! If I’d been asked, I’d have been born somewhere else” (17). This comment becomes even more biting when Faustin’s position is considered closely. While it is not clear until late in the text how Faustin came to be in Kigali prison, the entire narrative is told from a jail cell on death row. The fact of his impending death is a pervasive detail in the text; in his opening introduction, Faustin defines himself by his fate as a death-row inmate. This initial identification raises the complex issue of how justice should be asserted in a post-genocide society, with particular regard to children considered guilty of crimes during genocide. By providing context to explain Faustin’s fate, this text reminds the reader of the need to draw distinctions between genocidal and post-genocidal violence.

The court scenes late in the text establish Rwandan justice in action; post-genocide, the rule of law must be reinstated in order to escape the chaos of mass violence. The pursuit of justice here demonstrates a collective effort to rebuild Rwanda society but the complexity of determining genocidal and non-genocidal crimes presents a significant challenge. As Faustin’s lawyer Bukuru 191 says: “he is a minor even if the law isn’t very clear on that. In fact, there’s no more real law.

There’s nothing authentic left. We’re on the threshold of a new life. The whole thing needs to be redone: history, geography, government, customs, so why not the way we understand children?”

(81-82). The text draws the reader’s attention to the impact of genocide on the categories of guilt and innocence, and the fact that older models of justice cannot be arbitrarily reinstituted in a society fundamentally changed by collective violence. Rather, the new Rwandan justice system must reflect the complex definitions of guilt and innocence produced by the genocide. In Faustin’s case, the prosecutor is determined to define Faustin as an underage génocidaire. Conversely, Bukuru argues that “this child is not a génocidaire; he simply avenged his sister. Crime of passion, family honor!...Just because there’s been a genocide, it doesn’t mean Rwandans have lost all moral sense”

(82). These conflicting ways of understanding Faustin’s crime points to the larger challenge of understanding violence and enacting justice in Rwanda after the genocide. For Western readers who were encouraged by media coverage of the genocide to see Rwandans as either victims or perpetrators of genocide, this statement is a powerful reminder that the fact of genocide cannot be assumed to compel all post-genocide actions taken by Rwandan citizens. That Faustin is seen to be a génocidaire for a crime committed three years after the genocide should strike the reader as unfair; as such, this text exhorts readers to see that allowing the genocide to entirely frame Rwandan national identity is a similarly dangerous injustice.

While Bukuru and Claudine urge Faustin to be respectful in court, the attention paid to him by the judges and the presence of so many observers inspires an extended demonstration of his bravado. Asked if he regrets his actions, Faustin says to one judge:

‘You, if I slept with your sister, you’d do what I did to this swine, wouldn’t you? Family

honor isn’t debatable anywhere in the world, at least not with the Nsenghimanas.’ Some 192

people were laughing, others were applauding. Bukuru was nervously yanking on my shirt

and gesturing madly. And Claudine’s face was beaded with perspiration; she was on the

verge of fainting. On the other hand, I was pretty proud of myself. (82-83)

Faustin’s insolence has protected him in the five years since the genocide, and particularly his two years in prison, but to the judge, it appears as unrepentant arrogance. Faustin refuses to admit regret for his actions, and for his unshakable performance of self-assurance, he wins the approval of the crowd. He overhears one man say “that’s one who knows how to defend himself. The little guy’s not afraid to speak up for himself” (83) and takes pride in his provocation of the judges. His quick wit, which has been essential to his survival up until this point, suddenly has a captive audience.

Undaunted by the power of the court, perhaps because it had little power to protect himself and his family at the onset of the genocide, Faustin goads the three judges, glibly answering their questions with little thought to how he is representing himself. As one of the observers warns him to watch his words, Faustin glancingly replies: “all I’ve done these past few years is save my neck. If I get my head cut off, I’ll regret only one thing, that I didn’t take more advantage of the good times”

(83). In this moment, Faustin mischaracterizes himself, not realizing that the bravado which has protected him to this point only clouds the very understandable motive for his actions. For Faustin, this moment in court is yet another challenge he must overcome, and with consequences far too complex for him to understand.

Faustin’s honest but ill-considered replies to the judge’s questions serve to highlight the antagonistic nature of his relationship with formal structures of authority in Rwandan society. Trust in a socially enforced system of justice was destroyed for Faustin during the genocide; living as an orphan in Kigali for three years taught him to rely on his own understanding of right and wrong in order to stay alive. While alone, he relies on his wiles to protect him but the recovery of his family 193 increases his need for security. He purchases the gun to protect his sisters because he does not believe that they are safe on the streets of Kigali, despite the end of the genocide. For Faustin,

Rwandan society has not recovered sufficiently for him to trust in the safety of his precious family.

While this fear speaks more to his own sense of insecurity than the real threat to his siblings, the threat becomes very real for Faustin when he finds Musinkôro and his sister together. In this moment, witnessing what he perceives to be a sexual attack, Faustin acts instinctively, just as he did to survive the genocide. However, survival tactics such as these have no place in a society reinstituting the rule of law; in this instance, his actions undermine the authority of the state to dictate right and wrong. Although arrested, jailed for two years, and brought to trial, Faustin seems genuinely unaware of the power that the court holds over him, having been his own authority for so long. So disconnected is he to this proceedings that he accepts the verdict of death without seeming to understand what it means. It is not until he witnesses the most feared inmate in Kigali prison, the brutally violent Ayirwanda, crying openly over Faustin’s conviction that Faustin begins to understand the severity of his punishment. In this moment, the novel demonstrates the complexity of individual recovery within wider national recovery. The reinstitution of the rule of law escapes

Faustin because he does not experience the recovery of other institutions of society, such as education and religion. Instead, he maintains his faith in his own authority, as this enabled him to survive the genocide. Ultimately, his ability to survive genocide places him at odds with the formal efforts of recovery in Rwandan civil society.

Faustin’s conviction says a great deal about the recovery of Rwandan society post-genocide.

In an effort to reassert justice and social order, both necessary for recovery, the law is enforced aggressively. However, this text shows how the legal system can also work antagonistically. The assertion of law in Faustin’s case seems to victimize someone whose actions are a response to the 194 genocide more than a reflection of inherent violent tendencies. Because Faustin does not present his actions as a complex response to the violence and loss of the genocide, he is treated as a threat to the wider society of Rwanda. Ultimately, Faustin is twice victimized by the state, as his inability to recognize the recovery of larger systems of social order on which he can rely, such as the law, is the reason that he commits murder. It is, in the end, the trauma of contemplating his own death that instigates the narration of his near-death in the Nyamata church 1994. This suggests that fresh trauma can serve to unlock old trauma; ironically, his death sentence in the present is directly linked to the death sentence he survived in the church:

When I regained consciousness, I noticed that their bodies were in pieces except my

mother’s chest whose breast still in perfect condition were dripping with blood. And

old woman was standing over me. She found the strength to smile at me amid the

swarms of flies and the piles of decomposing corpses. ‘I rescued one yesterday and

one this morning,’ she whispered. ‘Both times, I thought I heard someone groaning

but I wasn’t sure. But once I was back home, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I

came back to make sure. I had to dig for a long time; I certainly didn’t think it would

be a child. You were gripping your mother like a newborn and you were nursing at her

breasts. You’re not a man like others. You were born twice in a way: the first time you

were suckling her milk and the second time, her blood…Oh, God, three survivors and

seven days after the massacre! There’s always some life left, even when the devil has

passed through’. (96)

That this young body, a miraculous survivor of a direct and brutal attack, is now himself a convicted murder powerfully demonstrates the pervasive nature of genocidal violence if recovery is not made a priority of the individual and the nation. 195

Far from the hope of Broken Memory, The Oldest Orphan ends with the horror of the

Nyamata massacre, assuring the reader that Faustin, one of three who escaped death in the murder of 10,000 people within that church, will not survive the recovery of the nation. The shape of this narrative presents the genocide as an ever-present event for the reader, as every moment of the text demonstrates the impact, and develops towards the ultimate revelation of, Faustin’s experience of genocide. In this text, efforts towards recovery lead to the retelling of trauma, demonstrating how difficult it can be to move past massive events like this. Much like Deogratias, Faustin lives by his own understanding of justice and instigates a personal sense of justice in order to protect those he loves. The lives of both young men are destroyed by the genocide, and their sense of self undergoes a radical change as they attempt to claim new roles within their society. What is clear from both

Deogratias and Faustin is that violence becomes a means of self-protection from further loss, employed precisely because they perceive that the state cannot or will not act on their behalf. In part, this representation of the failed recovery of two protagonists is a reminder to readers of the complexity of societal recovery. As the cameras left Rwanda within the year, there has been insufficient consideration given to the way that recovery has occurred in Rwanda’s post-genocide era. While The Oldest Orphan does not suggest that the recovery of justice is fundamentally dangerous to citizens, it does show how difficult a system of justice is to reinstitute when overburdened with navigating the crime of genocide. Deogratias demonstrates an effective system of law but reminds readers of the hierarchies of justice that continues to exist in neocolonial spaces.

In both texts, the recovery of the individual is at odds with the recovery of the state.

All three texts undertake the important work of exploring individual identity during and after genocide, the impact of violence on family and community relations, local perceptions of Western 196 aid, the social context of trauma and memory, and efforts towards recovery. For English-speaking audiences, these texts make the Rwandan experience of the genocide more understandable because they do not rely on the common tropes that were used by Western media outlets to describe

Rwandan suffering. The authors present well-developed characters and multiple subject positions in order to nuance the reader’s understanding of this event. The trauma of the Rwandan people becomes accessible in these narratives and it is trauma that provides the opportunity for greater understanding of Rwanda as a nation. Cathy Caruth defines trauma as “the confrontation with an event that, in its unexpectedness and horror, cannot be placed within the schemes of prior knowledge” (153), and the trauma of these narratives reveals to readers the need to develop new

“schemes of prior knowledge” (153) about Rwanda. Such an undertaking, as managed here through literature, would allow for a critical engagement with the colonial and neocolonial constructions which have defined Rwandan national identity in the Western imagination. These texts demonstrate the experience of trauma in the lives of the protagonists, and simultaneously broaden readers’ understandings of the genocide and assert the value of Rwandan narratives within socio-political understandings of the genocide. Presenting the genocide within the context of Rwandan identities establishes a more well-rounded understanding of the impact of this event for local, national, and international actors, undercutting the depiction of the genocide as an isolated event.

While individual responses to literature can be powerful, these texts have an important role to play in the international socio-political discourse of Rwanda. Written by non-Rwandan authors, these texts take care to present the genocide within the larger context of Rwandan society. As very few Rwandan writers have written about the genocide, because the novel form is not native to

Rwanda, and because Rwanda does not have a strong forum on the international stage, complex understandings of the genocide as an event in Rwandan history has been marred by a lack of 197 productive social discourse between Western and Rwandan speakers. While national reconciliation and recovery have been a primary concern for the Rwandan government over the past eighteen years, the international understanding of this effort has changed very little. These literary narratives, with the emphasis on memory, undertake a complex task: to develop understanding of the genocide within an international community of English-speaking readers. The nuanced representations of individual experience is pivotal to this project, as “collective memory is generated by the group, is multivocal and is responsive to the social framework in which it is created, i.e. the social discourse” (Hunt 99). By representing the memories of Rwandan genocide survivors in literature for Western readers, these texts are attempting to change the Western public discourse on Rwanda. Jenny Edkins writes that “a study of practices of memory thus provides an insight into political community, and the forms of temporality and subjectivity that necessarily accompany contemporary forms of political authority” (101). Certainly, the media willingness to rely on tropes and colonial narratives of Rwandan identity in coverage of the genocide was evidence of a fundamental disinterest in Rwanda as a socio-political space. These texts, among others, demonstrate a concerted interest in situating the genocide within an accurate historical and cultural context, emphasizing the human experience of the genocide. By changing the way that the genocide is remembered, these narratives implicitly challenge the larger political narratives about

Africa and the role that Africa is accorded in global social, cultural, and political systems.

Raphael Lemkin, who coined the word genocide in 1943, affirms that “it would be impractical to treat genocide as a national crime, since by its very nature it is committed by the state or by powerful groups which have the backing of the state. A state would never prosecute a crime instigated or backed by itself. By its very legal, moral and humanitarian nature, it must be considered an international crime.” ("III: An international crime"). While this mandate was largely 198 ignored during the genocide in Rwanda, this emerging literature demonstrates Rwandan experiences of genocide and particularly the sustained experiences of those who survived the genocide, providing productive insight into the many costs of genocide and the efforts Rwanda has undertaken towards collective recovery. In this way, readers become witnesses of a period of profound importance in Rwandan history. These texts engage readers in narratives of Rwandan loss and recovery, an act which itself undercuts the colonial and neocolonial trend of disempowering African voices. Moreover, these texts provide the opportunity for an emotional education about Rwandan identity as a sustained lived experience rather than as fleetingly depicted in media publications and broadcasts during the genocide. For readers whose understanding of the genocide has been shaped by media coverage alone, these texts establish meaningful representations of Rwandans struggling to contextualize the genocide within their lives. In so doing, these texts urge and enable readers to similarly recontextualize their understandings of the Rwandan Genocide, and Rwandan identity, in their own social discourse. Contrary to the myriad of ways that African narratives have been disempowered throughout history, these texts assert the humanity of Rwandans even through the horror of this genocide, and demonstrate both violence and recovery for the Western reader. These are narratives of Rwandan empowerment, even when recovery fails, because they insist upon the value of Rwandan experiences and perspectives. These texts, even when written by non-Rwandans, demonstrate is decolonizing discourse the value and complexity of Rwanda as a nation. 199

Chapter Five: Affirming Recovery and Demonstrating Cross-Cultural Activism through Literature

Tragically, the emotional valency of testimony has little to do with the intensity of the suffering or pain that it carries, and it has everything to do with the cultural and political milieu it encounters and its capacity there to command witness. Gillian Whitlock, Soft Weapons: Autobiography in Transit, 79.

Compassion is an unstable emotion. It needs to be translated into action, or it withers. Susan Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others, 101.

The representation of post-genocide Rwanda in literature and drama can serve as a profound form of social, cultural, and political education for Western, as much as for Rwandan readers and audiences. These narratives explicitly and implicitly explore the promise of restoration, drawing attention to the changes that have taken place in Rwanda since the genocide ended, and the ways in which these changes have been mobilized. For readers whose knowledge of the Rwandan Genocide ended with the Western media coverage in late 1994, these productions offer the opportunity to explore the nation’s practical and ideological recovery. By exploring how the genocide has been integrated into local constructions of identity and self- hood, these texts contextualize the interests and concerns of local citizens within the socio- political discourse of the genocide, thereby affirming the value of Rwandan voices. Rwanda’s recovery has been dependant on the cultivation of a new collective identity for citizens, and these texts permit readers to engage with this emergent national identity. Identity politics have long been a significant stumbling block for citizens on both sides of the neocolonial divide, but post- genocide recovery literature can allow for effective communication because these texts emphasize the need for new modes of interaction across cultural and political boundaries. As

Fardon comments, “the development of literacy and the circulation of ideas through print

[provides a] capacity to imagine identity in terms of a community larger than that of the 200 immediate circle of fellows” (177). By offering insight into the objectives and challenges of genocide recovery for a specific community of citizens, this subset of genocide literature allows the reader to more closely engage with post-genocide Rwandan identity .

There is always a danger that literature will misuse the opportunity for education and simply reiterate antiquated or racially motivated stereotypes in representing the experiences of post-genocide citizens. Autobiography, though not wholly objective or bias-free, offers the promise of accurate insights into the lives being traced within the narrative, and when conveying life experience, autobiography has the benefit of exploring both private and public worlds. As a means of exploring different societies and cultures, these texts offer a powerful potential for

Western readers. However, autobiographical subjects who come from non-Western nations are often exoticized as a means of increasing book sales, even while decreasing the educational potential of the text. Gillian Whitlock, discussing the role of autobiographical literature in political discourse, observes that autobiography

can personalize and humanize categories of people whose experiences are frequently

unseen or unheard. To attend to a nauseated body at risk in Baghdad, or to hear a militant

feminist body beneath a burka, to attach a face and recognize a refugee is to make

powerful interventions in debates about social justice, sovereignty, and human

rights…But it is a ‘soft’ weapon because it is easily co-opted into propaganda. In modern

democratic societies propaganda is frequently not the violent and coercive imposition of

ideas but a careful manipulation of opinion and emotion in the public sphere and a

management of information in the engineering of consent. (3)

These narratives require that readers engage critically with the information they are given and consider the larger political and cultural influences that shape individual narratives. Particularly 201 in post-genocide situations, these texts can serve as effective educational tools, empowering reader engagement within social and political discourse. Nigel Hunt discusses the role of the storyteller in his consideration of war trauma and memory, and advocates that the relationship between the storyteller and the reader should be an active one: “storytelling is an interpersonal exercise. The storyteller needs an audience, and the audience needs to make some sort of response” (44). Texts which educate the reader about the realities of life in a post-genocide society are valuable, but this education is far more productive when readers are also shown how this information can challenge the constructions of antiquated politics or an unspoken national policy of ignoring rather than engaging in the trauma of other nations. As will be discussed in this chapter, cultural education is a powerful tool in the renegotiation of global politics on an individual level.

Among the many autobiographical narratives of individual experiences during the

Rwandan genocide are Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust, written by

Immaculée Ilibagiza and Steve Erwin, and An Ordinary Man, by Paul Rusesabagina; these two texts have been popularly received by Western readers. We Survived Genocide in Rwanda: 28

Personal Testimonies is a text not widely available in Western markets, but was published as a collaboration between the Kigali Memorial Centre and Aegis Trust, an organization which strives to aid communities recovering from genocide and other traumas. These texts, and others like them, are important because they give voice to the experiences of individuals during and after the Rwandan genocide. However, these texts fixate on individual survival; there are other texts which more directly explore Rwanda’s recovery. Just as the work of Gourevitch and

Courtemanche contextualized the genocide in terms of colonial and neocolonial history, the works of Véronique Tadjo and Sonja Linden consider the politics of recovery within the 202 neocolonial framework, recognizing that Rwandan identity must be redefined in Rwanda as well as on the international stage to ensure a productive recovery. The recoveries they explore emphasize interactions within communities, and in this way, these representations are didactic, affirming the need for discourse in order to assure recovery. David Studdert writes that

“community is never a fixed state, rightly it should be considered a verb not a noun, and it is always the outcome of sociality as an action – be that action or speech – and it is therefore impossible to perform without the presence of other people” (2); embracing this definition of community as interactive is what sets the works of Tadjo and Linden apart from others than focus more specifically on individual experiences.

Tadjo’s narrative The Shadow of Imana: Travels in the Heart of Rwanda was written for the “Duty to Memory” Project organized by Nocky Djedanoum in 1998. It takes the form of a travel narrative, but bears little resemblance to the travel memoirs which introduced Africa to the popular imagination in the early days of colonial exploration. As a Franco-African woman, her narration is an inversion of the trope of the male European observer in Africa. This narrative form is valuable as a didactic tool precisely because it allows the writer to put her own responses on display for the reader. At times, Tadjo records her own pleasure, discomfort, fear, and confusion; at other times, she conveys scenes without commenting on their content. This accomplishes two distinct objectives: emoting puts her into very close conversation with the reader’s own emotional responses, while observing without comment creates a space for the reader’s reactions without authorial influence. Through the adoption of this flexible narrative form, the text encourages readers to respond to the text in multiple ways.

Tadjo’s specific interests in this text are memorialization and recovery within post- genocide Rwanda. Together, these subjects help to convey a sense of how the genocide is being 203 integrated into individual and national identity. The role of genocide commemoration in genocide recovery is an interesting one to consider because Rwanda’s memorials are a draw for

Rwandans as well as for international visitors. Responses to these memorial spaces vary considerably from person to person, particularly across national and ethnic boundaries. In part, responses are shaped by the way individuals understand and relate to the genocide; Ray observes that commemoration “may take the form of mourning in which subjects are able to confront and effect reconciliation with the past; alternatively it can take the form of melancholia in which grief and anger predominate” (140). Aware of the diversity of possible responses to these public spaces, Tadjo offers her own response to particular scenes or images but also permits room for the reader’s response through a fragmented writing style which does not allow the reader to become caught up in any one narrative for long. She tempers this exploration of the victims of genocide with a focus on those who survive, as progressive literature must look beyond the horror of the genocide in order to acknowledge Rwanda’s recovery. Nietzsche warns that “there is a degree of sleeplessness, of rumination, of the historical sense, which is harmful and ultimately fatal to the living thing, whether this living thing be a man a people or a culture” (62) and to this end, Tadjo’s awareness of the need to temper the past with visions of the future is invaluable to her writing.

As Tadjo’s text is a travelogue, she records her interactions with the many Rwandans that she meets throughout the narrative. In bringing so many individual voices to the fore, Tadjo explores the complex subject positions created in Rwanda by the genocide and draws the reader’s attention to a number of lesser-discussed challenges faced by the Rwandan population.

Tadjo also considers how the genocide has shaped the collective national construction of

Rwandan identity. This is a particularly important consideration, as mass violence often 204 becomes a profoundly important aspect of post-violence identity, both for national and international citizens. In the case of the Jewish genocide of WWII, post-holocaust Jewish identity became a “defining [aspect] of Israeli identity and politics, highlight[ing] the process by which a social memory is assimilated in the performative acts of a culture” (128). The public discourse around events of mass violence determines how they will be integrated into the constructed narratives of identity within and outside of specific nations. In the case of the

Holocaust, the Jewish narrative was coherent; while distinguished by individual experiences, the

Jewish people were united by emergent narratives of post-WWII identity because perpetrators generally originated from outside of the Jewish community. However, in the case of Rwanda, the construction of post-genocide identity is challenged by the fact that Rwandans have very different memories and perspectives on the genocide, based largely on the ethnic distinctions of the genocide. While simplistic identifications should be avoided, it remains the case that the perpetrators and the victims of this violence originated from the same society but narrate their experience from very different subject positions. Hunt concurs with this analysis, stating that in post-genocide societies, “there is often a dispute regarding the nature of societal memory” (122).

A failure to include multiple perspectives into the narrative record can serve as the basis for renewed conflict, as “identities forged out of half memories or false memories easily lead to future transgressions” (Krog 32). It is precisely because of the complexity of narrative coherence in the Rwandan recovery that Tadjo’s approach is so valuable, as she explores the recovery of the nation, and not just the victims of violence.

The other text, Linden’s play I Have Before Me A Remarkable Document Given To Me

By A Young Lady From Rwanda, was first published in 2004. This play is based on Linden’s interaction with a Rwandan survivor in Britain, so while not autobiographical, this is a work 205 based on personal experience, much like Tadjo’s narrative. This text takes on a complex subject, exploring the diasporic community of Rwanda through the character Juliette, who is a genocide survivor and a refugee in Britain. While ultimately this is a narrative about personal recovery, it also addresses Juliette’s challenges within a society that is at times hostile and dismissive of her needs. There are multiple complex factors in play here, specifically race, nationality, and economics. The decision to locate Juliette’s recovery amidst several very complicated other issues demonstrates some of the challenges faced by those escaped Rwanda during or after the genocide and attempted to begin new lives abroad. It also reminds readers that recovery does not occur within a vacuum, but rather, takes place alongside the complexities of everyday life. This framing also allows Linden to explore the potential interaction between those who experienced and those who observed the genocide, offering a compelling social commentary about the neocolonial influences that shape cross-cultural interactions.

Racial inequality is an important issue addressed in the play precisely because this inequality was fundamental to the Western failure to respond to the Rwandan genocide in April

1994. In choosing Juliette as the protagonist of this play, originally performed for a diverse

London audience, Linden asserts the value of this youthful, female, Rwandan perspective for the edification of the audience. As the coverage of the genocide relied primarily on simplistic explanations for the violence, and the recovery received little attention, performances such as this one stand as one of the few avenues currently available for Rwandan expression on the international stage. In part, this omission reflects pervasive racial politics; McKittrick and

Woods note that racial essentialism “situates black subjects and their geopolitical concerns as being elsewhere (on the margin, the underside, outside the normal), a spatial practice that conveniently props up the mythical norm and erases or obscures the daily struggles of particular 206 communities” (4). While these practices clearly have an impact on the self-representation of black communities, there is also a larger concern here. By undercutting the importance and relevance of struggles by black communities in larger social and political discussions, black communities are further denied a voice in international discussions of many kinds.

Fundamentally, dismissing individual and collective black voices serves to validate the assumption that these people have nothing to offer the international community. Paulla Ebron asserts that “for too many, Africa has not yet achieved the status that warrants consideration within most global discussions” (3). Representations of Africa that undercut its successes and its potential serve the neocolonial hierarchy that validates the West on the basis of racial and economic discourses established by the West. As the international community observed the genocide, however little they may have understood it, discussions of Rwandan recovery deserve an equal place in international discourse. By bringing Juliette’s recovery to the stage, Linden instigates an important dialogue in which Rwandans claim a valuable role as educators, not just of genocide, but of racial politics more generally.

In discussing the use of restorative values in recovery from mass victimization, Finn

Tschudi writes that

a typical reason for the failure of negotiations may be that restorative values such as

humility and respect are not present in the process. A widespread assumption which is

contrary to restorative values is that we are in direct, unmediated contact with reality and

see things the way they really are. This assumption is the core of naïve realism and leads

to poor communication when we encounter others who see people and events quite

differently from us. (54-55) 207

He makes the important point that without equality and a willingness to recognize bias, there is little change in the dynamic of any given interaction and recovery is not possible. Even as

Rwanda recovers from the genocide of 1994, there is an international disinterest in this process of recovery. This means that constructions of modern Rwandan identity by the international community will remain framed by the same assumptions which denied Rwanda aid in the first place. By applying Tschudi’s concept of productive recovery to the relationship between

Rwanda and the international community, it is clear that a failure to critically engage with the emerging identity politics of post-genocide Rwanda and recognize the complex challenges facing the population will condemn Rwandans to the simplistic identity categories which have so far defined the colonial and neocolonial era. In order to pursue a more progressive and effective interaction, Rwandans must be seen as complex individuals and Rwanda as a nation must redefine itself. Certainly, Paul Kagame’s government has worked to eradicate ethnic categories and pursue an inclusive national identity. Now, it is the responsibility of the international community, both individual citizens and governments, to engage with this new Rwandan self- definition and reject jaded racial prejudice. Through public performance, new practices of engagement with foreign cultures can become a powerful means of fostering understanding and respect between diverse communities.

The second character in this play is Simon, a middle-aged English man with a single published book of poetry and a growing fear that he will never find success as a writer. He works at a Refugee Centre as a writing mentor. Linden’s choice to have only two characters in this play serves to foreground the interaction between Juliette and Simon, and allows the audience to witness how they change as a result of their developing relationship. By the very fact of their initial hesitation, Linden demonstrates the importance of cross-cultural interaction. 208

When they first appear on-stage, it is their differences that are most evident to the audience.

However, as the characters begin to confide in one another, their similarities and the productive energy of their friendship becomes a powerful presence on the stage. This play, deeply political and engaged with the lived challenges of a diverse London audience, demonstrates the very lesson it seeks to convey: that honest communication can unite people across racial, cultural, gender, and class divisions. Linden, aware that “repeated interaction between people holding different convictions, or having different cultural, ethnic or religious status, will increase one’s capacity to understand the perspective of opponents and thus will reduce prejudice towards that group” (Rhone 11), uses her play as a means of educating the audience about the challenges and rewards of cross-cultural interactions. As they collaborate on Juliette’s novel about the genocide, both characters gain insight, empathy, and respect for the other’s position and life experience.

The Shadow of Imana and I Have Before Me A Remarkable Document Given To Me By A

Young Lady From Rwanda are ultimately focused on exploring post-genocide Rwanda in terms of social and political shifts. While the practical recovery efforts within Rwanda are evident to visitors and citizens, more fundamental changes to Rwandan identity constructions are difficult to trace. Both Tadjo and Linden use cultural and cross-cultural interaction in order to show how

Rwandans have incorporated the fact of the genocide into their life narratives, positively or negatively. The research question that seems to drive both texts asks: how has the genocide influenced Rwandan citizens in the post-genocide social and cultural landscape and what are the implications of this change? Both authors examine how the genocide has coloured international perceptions of Rwanda and its citizens. Their texts are an effort to assert Rwandan self- definitions in response to dated or absent constructions of Rwandan identity on the international 209 stage. They privilege Rwandan voices in order to undercut a clear bias in representation, and demonstrate conversations between Rwandans and a wider global community. These interests provide readers with models of cross-cultural engagement and testify to the value of rejecting hierarchies in favour of equality.

Tadjo’s personal interests drive the narration of In the Shadow of Imana, which traces her journey through Rwanda. She opens the text with an admission of her sense of duty in visiting

Rwanda, a choice which ultimately discloses the personal and political motivations of her writing:

It had long been by dream to go to Rwanda. No, ‘dream’ is not the right word. I had

long felt a need to exorcise Rwanda. To go to that place where those images we had seen

on television had been filmed, images that had flashed across the world and had left an

indelible horror in every heart. I did not want Rwanda to remain forever a nightmare, a

primal fear. (3)

It is compelling that Tadjo admits her susceptibility to the popular framing of the genocide for

Western viewers, as it aligns her with her readers while identifying her as someone willing to question accepted socio-political narratives about Rwanda. For Tadjo, the representation of

Rwanda as a space of horror and chaos motivates her towards further investigation, and she here urges her readers to join her in this experience. It is clear that her political motivation is to challenge the representation that took place during and immediately after the genocide, a goal which requires her to engage directly with Rwandan individuals and communities. Tadjo’s understanding of the genocide is productive; she recognizes it as a geographically and culturally localized but socially and politically diffuse event. She writes that “I was starting from a 210 particular premise: what had happened there concerned us all” (3), a statement which personalizes the genocide and Tadjo’s commitment to representing it as an event important to all

Western readers and not just Rwandans.

Tadjo’s writing reflects her experience of traveling across Rwanda, but the organization of her text is fragmented, a record of events and considerations rather than a clear and contiguous narrative. Martina Kopf writes of Tadjo’s narrative that “the fragmentary form reflects the impossibility of telling a coherent, linear story, of making a meaning out of what she encountered” (10) and there is merit to this analysis. However, it seems to dismiss Tadjo’s stated purpose in writing this text, which was to offer some basis for a new understanding of Rwanda that is not entirely dictated by the genocide. This disjointed narrative offers episodic views of

Rwanda: the people, the geography, notable sites. The genocide is present in the text, but not ever-present. These varied glimpses of Rwanda help to imaginatively recreate the experience of traveling through Rwanda, and offer the reader space for their own responses and emotions.

Tadjo’s purpose here is to witness post-genocide Rwanda and share that vision, often unmediated by authorial commentary, with the reader. This process of witnessing for the purpose of education is fraught with challenges, but by encouraging readers to respond uniquely to Tadjo’s encounters with various Rwandans, the text is ultimately successful. As Felman and Laub point out, one “does not have to possess or own the truth in order to effectively bear witness to it

[Emphasis in the original]” (15). Despite not being Rwandan, or having any experience with the genocide, Tadjo’s text bears witness to post-genocide Rwanda, and engages with a range of individuals who speak collectively for Rwanda’s citizenry.

Tadjo starts from the premise that the genocide was a global event relevant to all people, regardless of how many averted their eyes and excused their responsibility. That her text sets 211 itself the task of evolving the understanding of Rwanda in the international imagination through cultural education is productive. Anxious to address the perception that such large-scale violence is endemic to Africa alone, she writes

Yes, I went to Rwanda but Rwanda is also here in my country…I am afraid when, in my

country, I hear people talk of who belongs there and who doesn’t. Creating division.

Creating foreigners. Inventing the idea of rejection. How is ethnic identity learned?

Where does this fear of the Other come from, bringing violence in its wake? (37)

This sentiment challenges the construction of any space or people as inherently violent and reminds the reader that complex social and cultural division is a part of all societies. In admitting to division in her own country, she relieves Rwanda of the burden of being overly- defined by its own history of conflict. It is also interesting that Tadjo does not identify her country; born in Paris, raised in the Côte d’Ivoire, and having lived as an adult in Paris, Lagos,

Mexico City, Nairobi and London (“Biography”), she could be speaking of any of these places.

This further dismisses the simplistic boundaries so often imposed on the world and its citizens: the first, second, and third world, the North/South divide, the colonial construction of the centre and the periphery. All of these seek to define through opposition; they are categorizations that fundamentally induce rhetorics of disparity.

In post-genocide Rwanda, Kigali is not a site of horror but rather one of recovery and human action. Tadjo notes that “from a distance, the city seems to have forgotten everything, digested everything, swallowed everything. The streets are full of people. The flow of cars is never-ending. Everyone wants to make a place for themselves, begin everything all over again”

(9). This introduction to the geographic space of Kigali helps to establish a context from which the reader can understand how the genocide influences daily life in the present. The crowds of 212 people seem to surprise the author, even as they may surprise readers prepared to confront the chaos and destruction of the genocide. In moving through this post-genocide space, Tadjo invites awareness of the recovery which is underway in Rwanda, and which receives very limited acknowledgement from the international community. Indeed, she seems to be speaking of herself when she says that “a lot of time is needed to accept that trees planted in this land of sorrows have been able to bear fruit” (10). Her approach here is valuable because she admits her own presumptions and describes her own surprise to find Rwanda, at least at first glance, working towards recovery. Tadjo’s admission that she expected to see evidence of a society struggling under the weight of the genocide is compelling. By admitting to her own assumptions, Tadjo demonstrates the value of investigation and discourse in affecting social change.

Memorial sites, usually churches or communal gathering spaces, draw observers who wish to understand the lived experience of mass violence in Rwanda. As these sites were usually spaces where communities gathered, these memorials remain central to recovering communities, a relationship that can be fraught as well as comforting. Visiting these sites, Tadjo draws the reader’s attention to the affective nature of memorials, as well as to the facts and experiences of genocide which define each distinct space. By choosing these sites to be her first introductions to post-genocide Rwanda, Tadjo draws attention to existence of “dark tourism” (Lennon and

Foley 11) as a recent reality in Rwanda; these spaces of past violence can serve educational and political purposed for Western observers, but as tourist attractions, they can also affirm

Rwanda’s genocide as a defining aspect of local culture and identity. Jay Winter, discussing how memories of past violence are put to use in the politics of the present, observes that “starting in 1918, practices of remembrance have been first and foremost acts of mourning” (54). Official 213 memorial sites in Rwanda are linked to the governmental program of remembrance through purple fabric which denotes them as spaces of violence during the genocide. These sites carry educational and political weight because they inscribe historical events with national significance. For international visitors, these sites permit the opportunity to observe the actual sites of mass killings; there are mass graves incorporated into several of the memorials. Beyond recognition of the violence which occurred, these spaces also foster understanding and discussion as guides are employed to explain the recent history of these spaces and to narrate the events which led up to the killings. Finally, these spaces provide a means of bearing witness to the genocide in Rwanda; all sites have visitor logs in which visitors can sign their name and make comments about what they have seen and learned.

Tadjo records her visit to two memorials in Bugesera, Rwanda. She introduces the first memorial, Nyamata, with the words: “site of genocide. Plus or minus 35,000 dead” (11). These figures attempt to define a suffering that cannot be conveyed with words. Tadjo, seemingly aware of this limitation of human comprehension, turns her attention to one individual story among the many narratives that are contained within this tiny church:

A woman bound hand and foot. Mukandori. Aged twenty-five. Exhumed in 1997…Her

wrists are bound, and tied to her ankles. Her legs are spread wide apart. Her body is

lying on its side. She looks like an enormous fossilised foetus. She has been laid on a

dirty blanket, in front of carefully lined up skulls and bones scattered on a mat. She has

been raped. A pickaxe has been forced into her vagina. She died from a machete blow to

the nape of her neck. You can see the groove left by the impact. (11)

Describing this image, Tadjo accomplishes two things: she invites the reader to engage imaginatively in the act of observing this preserved figure, and she leaves a space for the reader 214 to respond to this image. The image Tadjo paints of this figure amidst so many other signs of death is a powerful reminder that each skull in the church also represents a story of trauma and death. Such scenes of death can be overwhelming, causing the reader to disengage, and so Tadjo encourages the reader to focus on a single human life stopped short after a great deal of suffering. In the spare narration style here, Tadjo omits her own response to this figure, which permits the reader to react without influence or guidance. Using direct narration, Tadjo directs the reader’s eye, but does not attempt to shape the reader’s emotions.

While Tadjo does not share her response to the body of Mukandori, the text conveys the effect of the enclosed space of the church on the author. While the memorial is an organized and protected space, Tadjo experiences the church as chaotic: “these dead are screaming still. The chaos remains palpable. The events are too recent. This is not a memorial but death laid bare, exposed in all its rawness” (12). This is an important moment of narrative intrusion; Tadjo describes the factual objects and images of the church, but she also conveys that which is only palpable to visitors. The chaos that she discusses here is not a fact of the space, but rather a perception informed by her recognition of the meaning behind these bones and skulls. Focused on a single body, Tadjo seems impassive, but stepping back to survey the wider scene, she is overwhelmed by the sheer scale of violence evidenced in Nyamata Church. It defies comprehension, and so she narrates the chaos, evoking the space of the church in so doing. This sense of the church as overwhelming is echoed by the author’s difficulty finding appropriate words to write in the memorial book. Here she reminds readers that responses are difficult but necessary. This moment of discomposure, narrated for the edification of the reader, demonstrates the value of attempting to observe and understand, even when such efforts fall short or fail. 215

At a second site, Ntarama, Tadjo turns her focus away from the remains of the dead to observe the guide whose duty is to preserve this space and aid in understanding. Of this guide,

Tadjo notes that

white-haired and serene, the little old man has a quizzical look. He is observing the

visitor, weighing them up, studying them closely, stripping them of their marks. He can

categorise them straight away: those who will avert their gaze from the spectacle of death

laid out before them, those who will be shocked, those who will weep, those who will

remain silent, those who will ask questions, pen in hand, those who will seek to

rationalise, to understand, those who will give him money and those who will not dare,

those who will write: ‘Never again!’ (14)

Tadjo considers this guide’s relationship to the visitors who witness the aftermath of the

Rwandan Genocide, emphasizing his ability to read the responses and emotions of those who explore this site of genocide. Her narration attempts to imaginatively capture his experience of post-genocide witnessing, and in doing so, reveals an interesting consequence of the Rwandan genocide: because Rwanda has been marked by genocide in the popular imagination, visitors often turn to Rwandan citizens to understand how such violence, and such recovery, is possible.

By virtue of his experience and accessibility, this man becomes responsible for aiding those who observe this horror while his own response is carefully held in check. The range of responses observed by the guide is an exploration of the ways that witnessing manifests itself; Tadjo clarifies that the effort to understand large-scale violence is complex and distinct for each person, carving further space for the reactions of her readers.

* 216

As Tadjo moves through Rwanda, visiting heritage and genocide sites, she includes in her narrative the citizens that she meets. This allows her to trace the complex implications of the genocide on the people of Rwanda, and, like the texts of chapter four, emphasize the diversity of this post-genocide population. This representation of brief moments of interaction is particularly important for Western readers; Seyla Benhabib observes that “I can become aware of the otherness of others, those aspects of their identity that make them concrete others to me, only through their own narratives [Emphasis in the original]” (14). Having individuals residing in

Rwanda assert their voice in this text allows Tadjo to convey their concerns to the reader more directly. This is particularly important as many texts about the genocide frame Rwandan identities as wholly tied up in the genocide. In an effort to resist such characterizations, Tadjo demonstrates a range of surprising subjects who challenge the popular constructs of Rwandan victimization and Rwandan violence. Discussing the representation of marginalized experience,

Hall states that “the attempt to snatch from the hidden histories another place to stand in, another place to speak from – that moment is extremely important. It is a moment that always tends to be overrun and to be marginalized by the dominant forces of globalization” (184). These stories stand as hidden histories brought to light within Tadjo’s spare narrative style, respectful of

Rwandan experiences and supportive of a more dynamic view of Rwandan national identity.

The text introduces each interaction with a title and then jumps into the narrative interests of Tadjo’s subjects. This discussion will explore six of Tadjo’s many interactions in order to identify important issues facing the Rwandan population. The first narrative under consideration is Nelly, whose story is entitled “Migina Suburb, Near the Amahoro Stadium in Kigali” (34).

This woman owns a small bar in Kigali, at the back of which is her home. Tadjo describes Nelly as “wearing a hat that conceals half her face, and a long floral dress. Her body is too slender, 217 almost skinny” (34). While initially, Nelly keeps her distance after serving drinks to Tadjo and

Tadjo’s unnamed companion, she surprises them by inviting them back into the house to “come and see [her] family!” (35). It is within this house that Nelly becomes a complex subject, as her personal life is revealed:

At the foot of the bed, a girl is washing a child in a large white basin…The girl is

beautiful. She makes very slow gestures to calm the small child. Nelly declares: ‘This is

my daughter. I am a grandmother!’ She goes up to [a] sleeping boy [of about six years

of age] and murmurs: ‘This one is my darling. He is a gift from God.’ Roughly she

seizes his arm and shakes him hard. The child opens his eyes and makes feeble protest

for a few seconds. Then he goes back to sleep lying on his back. Nelly laughs

uproariously and goes to the baby, whom her daughter is now smearing with Vaseline.

She slaps his bottom a few times saying: ‘I don’t want this one. He was born of the war.

What are we to do with him?’ As she says this, she is preparing to hit him. Her daughter

says something without raising her head. Nelly stops short, seizes the child and plants a

smacking kiss on his mouth. (35)

This scene raises the issue of war rape in the aftermath of the genocide, drawing attention to the very conflicting emotions that can shape a family’s response to a child of rape.20 Nelly, the matriarch of this family, here demonstrates her personal pride in her family, as well as her conflicting emotions about her two grandchildren. Of the child born just before the genocide, she demonstrates ferocious devotion and pride; for the second child, a child of rape, she admits

20 This issue has been explored in some detail by the Israeli artist Jonathan Torgovnik, who toured Rwanda over three years, 2006-2009, interviewing and photographing Rwandan women who had been raped during the genocide and were left pregnant as a result. This work eventually opened as a gallery exhibit in New York under the title “Intended Consequences: Rwandan Children Born of Rape” in April 2009. The photographs depict these mothers and children together, and offer an interesting basis for the consideration of how war rape serves as the basis of complex relationships between mothers and children. One specific image from this exhibition claimed the US National Portrait Gallery’s Photographic Portrait Prize in 2007. 218 she has no love. This child was unwanted, conceived violently, and stands, in Nelly’s mind, as a reminder of the genocide. Despite her light tone and laughter, this is a serious admission to a problem suffered by families across Rwanda. Recovery from the genocide is about integrating the facts and memories of genocide into a larger, coherent life narrative. Children born of genocidal rape deserve to be integrated into individual and familial recoveries, although they simultaneously represent the trauma of genocide. Tadjo notes that Nelly was “preparing to hit him” (35) without reason, aside from the fact of his birth. While rough with her grandchildren,

Nelly is aggressive with this second child. She also poses a compelling question: “what are we to do with him?” (35). There is no answer to this question; this child, like the burden of trauma, is the result of the genocide and must be accepted in order to begin the work of individual and familial recovery.

An additional issue here is the exchange between Nelly and her daughter, the unwanted child’s mother. As Tadjo enters the house, the daughter is carefully caring for this boy. She does not speak as Nelly introduces each of the children, nor does she protest the small slaps as

Nelly announces his lineage. However, this young mother defends her child from the threat of a more forceful attack, murmuring something which compels Nelly to kiss the child instead.

While the reader is not privy to what she has said, three things are clear: first, regardless of the parentage of this child, the young woman is devoted to him and actively protects him.

Secondly, Nelly and her daughter have conflicting views on this child, and ultimately, it is the daughter who determines the family’s attitude towards this rape baby. The efficiency with which she curtails Nelly’s attack suggests that this conflict has been discussed before. Finally, Nelly’s rough handling of the baby demonstrates that these children of rape may face rejection in their immediate families and communities. This brief exchange as Tadjo moves through Nelly’s work 219 and domestic space demonstrates how the ramifications of genocide can be hidden within the domestic sphere rather then made visible in Rwanda’s public spaces. While the trauma of war rape has been recognized as a substantial burden, , this interaction demonstrates to readers the lifetime consequences of this action for the women and families of Rwanda. This is particularly the case because in Rwandan culture, rape is a mark of shame and has often caused families to reject their daughters publicly, denying them support or protection. However, in this instance,

Nelly’s daughter is evidence of a changing social norm in Rwanda, as she retains authority over

Nelly’s treatment of her children. In this case, post-genocide recovery has required Rwandans to think critically about traditional social practices, and revise enacted tradition in ways that allow increased freedom for some.

The second narrative under consideration here is entitled “Consolate’s Story.” Tadjo first offers a physical description to ground her narration of Consolate’s post-genocide experiences.

She says that

Consolate has a face of astonishing sweetness. Her skin gives off reflections of copper

and ivory and her graceful body sways to the rhythm of her steps…her eyes are velvety

and her smile has the taste of mango. Sometimes, if she turns sharply, her silhouette

describes a powerful arabesque. Consolate speaks in a hushed tone, but her words come

out of her mouth with a clarity that makes you shiver. Her manner is not assertive, nor is

her speech emphatic. (28)

These descriptors emphasize Consolate’s vibrant physicality before revealing that Consolate’s father is dead and her mother is a perpetrator serving a life sentence in prison. Consolate remains in Rwanda to provide emotional support for her mother, but “no longer recognises her mother on the other side of the invisible barrier, this broken, damaged woman who looks like 220 nothing” (28). In juxtaposing Consolate with the post-genocide circumstances she faces, Tadjo emphasizes how the individual devastation of the genocide causes ripples into the future.

Accepting her mother’s inevitable decline in prison, Consolate “has mourned the future. The future no longer exists for her. Her days are nothing but a long anguished wait, a desire to leave for another place. The world stretches beyond the other side of those hills, far from death, far from this prison, from her captive memory, fixed, frozen in time” (29). In accepting her mother’s jailing, Consolate loses her only connection to family; in recognizing that her mother’s jailing is necessary for national recovery, Consolate loses her connection to her homeland.

Unable to move past this reality, Consolate is waiting to be free of the trauma of genocide, passed down through families. While stories of Tutsi and Hutu victims are common, this narrative explores how the families of perpetrators also carry a burden during recovery.

Consolate, a woman of soft sentiments who “cannot tear her gaze” (29) from a cat nursing her first litter of kittens, reminds readers that the children of perpetrators also suffer for the choices of their parents, and carry the weight of their parents crimes, as well as the knowledge that they are unlikely to ever reclaim their families. As much attention is paid to the victims of the genocide, Tadjo here emphasizes the unseen victims of perpetrators: their families and especially their children.

In a brief narration entitled “The Pastor,” Tadjo explores the powerful post-genocide guilt faced by a pastor who was charged with protecting four children as their parents fled during the genocide. The belief that the churches were safe spaces and that the génocidaires would not kill people in view of the clergy was prevalent in the early days of the genocide. However, the pastor’s house was ransacked and the children discovered. The militia ordered the pastor to kill one of the children himself; the pastor swung the machete once and ran when he saw blood. 221

Hiding in a refugee camp until the end of the genocide, the pastor turns himself in to face prosecution for the murder of this child. When asked by the prosecutor what he feels his punishment should be, the pastor responds: “I must die” (96). Scott Straus has estimated the number of perpetrators at 200,000 (“How Many Perpetrators Were There in the Rwandan

Genocide? An Estimate” 95), but there are no accurate estimates of how many of these perpetrators were forced to kill, either by public pressure or direct threat. This narrative reminds readers of this complex form of participation in genocide, and more importantly, the extremely difficult path to recovery after such actions. The pastor, convinced of his guilt, is unable to forgive himself for his actions under the threat of death. For him, his moral weakness is a crime deserving of punishment. The pastor’s sense of guilt prevents any thought of his future or any desire to begin recovery. Through this brief narrative about the burden of guilt in a post- genocide society, Tadjo encourages the reader to recognize both the wide spectrum of those identified as perpetrators, and also to emphasize the weight of this identity on those co-opted into the genocide by force.

In “The Man Whose Life Was Turned Upside-Down,” Tadjo offers the story of a

Frenchman who arrived in Africa at the age of twenty-two, and has lived his whole life in

Rwanda. Of his time in Africa, he says “it was the encounter with Africa, this other world, that turned me upside-down, that gave me birth. What we have to understand is the absolute necessity of difference. The necessity of difference” (25-26). This connection to a place of adoptive origin is compelling; his genuine love of Rwanda is an inversion of the common colonial and neocolonial perception of Africa as the antithesis of European culture and innovation. This man provides a compelling commentary of the actions of the French during the genocide: “I know the truth of this, I am a witness to it: France ruined everything. She did not 222 keep her promises, she betrayed this country” (26). While this is a truthful statement, supported by the web of documents that detail France’s shipments of arms and men to Rwanda throughout the genocide, it is not a view commonly proffered in discussion of genocidal responsibility.

France’s role in the Rwandan Genocide has post-genocide implications; this Frenchman by birth and Rwandan by choice is now alienated by his nationality in Rwanda. Tadjo describes him as

“a man living on his dreams, on the past of this first encounter – of this revelation, this impossible love for a land which is now rejecting him. He feels torn, pulled apart by opposing forces which won’t let him just be a human being” (26). Tadjo wishes the reader to consider how failure of Western nations to publicly accept their full roll in the genocide has implications for many, such as expatriates who make their homes in Rwanda. This man carries guilt for which he cannot atone and a sense of rejection by the local Rwandan population. As such, he is a displaced person, distanced from his natural and adoptive homes. This depiction also reminds readers that the post-genocide recovery does not solely involve citizens born in Rwanda, but also naturalized citizens as well. For non-native citizens, the era of recovery in Rwanda involves a negotiation of local and international politics.

International interactions within Rwanda are further considered in “The Project

Manager,” which details the experiences of a non-Rwandan man who was working in Rwanda on an agricultural project before the genocide began. Having fled Rwanda at the first signs of violence, driven by “fear, physical fear, uncontrollable fear, of being caught in this terrifying violence that would certainly turn against…the foreigners” (30), the Project Manager returns to

Rwanda during the recovery in order to find colleagues and workers who may have survived the genocide. He has returned to “pay them their wages, the money that they were never able to get hold of when the Project closed its doors, amid widespread chaos and fear” (29). The 223 explanation of his exit from Rwanda is a reminder of the heightened racial tensions of the early days of the genocide, as expatriates were removed from Rwanda as Rwandan citizens begged for protection. These moments, broadcast globally, demonstrated the fundamental divisions of race and nationality which prioritized some lives over others. The guilt that drives the Project

Manager to return to Rwanda is a mixture of devotion to the responsibilities of his life in

Rwanda, and awareness that his escape was predicated on the good fortune of his race. For turning his back on his Rwandan neighbours and co-workers, he perceives himself as complicit in the larger refusal to aid Rwandans facing this genocide, and this guilt compels him to return and make amends. He believes that “if the Project resumes one day,…the dead will be appeased” (30). His personal recovery is dependant on aiding the recovery of those he knew before the genocide; he “is travelling the country from end to end, looking for people and finding a few” (30). This type of arduous commitment to co-workers long scattered speaks to the depth of his guilt and also his devotion to this country. Through this story, Tadjo reveals another permutation of the survivor narrative, and asks readers to recognize the cost of escape when it means embracing unspoken hierarchies of race to do so. The Project Manager, aware of the reasons for his survival, seeks to absolve himself by committing wholeheartedly to the agricultural work which first brought him to Rwanda. He says to Tadjo, “when the Project resumes,…I can die happy” (30). In this moment, the act of recovery is both public and personal, and demonstrates a sense of personal responsibility in the face of overwhelming threat.

The final narrative under consideration here is entitled “Seth and Valentine” and explores the call to return to a home long abandoned. Seth is a Rwandan man raised in Burundi due to the massacres that occurred in Rwanda in and after 1963, and who now lives in the United States.

His parents were assassinated in Rwanda after ensuring that their children had escaped the 224 nation. Seth plans to return to post-genocide Rwanda to raise his own family. His recent travels into the country have convinced him that “we have hit rock bottom. Now we are going to move up again” (77). Aware of the destruction of the genocide, he recognizes that Rwanda is a country full of potential, and as a citizen, he feels compelled to be involved with the recovery efforts. When Tadjo expresses surprise at his willingness to leave the comforts of the United

States and a life already established, he explains that his wife Valentine “will be able to get a job there and I will set up a business” (77). He sees their social and economic commitment to

Rwanda as essential to aiding in recovery. This drive to return to the country of birth is one which challenges the perception of Rwanda as an undesirable space and reminds the reader of the powerful lure of home. Tadjo describes Seth’s longing for home as “like the life-blood that pulses through the veins and arteries and makes the heart swell” (77). Seth is a member of the vast Rwandan diaspora, a testament to the severity of ethnic politics in the decades before the genocide. However, he also bears the marks of this diasporic existence; Tadjo writes that “his is an ivory tower existence” (76) and his confidence about his future in Rwanda is based on a conflation between present-day Rwanda and his own stable childhood in Burundi. What is important here is the powerful draw of nationality, however blinding that draw can be. Seth’s faith in Rwanda’s future compels him to return and face the challenges that all Rwanda’s citizens face as the genocide recedes from memory. This confidence is what Tadjo emphasizes, as it is a rare emotion in the discussions of Rwanda’s future that have been offered up to this point.

These six scenes excerpted from Tadjo’s wide-ranging interactions with Rwandan citizens demonstrate the complex subject positions created by the politics of post-genocide recovery. This diverse cross-section of Rwandan citizenry is an opportunity to affirming the diversity of post-genocide Rwandan communities while raising issues facing specific segments 225 of society. Tschudi notes that during recovery from large-scale conflict, “at the individual level the objective is to repair harm and thus foster dignity and empowerment for the persons involved. This requires participation of the local community. At the community level, the objective is to promote and strengthen a viable community with empathy and trust” (46). This text addresses both concerns. The portrait of individual citizens creates a sense of community amongst survivors, loosely defined, by emphasizing the personal challenges that arise out of the social and political crisis implicit in the genocide. By addressing the challenges of recovery on an individual level, Tadjo urges the reader to consider how the nation as a whole is affected by the grieving and recovery process. By raising ignored or unseen issues, such writing attempts to help Rwandan recovery. Travelogue narration, historically used to exoticize foreign cultures and spaces, is in this instance a means of renegotiating the international construct of post-genocide

Rwandan identity. As literature that exposes the daily concerns of Rwandan citizens, as voiced by those citizens, it invites the reader to reject the simplistic construct of victim or villain and instead see the diversity of Rwanda’s citizenry, and the complexity of their most pressing concerns.

Tadjo includes a section in her text called “The Wrath of the Dead,” which employs a narrative structure to demonstrate and underscore the challenge of recovering social order after the

Rwandan genocide. The protagonist of this narrative is a soothsayer, a traditional community guide who connects citizens to the spiritual world of their ancestors. This narrative draws on traditional Rwandan religious beliefs and emphasizes the potential of local culture to aid the recovery of Rwandan communities. It also demonstrates the efficacy of speech and narrative in 226 reclaiming identity, both for the speaker and for the audience. The text opens as narrative, describing the post-genocide state of Rwanda:

The dead were paying regular visits to the living and when they were with them, they

would asked (sic) why they had been killed…The dead would have liked to speak but no

one could hear them. They would have liked to say all that they had not had time to say,

all the words whose utterance they had been denied, cut from their tongues, torn from

their mouths. (41)

It is a bold choice to open this long section of narrative with the concerns of the dead rather than the living, as recovery ultimately focuses on survivors and not victims. However, this narrative choice dramatises the relationship between the living and the dead in a way that makes the burden of survival clear to the reader. The voices of these dead are the voices of Rwandan citizens in the midst of genocide. Their demand for voice in death speaks to their lack of voice in their last moments of life, and provocatively demonstrates how survivors can be weighed down by their own survival in the face of so much death.

This narrative focuses on one particular dead man whose soul is discontent and who is refusing to “quit the earth” (42) because he is angry that survivors are willing to forget the genocide in order to return to a semblance of normalcy. This dead man, determined to remain on earth with the living, cannot initiate conversations with the living, as they were “walled up inside their own pain, deafened by their own tears, and their regrets. The dead man knocked on doors and windows, but they did not open. He cried: ‘Why are you abandoning me? Now I am a corpse and you no longer recognise me. Can you not feel my presence among you?” (43). This failed exchange demonstrates how the memory of the genocide itself creates division in

Rwandan society. The act of grieving is intimately tied up with remembrance of the dead, but 227 for survivors, it is also connected to the memories of their own suffering. Thus, the act of grieving others is inextricably linked to the burden of personal loss. In an effort to recover after the genocide, Tadjo suggests that some Rwandans have turned their backs on the dead, or attempted to insulate themselves from the complexity of community engagement. Thus, the dead seek to remind the living of the importance of remembrance as a communal practice which affirms loss and asserts change going forward. This engagement between living and dead gives form to the discussion of trauma in post-genocide Rwanda; the use of traditional narrative details and spiritual beliefs establishes a framework of instigating discussions of mourning and productive recovery.

The rage of this dead man manifests in Rwanda as rain, an “angry rain shrieking its refusal to open the gates to the other world…the rain hammered on, stormed, rebelled, demanded that the spirit should remain where it was” (42). Within the narrative, the social, cultural and political disruptions caused by the genocide are mimicked by the disruptions of the natural world. The questions of this dead man are compelling, demonstrating concern about the individual and collective future in Rwanda: “Why so soon? Why like this? What will become of my voice, my eyes? Who will continue what I have begun” (43). The dead, who have only their deaths to consider, dwell on the past, while the survivors busy themselves with the efforts of social and personal recovery and try to avoid the past. This fear of engaging with the violence of the genocide reflects the fears of all Rwandans who survived to rebuild community. However, even as the dead force this issue forward for discussion, the survivors retreat from conversation until “everything had come to a halt” (43). Tadjo suggests here that avoidance of the fears and traumas of the past, divides individuals from their communities and halts effective recovery.

What is clear is that public discourse is in itself the challenge and the solution; opening 228 discussion proves difficult for the living and the dead, but will provide the means of recovery for both groups.

A soothsayer arrives from his home elsewhere in the hills of Rwanda, and before speaking to the survivors, he “greet[s] the rain, turn[s] to the wind, and beg[ins] to listen to the angered spirit. He hear[s] the story of his murder, the humiliations and torture which he had undergone before he was beheaded” (43). His actions demonstrate the value of listening and engaging in narratives of suffering; his respect and compassion for the dead convey to the reader the importance of actively acknowledging the traumas of the past. The soothsayer’s humility before this spirit is notable, as is his respect for the suffering and displacement of the dead.

Appeasing the spirit, he says “even as I weep, I know that my pain can never reach even the outer limit of your suffering, you who have been mown down by cruelty… I am vulnerable before you, a wretch of humanity” (43). In a gesture of appeasement, the soothsayer beseeches the dead to allow the living another opportunity to learn how to recover without shutting out the dead from the present. This emotional discourse which engages with the loss of the dead serves as a powerful antidote to the rage demonstrated by this spirit before the soothsayer arrived:

Suddenly, the rain began to calm so that only the regular murmur of its lamentations

could be heard, the refrain of despair. And soon, the first noises of daily life could be

heard: bursts of talking, shouts, objects being moved, engines thrumming, machinery

working somewhere at the end of the street, music coming from a radio. The inhabitants

came out of their shelters and hesitantly set out on the muddy roads. The rolling of

thunder came now only from a distance. Nature seemed to be peaceful again. (44)

This resumption of life on the promise of a recovery based in discourse and memory is a powerful moment in the narrative, and speaks directly to the needs of Rwandan communities in 229 the aftermath of the genocide. The spirit relinquishes his anger and he ceases to be a burden to the community. The fact that as the rain diminishes, the sounds of work and pleasure become audible is itself suggestive of recovery. The same can be said for the citizens who emerge from their homes and begin to travel and engage with others; communication eases the burden of recovery and draws people together. By actively recognizing the suffering of the past and being mindful of that suffering in the present, recovery becomes implicit in the acts of mourning the past and resuming daily life. Without intending to simplify the complex challenge of recovery in

Rwanda, Tadjo demonstrates the role of memory and tradition in reclaiming social order lost through genocide.

This narrative demonstrates the need to integrate the loss of the genocide into personal and national identities through collective recovery efforts. To this end, the soothsayer teaches the crowd gathered to “bury the dead according to our rites, bury their desiccated bodies, their bones growing old in the open air, so that we keep of them nothing but their memory, heightened by respect. Memory is like a sword dipped in steel, like rain in the heart of drought” (44-45).

This reminder of the value of shared cultural practices, as well as active commemoration, speaks to the need for collective engagement in the traumas of the genocide. Far from escaping the memories of trauma, the soothsayer urges his audience to embrace the fact of the genocide as a valuable tool for collective action in the future. However, this education is accompanied by a stern warning; as the diviner’s voice becomes “hard and sharp” (47), he warns the crowd to

“guard against a desire for vengeance and the perpetual cycle of violence and reprisals. The dead are not at peace because your hearts are still shot through with hatred…you live together, but look in opposite directions. You co-habit to survive, but no one is willing to take the first step” (47). This shift in tone is indicative of the real threat to Rwanda’s future as a cohesive and 230 productive nation posed by the failure to recover effectively. Rwanda’s long history of ethnic violence and the division caused by the genocide have forced a social cleavage which has slowed reconciliation between Rwandan citizens. This warning reminds the citizens that the tensions of the recovery era in Rwanda will only increase if true recovery is not achieved through memorialization and effective collective communication. Allowing the traumas of the genocide to silence post-genocide memorialization and public discourse undercuts the efficacy of practical recovery and the long-term development of a productive Rwandan national identity.

This narrative “The Wrath of the Dead” is offered as an oral tale and employs traditional elements from Rwandan culture. The soothsayer is representative of the traditional Rwandan spiritual system, much like the character of Funga in The Oldest Orphan. His arrival to face the anger of the spirit world after the genocide demonstrates the value of culture in the face of destruction; in Rwanda, traditional culture can be used to challenge the colonial and neocolonial devaluation of local identity, as well as the socio-political divisions of the genocide. The soothsayer unites citizens through discourse, integrating local experiences of genocide into the citizens’ constructions of self and nation, and warning that a failure to achieve some degree of unity could permit another eruption of violence. By considering Rwanda’s recovery through this modified oral narrative, Tadjo provides the reader with a vision of how traditional Rwandan culture might serve to aid genocide recovery in Rwanda. This narrative emphasizes the role of

Rwandan culture alongside the pursuit of legal and social justice. Ultimately, the soothsayer demonstrates confidence in the recovery of Rwanda, as he returns to the hills of Rwanda at the close of the narrative and allows the community to proceed as they choose. The narrative establishes the path towards recovery and demonstrates trust that the citizens of Rwanda can find ways to vocalize their experiences of genocide productively. 231

Tadjo’s narrative moves through Rwanda, exploring the role of memorial sites, citizen narratives, and traditional culture in the efforts of recovery. The form of the travel narrative encourages diverse reader responses, as many of the author’s experiences are narrated without commentary. This literary engagement with the genocide is powerful precisely because the reader bears witness to a post-genocide Rwanda in which the genocide is an important topic of conversation, but is increasingly a backdrop to emerging definitions of Rwandan national identity. The movement through the spaces of national memorialization demonstrate both the horror of the genocide and the way that discourses of genocide have been taken up by the national government and by local Rwandans alike. Offering moments of interaction with a wide range of Rwandans and expatriates encourages the reader to see the diversity of the Rwandan population, as well as the complexity of the process of recovery. Because of Tadjo’s spare narrative style, Rwandan voices are not mediated by narrative tropes, but rather speak for themselves and determine their own topics of discussion. The inclusion of the traditional narrative positions Rwandan culture as a valuable resource for Rwanda in imagining and working through the post-genocide recovery. As a post-genocide text, Tadjo’s work demonstrates the vibrancy and life that remains in Rwanda, even as the practical and emotional recovery continues. For readers whose image of Rwanda was forged during the genocide, this text offers a very different sense of Rwandan identity. Tadjo engages with the trauma of this nation, but she also affirms the potential of the recovery process.

The final text, Linden’s play I have Before Me A Remarkable Document Given To Me By A

Young Lady From Rwanda is written by Sonja Linden and supported by “Iceandfire,” a performance company dedicated to exploring human rights narratives. The use of this 232 performative format to introduce discussions about post-genocide Rwanda is compelling, as plays inherently offer the opportunity for increased audience engagement and interaction. Kalisa emphasizes the need for inclusive social recovery in the face of genocide, stating that “by definition, genocide annihilates everything, including the myths, symbols and language that define a community and its people. Theatre has the potential to encourage performers and the audience to envision new imagery, new language, and to reconnect with rituals” (518). In addressing the socio-political divisions that prevent interaction, the use of performance is an effective choice. Performance is a public event, one which requires the audience to make some response because “the reception of a given work of art is part of the work itself…[it] completes the whole creative process” (Ngũgĩ 82). Given that the objective of this play is to raise public understanding about the challenges facing Rwandan citizens in a post-genocide world and about the politics behind cross-cultural interactions, the emphasis on inciting public discourse is merited.

This play is inherently political. In the introduction to the play, the theatre company states that “we passionately believe art has a role to play in communicating one of the most pressing issues of today – the growing displacement of peoples from conflict zones…we aim to present to British audiences stories of individuals whose lives have been touched by these events” (6). The subject of the play is based on Sonja Linden’s own experiences working at the

Write to Life project through the Care of Victims of Torture Foundation (Linden 6). Even the title offers a political commentary:

Many people have commented on the lengthy title of my play, some thinking it brilliantly

arresting, others finding it annoyingly unwieldy…for Gourevitch, impatience with his

title seemed symptomatic of the West’s indifference to a genocide taking place in a tiny 233

country, off the map, in faraway darkest Africa. Similarly, my long title is a deliberate

challenge to our short attention span where Rwanda is concerned. (16)

Warned that having the word “Rwanda” in the title would likely “frighten audiences away” (16),

Linden refused to pacify her potential audience by hiding the subject matter of the play. While an unpopular topic with global audiences during the genocide, Linden’s play uses performance to convey the human dignity of genocide survivors and assert the specific value of discussing their treatment in British society.

This play is significantly the only text which steps away from the physical space of

Rwanda or considers the diasporic Rwandan community. Set in London, England, this play traces Juliette, a young female survivor of the genocide who claims refugee status in London.

While there, she meets Simon, a writer in his forties and it is through the interaction of these two characters that the social and political message of the play is generated. Linden’s political commentary is both general and specific. While she directly comments on the British support system which provides for refugees, it is clear that the identity politics which inform the relationship between Simon and Juliette are indicative of the larger tensions between Western and non-Western citizens. There are two primary issues explored in this discussion of the play: the challenges and rewards of cross-cultural interactions and the role of writing in recovery from large-scale trauma. The play affirms the value of communication after mass violence, demonstrating that communication, either speaking or listening, can form powerful connections between people otherwise divided by substantial social, cultural, and political barriers. The play, designed to engage audiences in public discussions of the socio-political superstructures which shape cross-cultural engagements between Rwandan and non-Rwandan actors, conveys its message to readers and audiences by demonstrating the complexities of bridging these divisions. 234

The vast Rwandan diaspora has significant communities throughout Africa, Europe, and

North America. Approximately six million Rwandese live outside of Rwanda (Mazimpaka). In the United Kingdom specifically, the Rwandese Community Association UK has been in operation since the late 1980s and “strives to keep the ties between Rwandans at home and those in the Diaspora and to keep the Rwandan culture alive by organizing cultural events for both

Rwandans and their friends and by encouraging Rwandan children to learn their language and culture” (“Rwandese Community Association in the UK”). Juliette is a proud Rwandan woman, but isolated as she is in London, she must rely on her adoptive community to aid her in her recovery; it is ultimately Simon’s support that allows her to reclaim a strong personal and social identity. Hunt suggests that the social aspect of recovery is under-appreciated by many, as “few authors have explicitly discussed how it is that social support is usually the best predictor of recovery from a traumatic event and the role of narrative in such recovery” (90). This play, demonstrating the value of cross-cultural interactions for Juliette, makes a strong socio-political comment about the nature of interactions between individuals of all races and cultures.

By setting this play in London rather than in Rwanda, Linden is able to explore the genocide both intimately and at a distance. Juliette’s experience of genocide allows for an intimate representation of individual recovery while also raising the larger social and political tensions around the issue of displaced citizens. This decision also challenges the lines which are often drawn around nations which have experienced mass-violence; Juliette’s life in London demonstrates that recovery from the Rwandan genocide is not intrinsically located in Rwanda, but must occur in all diasporic spaces. For new arrivals, and particularly for visible minorities, forming an identity within a new nation can be exceedingly difficult. Of national identity and those excluded from belonging, Said writes that 235

just beyond the perimeter of what nationalism constructs as the nation, at the frontier

separating ‘us’ from what is alien, is the perilous territory of not-belonging. This is

where,…in the modern era, immense aggregates of humanity loiter as refugees and

displaced persons. One enormous difficulty in describing this…is that nationalisms are

about groups, whereas exile is about the absence of an organic group situated in a native

place. (“The Mind of Winter” 51)

Juliette, who lives in London for months before having any meaningful discussion with a local

Londoner, experiences the unspoken hostility of British nationals who assume by her skin colour and bearing that she is not British. Displaced from Rwanda and unwelcome in Britain, Juliette’s daily experiences in the city are an additional burden to a woman already carrying the memory of genocide in her home nation. Because she lives as a refugee, Juliette is at the mercy of the

British system of governance, which provides for her physical but not her emotional needs. Her treatment by the government demonstrates the devaluing which underwrites the negative public perception of refugees, as “one way of ‘managing’ a population is to constitute them as the less than human without entitlement to rights, as the humanly unrecognizable…‘Managing’ a population is thus not only a process through which regulatory power produces a set of subjects.

It is also the process of their de-subjectification” (Butler 98). Juliette’s social exclusion undermines her efforts to recover from the genocide by making a new life in London very difficult to establish. As Juliette blossoms as a character on-stage, it becomes clear to the audience that the term “refugee” belies the complexity of lived refugee experiences.

Linden constructs the character of Simon as representative of the British public, while his lack of understanding of the Rwandan genocide aligns him with many around the world who watched the coverage of the genocide from a distance and with dispassion. While not 236 disinterested in the genocide, Simon’s lack of knowledge stems from the fact that coverage of the events emphasized the distance between the viewer and those represented on screen. As Juliette is identified from the onset of the play as Rwandan, and as a survivor very much caught up in her personal experience of genocide, their interaction is compelling on multiple levels. Most broadly interpreted, the relationship between Simon and Juliette offers audiences an opportunity to observe the emergence of a relationship affected by the politics of racial difference, national difference, and class disparity.

The value of demonstrating and exploring cross-cultural exchanges through performance is significant given the increasingly porous borders of the current global community. Interaction between people from different social, cultural, political, and religious collectives allows for greater understanding of differences. Arsovska, Valiñas and Vanspauwen discuss the value of diverse social interactions, writing that

‘bridging’ social capital can be much more effective in promoting and installing

democratic values in a society than ‘bonding’ social capital…Interaction between people

from different social cleavages is more valuable that [sic] interaction between people

sharing same demographic characteristics. (447)

The developing friendship between Juliette and Simon is just such an example of this bridging social capital; these two characters from very different societies discover that they have multiple shared interests. More importantly, they prove to be immensely important to one another’s personal growth.

As the play begins, Linden seats both characters on stage, ostensibly in two separate rooms. Simon is seated in his office, while Juliette waits outside. Simon is relaxed, waiting for

Juliette while considering the room and wondering casually about his next client. Juliette, on the 237 other side of the wall, is a study in contrasts: tense from the journey to the office on the train, unsure about the impression she will make on Simon, and nervously hugging her completed writing to her chest. While Simon’s dedication to this job is only vaguely evident, Juliette’s investment in the meeting is obvious to the audience. Her first words betray her fear, and more, the value she places on this opportunity: “I’m early. I’m always early. I want to make a good impression. It’s important” (18). The balance of power here is easily gleaned from the way that these characters prepare to meet one another. What is also interesting is the way that these two characters construct the other imaginatively before they meet. As Simon scans his preparatory documents, he sees Juliette’s full name and says to himself “my first client. An African. Juliette

Niy…rabeza. Juliette spelled the French way. Of course, it was a French colony. Better look that up” (19). It is compelling that for Simon, Juliette’s identity can be summed by her race and her nationality. In particular, it is the colonial history of Rwanda that spurs Simon’s memory.

He does not wonder about her personality or even personal circumstances. The brevity of his imagining further suggests his confidence in this meeting, as he demonstrates no concern or discomfort. Simon’s sense that a quick scan of the internet or an encyclopædia will provide him with what he needs to know about Juliette’s culture further indicates a degree of cultural imperialism which Simon does not recognize within himself.

Conversely, Juliette has already constructed an elaborate vision of Simon before they meet, based on a similarly colonial understanding of British identity. Because Simon is a writer,

Juliette expects to see a British professor:

Glasses. For sure he will wear glasses. Probably those little ones at the end of the nose.

So he will look down at me like this. And he will be dressed in a smart suit, navy or

black, and a white shirt and a tie. Maybe his old university tie. Oh, he must be so 238

educated! His English will be perfect – perfect grammar, perfect spelling. I don’t mind

how strict he is, I need to learn. (19)

Juliette’s vision of the learned English scholar demonstrates how false the constructions of identity can be, and also demonstrates that the assumptions of cultural imperialism travel in two directions. Unfamiliar with English culture, as Simon is with Rwandan history, Juliette allows stereotypes to inform her vision of English writers. Juliette’s imaginings also demonstrate how this English identity is wrapped up with education and authority; Juliette presumes that Simon will be a commanding teacher rather than an approachable friend, positioning herself as the uneducated student.

Linden confronts these assumptions and expectations for the benefit of the audience when

Simon and Juliette meet. Their discussion is awkward and fraught with hesitation, as this situation is new to them both. Juliette is notably thrown by Simon’s lack of a phone, a secretary, and books in his office; she does not know how to evaluate this man who has none of the trappings of authority which she expected. Simon is similarly out of his depth in Juliette’s brief discussion of the genocide, as he is unable even to name the year that the genocide occurred. At the end of the interview, each character speaks directly to the audience, unheard by the other.

Juliette’s disappointment is palpable:

He’s no good! He can’t help me. I’m not going back there. He had a stain on his

trousers. So he can’t have a wife. He must be an English bachelor. I thought he would

be a proper writer. A man of letters. Not a man with a stain on his trousers. And here

were no books in his room. I thought I would see rows of his books. Some in the drawer

he said. Why hide them in a drawer? What was that new word…scribble? I’ll write it

down. It doesn’t sound too nice – scribble. He’s a scribbler, that man. (22-23) 239

As she cannot understand Simon to be a proper writer, she relies on another antiquated construction to characterize him: the English bachelor. She cannot connect the noble profession of writing to Simon’s casual presentation in the Refugee Offices and she cannot see her way to placing her trust in him, as he has none of the trappings of professionalism and academia that she anticipated. However, Simon’s sense of the meeting is very different. He evaluates Juliette briefly and mistakes her disinterest in his guidance as nervousness: “sweet girl…bit naïve…shy.

Probably looks up to me: ‘The Writer’. Well, I’ll have to do something about that at our next meeting, make her more at ease. Huh! ‘The Writer’!” (23). In this recounting, Simon looks at himself through Juliette’s eyes and proudly assumes that he cuts an intimidating figure. This is interesting because Simon reveals several of his fears privately. Although he claims to be a writer, his publications are limited to a single book of poetry. He has not been able to write of late, and his work at the Refugee Centre is his attempt to shore up scholarly credibility and distract himself from what he perceives as his dwindling career opportunities. This exchange demonstrates to the audience how the assumptions of these two characters reflect racial and national politics. Their failed communication and Juliette’s dissatisfaction with the interview establishes that initial cross-cultural interactions are often framed by perceived truths rather than neutral facts. That both characters rely on stereotypes affirms that stereotyping exists on all sides of a public exchange, rather than being linked to any specific group or social position.

This first meeting, which did not go as either character had planned, is nevertheless a productive interview, as it highlights how their individual expectations differ from reality. From this point forward, both characters become committed to exchanging preconceived notions with fact. Valiñas and Arsovska support this, observing that “as long as the private spheres of individuals and interpersonal relations continue to be determined primarily and peremptorily by 240 political affiliation and group identity, attempts to bring individuals together and create empathy between them beyond ethnic lines will face extreme difficulty to succeed” (198). In scene five, both characters appear on stage, unaware of the other and overwhelmed by their sense of failure.

Simon is critical of his work at the Refugee Centre and despondent about his inability to work on his first novel; Juliette cannot complete the writing assignment Simon gave her and feels bereft about her future in London. In this staging, they are united by their shared sense of panic about their lives, as well as their hope that writing will help them to assert new public identities and claim new futures for themselves.

With only a tenuous relationship established, it is a mutual sense of propriety which helps these two characters to form a proper friendship. Simon visits Juliette at her rooming house and in the midst of an awkward moment, he invites her to come with him to a poetry reading. Simon is surprised by his own actions, asking in an aside, “why did I do that? I just came to see if she was all right, to apologise” (33). Juliette awkwardly agrees, mortified to commit to such an extended exchange. Performatively significant, she echoes Simon’s feelings: “why did I do that?

I am so embarrassed to go somewhere with him. And why did he ask me? He feels sorry for me. But can I tell him, no? I cannot” (33). The technique of having these characters use the same words and demonstrate the same emotions in shared situations serves to emphasize their similarities rather than their differences. This performative moment also reminds audiences that cross-cultural engagements are difficult for all involved, regardless of cultural or socio-political concerns. The pair travel to the poetry reading in Simon’s car, as he assumes “maybe it’s nice for her to be in a car for once. A bit of luxury” (33). This effort to give Juliette a pleasant experience gives light to Simon’s assumptions about Juliette’s life experience to this point.

Whether these are based on Juliette’s experiences in Rwanda or in London is not made clear, but 241

Simon imagines that she will be impressed by a ride in his car. Juliette’s private observation with Simon’s car is that “his car is old. Not like my papa’s. He cannot be rich, Simon” (34).

This yet another moment wherein these two characters use stereotypes to understand the other, to their detriment. It also serves to remind audiences that Juliette’s race and nationality do not preclude experiences of luxury, despite Simon’s assumptions to the contrary. However, these misperceptions are understandable, as they have yet to discover any shared ground and their interaction is heavily shaped by the circumstances of their meeting.

On the drive to the poetry reading, Simon puts on some baroque choral music to ease the silence, but privately worries that Juliette will think of it as “fuddy duddy music” (34). Her silence worries him, but in fact she is enchanted by this sound of “angels singing” (34). As is done in several early scenes, they both comment to the audience without the other hearing, such that the awkwardness of their interaction belies their growing connection. That they do not speak to one another directly also emphasizes how the lack of effective communication belabours their efforts to establish a friendship. The poetry reading also serves as a point of connection between these two characters. Although Juliette is a little strained by the crowd and the quick introductions, she decides that as Simon is a poet rather than a writer, she should relinquish some of her expectations about his dress and behaviour. She struggles to follow the meaning of his reading, but the expression “a sea of pain” (37) makes an immediate impression on her. In part, this expression as it accurately describes her own feelings in London. However, she also recognizes in this expression a depth of hurt which she did not suspect in Simon. Her new interest in Simon’s reading is visible, and her careful attention drives him to read with passion: “My voice is picking up. The room is electric. Here comes the tricky bit, the shock climax, the jagged edge, I’ve got them now. They didn’t expect that from me. And Juliette? No 242 longer smiling but leaning forward, looking at me!” (37). Simon’s excitement in capturing

Juliette’s enthusiasm is reciprocated by Juliette’s excitement to have discovered a depth to

Simon’s experiences. Their mutual love of writing opens their eyes to the other similarities they share; the stumbling blocks of race, gender, age, and economics shift in this moment and they stop making assumptions and begin to communicate directly.

Linden makes this interaction a turning point in their lives more fundamentally. For

Juliette, this night marks a break in her long social isolation. She says to the audience “my first good night here in England” (39), and then recounts the fear she felt at her arrival in Britain.

While this narrative turn seems negative, it is compelling that only after such a night does

Juliette offer her private traumas to the audience. To this point, Juliette has not given any extended insights into her Rwandan experiences or her early time in London. However, now that she has forged a connection with Simon, she is more freely able to share her thoughts, and more confident in holding the audience’s attention. This tenuous connection to Simon also provides her first sense of community and belonging, feelings that are important if she is to begin her recovery from the genocide in this distant country. For Simon, this night is equally momentous.

Having not written in months, and beginning to despair of ever recovering his authorial voice,

Simon finds himself powerfully inspired by the evening. In part, his sense that his writings captured Juliette’s attention empowers him, as their interaction has been, to this point, subtly fractious. His own performance also excites him, as the attentive audience spurs his confidence.

As he drives away from Juliette’s rooming house, he finds himself brimming over with poetry:

The pockets of poets are never empty, my Iraqi client had said to me at our last meeting.

Mine had been for quite some time. And now here I was, frantically scrabbling for some

scraps of paper to dash down the phrases that were coming to me, trying to keep up. 243

Then I stuffed them into my jacket pocket, and headed for home, a pocket full of

crumpled treasure, like old times. (39-40)

Juliette’s engagement in Simon’s poetry allows him to reclaim his poetic voice. For the audience, it is clear that these two characters are similarly marred by the struggle to express themselves and find responsive audiences. Despite the fact that they are in these positions for very different reasons, it remains clear to the audience that their interaction across cultural, social, and political spheres is ultimately very productive.

The friendship that emerges from this moment of mutual interest allows Juliette and

Simon to communicate more directly and with greater honesty. This increased verbal freedom affirms the possibility of effective cross-cultural communication, which is one of the central concerns of the play. As Juliette is from Rwanda, her conversations with Simon are an opportunity to share some of the cultural differences between them without invoking socio- political hierarchies. During a picnic organized by Simon, Juliette laughs to see Simon eating a banana, and explains that “in Rwanda, only women and babies eat bananas. We think it’s funny to see a big man eating a banana” (46). This mention of a custom from home allows Juliette to simultaneously preserve and circulate aspects of her culture in this foreign land. More provocatively, Juliette responds to Simon’s question “Anything else funny about me?” (46) with a detailed response that inverts the traditional gaze to represent Simon’s whiteness from the

Rwandan perspective:

Hair. On your arms and maybe on your here…(shy, indicates his chest). Some whites,

they have hair on their bodies. My little sister, Dominique, would run away from them.

To us, they look like monkeys with all that hair. Sorry, Simon. And blue eyes – we think

they are really scary. Dominique called white people, ‘scary eyes.’ (46) 244

This Rwandan view of Simon demonstrates a certain degree of conversational freedom between these two, although Juliette is careful not to upset Simon with her comments. The freedom to invoke the memory of her sister Dominique, who died during the genocide, suggests that these pleasant moments with Simon loosen the restrictions of isolation and genocidal trauma. For an audience who is unlikely to have any detailed knowledge of Rwandan culture, these brief moments of cultural elaboration also demonstrate the existence of alternative perspectives and the value of cross-cultural education.

Juliette throws away her first manuscript on Simon’s advice and begins writing a second text that engages more directly with her own experience of the genocide. Although she struggles with representing her family through writing, Simon praises her early efforts, and his own engagement with the project demonstrates how their personal relationship has given Simon a sense of connection, not just to Juliette, but to the history of her homeland as well:

Simon: Well then! And you must write about your grandparents too. That’s a good way

to bring in some of the history. Specially about the grandfather you told me was killed.

You said that was when it all started – two generations ago.

Juliette: After the Independence.

Simon: In 1962.

Juliette: You know a lot, Simon.

Simon: Yes, well, I know a bit more, now, than I did. (51)

Linden makes it clear that while Simon is humble about his recent education in Rwandan politics, it is a powerful moment in the play. His relationship with Juliette has provoked him to engage with Rwanda’s recent political history, and to look past the media framing to consider the historical facts behind the genocide. This new knowledge allows him to engage more deeply in 245 conversation with Juliette about her book, and furthers the development of friendship between them. It is clear in this moment that education enables an effective discourse to flourish between them, Simon confident that his knowledge will allow him to engage with Juliette, and Juliette secure enough in Simon’s interest to speak freely. Both characters bloom under this exchange of knowledge, as it begins to equalize the balance of power in their relationship.

Simon’s growing knowledge about Rwanda allows him to effectively support Juliette in her writing; she is burdened by the need to confront her family’s murder in order to write, and

Simon comes to understand the difficulty of this effort. Late in the performance, Juliette learns that her brother, discovered alive in Uganda, has been denied entry into Britain, and she loses faith in her writing altogether. She misses several appointments with Simon without explanation, and he begins to take her absence personally. His dedication to Juliette and her work motivates his emotions, but when he confronts Juliette, his frustration gives voice to some complex emotions:

OK, I admit I’m also hurt. Maybe I’ve got no right to be. I mean what’s my little hurt

against yours. I can’t compete with that, can I? Ever. And maybe it’s crazy to expect

you to trust me, to trust anyone every again, or consider other people’s feelings, or say

thank you or please again, all those social niceties, they must seem trivial to you

now…Survivors’ Law. If you’re not in the mood to show up for your appointment –

tough, let him suffer a bit. I mean, it’s nothing against what you’ve had to go through!

(56-57)

This may be an uncomfortable moment for the audience, but here Linden addresses a very real conflict for those who observe genocide without being touched by it. Simon feels that he cannot criticize Juliette for her actions because she is a survivor. He has a sense that Juliette has an 246 exemption from “social niceties” (56), and he resents the small inconvenience that her absence has meant to him. Interestingly, Simon’s assumption is that Juliette has been kept away by the trauma of the genocide. For him, the trauma of the genocide is a permanent mark on Juliette, an essential element of her identity. This is an internal construction, but once which is important for the audience to consider, as people from nations or cultures that have suffered mass-violence must often work to overcome the simplistic definitions imposed by media or political rhetoric.

In this moment, Simon is brave enough to confront what he terms “survivors’ law” (56) and challenges the construction of genocide survivors as victims by refusing to accept Juliette’s behaviour without comment. While this scene offers no easy answers, it encourages the audience to consider how survival and victimhood are often intertwined in complex and difficult ways.

When Simon learns that Juliette’s brother has been denied entry into Britain, his anger demonstrates the power of his commitment to Juliette’s happiness. Having become a close friend through their shared literary efforts, he knows what this disappointment means to Juliette and how it may impact her further recovery here in London. Shocked that the government would refuse to reunite two survivors of a murdered family, Simon conveys his sense that his government’s policies are inadequate. This commentary is intended to provoke audience awareness of the formal complexities which refugees face in foreign nations. However, the weight of this loss is also a turning point in the play; while they have danced around the topic of

Juliette’s experience of genocide, they have never discussed it directly. Gently questioning

Juliette about her brother, Simon creates the space necessary for Juliette to speak about her experiences: 247

They told us, ‘Don’t move, don’t do anything, stay there.’ My mother said to us, ‘Now please pray, pray, pray.’ They asked my father how he wanted to die. They told him if he wanted to die with a bullet, he would have to pay money, otherwise they would cut off his hands and then his arms and then his legs, take off everything slowly. My father begged them to take everything and leave. He gave them money but they asked for more. They asked for the rest of his money. My father went to his safe. As he was showing them the safe, one of the soldiers cut

off his leg from behind. My father fell. While he was screaming they cut his throat and

then sprayed him with bullets. My little sister Dominique was near my father and one of

the bullets killed her. Then they cut my brother above the ear with a blade. He fell

down. Then they said it will take too long, ‘Look, look for place is crawling with these

Tutsi cockroaches.’ They used their pistols and they shot all my uncles and my other

brother. Then they said to me and my cousin and my older sister and my mother, ‘You

come with us in our car’. And then they took us where there is other women. (Pause) We

survived too much, me and my mother and sisters and then finally they said, ‘Now you

must go with us to another place.’ We were about forty women and they shot us one by

one, by the side of a big pit. Only me, I was alive, the bullet didn’t hit me. I was just

lying there with the dead bodies about me, the blood running into my nose and my ears. I

was the only one alive. I tried to climb out but I kept falling down. I tried for hours.

Then I did it. It was night time now and I escaped into the forest. I will never forget this.

Never. This is what happened to me and my family. (58-59)

Linden uses this narrative, though oppressive in its subject matter, to demonstrate an important breakthrough in the relationship between Simon and Juliette. While the fact of the genocide has been a palpable thread throughout their relationship, they have never discussed Juliette’s 248 personal memories of her family’s death or the trauma she suffered as a survivor. However, because he is invested in her recovery, Simon is also the first person Juliette confides in. This performative decision suggests to the audience that recovery is not necessarily found within one’s home community, but rather can take place in any community so long as there is mutual understanding and respect. This narrative breakthrough in which Juliette gives claim to her experiences demonstrates to the audience how cross-cultural interactions can aid individual recovery. Since they met, both Simon and Juliette have had to recognize their own reliance on stereotypes and actively engage in each other’s identities and cultures. These efforts eventually forge a relationship in which both have the freedom to speak honestly, even concerning subjects like the genocide.

In the following scene, Simon narrates his return home after his discussion with Juliette.

He is so distraught with what he has heard that he immediately confides in his wife, warning her that “it’s pretty awful but I’ve just got to say it, get it off my chest” (59). His need to unburden himself of this story emphasizes the weight of the burden Juliette has been carrying during her time in London. Confused by such an announcement, Maggie, Simon’s wife, assumes he has been having an affair with Juliette and they fight bitterly, as infidelity was an issue in their relationship many years prior. Shocked at his wife’s assumptions, Simon becomes “hysterical”

(59) and begins “screaming Juliette’s story at her” (59). This is a compelling moment, as the audience witnesses how profoundly Juliette’s trauma has affected Simon and infers from his response how much Juliette’s friendship has come to mean to him. Simon’s suffering in this moment is a mark of solidarity between himself and Juliette, as he feels the oppression of her history as powerfully as she does, despite their many differences. The confession made, Maggie comforts Simon and they begin to talk about his “first poems for five years. [His] breakthrough” 249

(60), inspired by Juliette. This juxtaposition of topics: Juliette, trauma, and writing, suggest that

Simon’s friendship with Juliette, his emotional engagement in her trauma, and his growing global awareness have all inspired his new writings. As they are the only change in his life,

Linden suggests that new cultural knowledge and cross-cultural connection have provided something that he previously lacked. His own reward for his relationship with Juliette, aside from friendship, is a deep sense of personal satisfaction and confidence in himself. By engaging in cross-cultural discussion, Juliette gains the confidence to relinquish her hold on her trauma, while Simon’s growing understanding of Juliette’s experiences inspires him to express himself more creatively. This interaction has profound benefits for each character, both in their interaction with each other and with others in their lives.

After Simon falls asleep, Maggie wakes him in the middle of the night because “she couldn’t sleep she said, she’d been thinking about Juliette and her brother, their terrible story, and she had a suggestion. An inspired one” (60). Maggie suggests that she and Simon give up their summer plans in order to afford to send Juliette to Uganda to find her brother. Maggie is compelled by Simon’s emotional investment in Juliette, and is inspired to be generous and compassionate to a woman she has never met. With a small sacrifice in her own life, Maggie can see how significant a change she can make in Juliette’s life. This insight and generosity suggests to the audience that awareness and a willingness to make sacrifices in order to solve problems can be a powerful basis for change. It reminds viewers that recovery from trauma, personal or collective, requires the engagement of others. Linden shows that cross-cultural awareness, once initiated, can be self-sustaining and encourage further engagement. The connection between

Juliette and Simon offers profound rewards for multiple lives: Juliette’s increased freedom as the burden of the genocide lightens, Simon’s pride and recovering his poetic voice, Claude’s reunion 250 with his sister, and Maggie’s reclaiming of intellectual and emotional intimacy in her marriage.

Ultimately, this play demonstrates the value of forging connections across political, social, cultural, and economic divides as an effort which can profoundly change lives through the domino effect of human connection.

The relationship between Simon and Juliette demonstrates that cross-cultural interaction can be fraught with fear, hesitation, and missteps. However, this relationship ultimately shows the audience that individuals can overcome social, cultural, and political difference to claim profoundly important friendships. Both characters grow as a result of their interaction, and are empowered by the insights they gain from one another. The constructions of race, gender, age, and class divide individuals by framing such differences as fundamental. Linden’s production alternatively suggests that these categories of self-definition should not be used to preclude interactions with others. The assumptions that these characters make about each other remind the audience that social constructions are not helpful for building strong relationships. As a performance, this play emphasizes the importance of spoken communication and the difficulty of direct communication when trust is absent. By demonstrating the productive value of empathy and honest engagement, this play offers a model of cross-cultural interaction which negates the possibility of “compassion fatigue” (Moeller 2) through education, empathy, and social engagement.

In form and focus, Linden’s play explores the role of writing in reclaiming a public voice. This is particularly relevant to the character Juliette, as she has experienced multiple forms of trauma as a survivor of the Rwandan genocide and a refugee in London. Juliette’s desire to publish a book which explains the Rwandan genocide to a broad audience is a central theme in the play. 251

Scene one opens with Juliette arriving at Simon’s office at the Refugee Centre to discuss her book about the genocide. She has written a book in Kinyarwandan in which she recounts every clash between the Hutu and Tutsi population, as well as the political tensions which existed in the prelude to the genocide. While unsure of herself in some moments, Juliette’s ultimately powerful character is evinced by her aspiration that Simon “will take one look and he will pick up his phone to speak to his secretary. And he will say, ‘Miss Smith, get me the best publishers in London please. I have before me a quite extraordinary and remarkable document given to me by a young lady from Rwanda’” (19). The reach of her expectations are matched by the depth of her need for support in this endeavour. She has dedicated her time in London to writing in order to educate others about the causes of the genocide, and her success in this matter informs her sense of success in this new nation. Juliette is anxious to improve her writing skills in English, as she is aware that she needs to write in English in order to reach her desired audience. In her third meeting with Simon, she requests additional assignments from him in order to improve her writing. This is not done at Simon’s prompting; rather, Juliette fears that her writing will not meet British standards. This inferred hierarchy demonstrates the impact of neocolonial ideology in Juliette’s confidence. Distanced from the European centre of power, Juliette has internalized the belief that her best efforts may still be seen as sub-par by this new audience. Her deference to the British system demonstrates her awareness of the fragile position she occupies within

British society, made worse by the fact that her confidence in her own national identity has been marred by the horror of the genocide.

Juliette is extremely proud of having her book translated from Kinyarwandan to English, as she correctly identifies this as the first step towards sharing her story with the English- speaking public. She manages this by asking a favour of a Rwandan man she knows in London: 252

Oh! It’s so beautiful. It’s typed, like a proper book. He is a good friend to do this. I

didn’t want to approach him because he is a Hutu but we have to believe some of them

are human beings, some of them were against the killing and anyway he was here when it

happened. Oh the pages are so clean. I hope it is a good translation. How will I know? I

don’t have any English friends. (23)

Buoyed by determination, Juliette is able to overcome the genocidal ethnic politics which drove her from Rwanda to London. Her collaboration with this unnamed Hutu allows Juliette to share her writing with Simon and then find a publisher for her book. However, it also demonstrates how writing can serve as a means of recovery between individuals. While the politics of ethnicity in Rwanda make Juliette wary of approaching this man, her desire for recovery drives her to trust him. Her decision to trust him teaches her that the politics of ethnicity do not define all people, and that acts of trust can be productive. This is a moment where Juliette rejects the ideology of the genocide and embraces a post-genocide view of Rwandan identity. As a didactic moment, this exchange demonstrates to the audience that writing can be an activity which creates community and breaks down the barriers erected by violence and mistrust.

As Simon is first and foremost Juliette’s writing mentor, she is very interested in his opinion of her first draft. Written in her early days in London, this work represents a very substantial effort. However, Simon’s evaluation of Juliette’s work reveals an interesting aspect of her writing. Despite the fact that Juliette is a genocide survivor who witnessed the murder of her family, her work on the genocide is detached and written without emotion: “Look, what you’ve written, there’s nothing actually wrong with it, it’s detailed, shocking of course, terribly shocking, awful – lists, dates, facts…As a document of what happened it’s very factual, but…it’s dry, there are no feelings there, it’s impersonal, there’s no suggestion that it’s actually been 253 written by a survivor” (29). As Juliette struggles to weave the threads of her own narrative into her history of Rwanda, it seems likely that she is not yet ready to convey her personal story in a public forum. It may also be a reflection of her assumption that the hard facts of the genocide will be more convincing to this new audience than her own story. As her refugee experience has been one of self–effacement, she may have internalized the belief that her individual suffering will not capture the attention of the British public, even as her lonely face has not encouraged strangers to speak to her. In order to improve her writing, Simon counsels her to allow her personal voice to come through in her book: “good writing is not about fancy long words. Good writing makes you see what the writer wants you to see. And feel of course. Writing is about feeling, Juliette” (24). While this advice is accurate and helpful for a person looking to write professionally, for Juliette, this advice is a complex challenge. In order to convey the emotion of what she has witnessed, she must channel her experience onto the page.

Linden emphasizes that despite her early dedication to this work, the emotional cost of dwelling on the genocide in her homeland eventually become too much for Juliette. She starts to avoid her meetings with Simon to discuss the book, despite Simon’s efforts to assuage what he presumes is her personal sense of failure at not producing anything since their last meeting. She resists Simon’s urging to continue writing, explaining that “I need to…I need to do things,

Simon. I can’t only do writing. Is no good. I need to start my life, get a job maybe, so I can get a place…” (52). Her resistance to writing indicates the convergence of two powerful desires: to ignore the painful memories of the genocide, and to begin a new life in London. When she first arrives in London, Juliette thinks of nothing but her writing, making no efforts to establish a life for herself beyond what is provided to her by the government. However, she has a growing belief that writing about the genocide is preventing her from establishing a new identity in this 254 new space. When Simon pushes her to remain focused and productive, she resists him forcefully: “Simon, you don’t understand. I need to start my life, I need to live now, but every time I write, I’m there, I’m there! I don’t want that no more. I want to be here!” (52). Juliette’s resistance draws attention to the challenge of being a keeper of memory, especially for memories fraught with trauma. For Juliette, struggling to find a reason to survive in a city which offers few opportunities for human connection, a life immersed in the past and without promise of a positive future becomes untenable. For Western audiences, this conflict between memorialization and personal recovery reveals the challenges faced by individuals and communities seeking to move past violent events. The need to record events can connect individuals through shared expression, but alienated from her community, Juliette’s writing becomes a burden, reminding her only of what she has lost.

While the hope of her brother’s discovery spurs her enthusiasm for the future, the knowledge that his application into Britain is denied makes all work on the book impossible.

Juliette abandons her writing sessions with Simon and shirks all efforts to broaden her world in

London. Simon reminds Juliette that “you made [your family] come alive again through your writing! And now you’re nearly there” (56) but Juliette’s response rejects this accomplishment firmly: “I don’t care!” (56). Her commitment to remembrance is challenged by the loss of her brother, a new hurt which undercuts Juliette’s commitment to the book. This suggests that the potential for recovery depends on hope. For Juliette, hope is extinguished when her brother is denied entry to Britain, as it ends the promise of a future which is linked to her past in Rwanda.

This also demonstrates that no matter how powerful the project, writing cannot fulfill all of her needs or provide the hope that she is searching for. Writing is a solitary occupation, and while it does develop her relationship with Simon, it does not take the place of community engagement. 255

The loss of the potential companionship of her brother Claude leaves Juliette without hope and without the motivation to write, either for the edification of others or for her personal recovery.

Simon shares Juliette’s loss with his wife Maggie in a scene near the end of the play, and

Maggie suggests that they fund a trip for Juliette to go to Uganda and find her brother Claude.

The audience does not witness Simon offering this gift to Juliette, or ever hear her response.

What follows this suggestion is a simple letter from Juliette to Simon, written during her time in

Uganda:

Dear Simon, the smell of Africa is all around me now as I write you this letter…My

brother, I find him on the second day. I can’t describe you how it was, like a miracle, we

was so joyful. He is very big now, tall like our father…We cry a lot but also we laugh

sometimes. I want that he goes to university. I will send him money if I can to help him.

Maybe he will go to Canada – if they take him…The most important thing for me is that

he is alive. Now I want to finish my book very soon, so when I come back to London I

will try to finish it with your help. Thank you for everything you do for me Simon, and

thank you a million time for sending me to Uganda. You are like father to me, really.

(60)

This letter promises a version of Juliette that has not yet taken the stage. Her joyful conversation about her brother and her easy mention of her father contrasts the struggle she faced to conjure memories of her family while in London. Her enthusiastic discussion of her brother’s future affirms her confidence in her own recovery, as well her belief that she will be able aid in the further recovery of her brother. Her dedication to completing the book is the product of renewed hope and a clear sense of self. It is clear that in achieving a measure of personal recovery by reclaiming family, Juliette’s desire to write with purpose has re-emerged. While writing cannot 256 serve as the sole means of emotional recovery, it is a part of Juliette’s recovery effort, and makes it possible for her to re-dedicate herself to the education of others through narrative.

Linden uses the final scene in the play demonstrates the value of performance in affirming personal and social recovery from trauma. Set months after Juliette’s letter to Simon from Uganda, Juliette and Simon have completed their book and are about to present it at conference entitled “Literature and Social Exclusion” (61). Simon introduces the discussion of the “power of writing” (61) and invites Juliette to the stage. The very act of standing at the podium marks a significant reversal in Juliette’s experience as a displaced citizen in London.

While she arrived in Britain without identification, unknown to anyone, and disempowered by her social and political status as a refugee, her efforts towards her own recovery and her willingness to forge a connection with Simon have profoundly changed her status and relation to power in this moment. She is about to claim the rapt attention of the gathered audience, and her story will be heard and considered by this crowd. As Ebron observes, “power is effective when people are enrolled in the rhetorics, the stances, and the subject positions of its projects.

Through these performances, subjects take up social statuses in the world” (5); this public discussion is a moment in which Juliette’s social authority is made manifest through her writing.

Although she is nervous in front of this audience, she has the confidence to begin her speech, and when her nerves overcome her, she waits, and makes the audience wait, until she is ready to begin again. This “awkward silence” (62) reflects Juliette’s fear at this claiming of social authority, but also marks her belief that the audience will give her the time she needs to prepare herself for this public exploration of her experience of genocide. As a woman who was invisible to the citizens of Britain only a few months ago, this marks a dramatic change in Juliette’s sense of participation in London society. 257

In introducing the book to the crowd, she explains “my book…is the story of what happened to me and my people. It was very hard to write, very painful, but now I have finished it, I feel clean. (looks at Simon) I can sleep. I can eat. I can walk in the park. I can see the flowers, see the sky” (62-63). This statement suggests a very clear relation between the act of writing and the restoration of internal calm. Juliette’s examples of her recovery manifest in daily life are simple pleasures, but importantly, she names private as well as public pleasures. That she can “see the flowers, see the sky” (63) indicates a recovery which allows her to engage with the world around her, a far cry from the isolation of her first arrival in London. Furthermore,

Juliette’s repeated “I” statements demonstrate a renewed confidence in her own voice, particularly as it commands the attention of this gathered crowd. It is clear to Linden’s audience that the act of writing has renewed Juliette’s sense of self and helped her to establish a sense of community in which she has a clear perspective and voice. This personal recovery through narrative is a victory because it enables the beginning of a broader social engagement with the

Rwandan genocide through Juliette’s public discussion and personal narration.

Juliette hopes that the book will support a collaborative and international engagement with the suffering of the Rwandan people, one that will foster greater understanding and communication across social, cultural, and political identifications:

I wrote my book to take the pain from my heart. But also I wrote this book to help all

people in the world who feel hopeless, who think they have nothing to live for. When I

finished to write this book, two things happened to me: my headaches and my nightmares

which I had for five years stopped and I found an answer to the questions: Does life have

a meaning? That was a question I asked myself all this time because if it has a meaning,

why has all this happened? And now I think I have found the answer, through writing 258

this book. So please when it is published I ask you to read it so that what happened can

go a bit into your hearts and away from ours and so the people who were killed will not

be forgotten. (62-63)

Juliette’s purpose is personal as well as political; she offers these two motivations as equally important to achieving her ultimate goal of recovery. She positions writing as a means of cross- cultural recovery, suggesting that collective social and political engagement in the facts and experiences of genocide can instigate education for observers and recovery for survivors.

Juliette suggests that increased international awareness about the suffering in Rwanda during the genocide will aid in the recovery for her nation. It is significant that Juliette assumes the authority to request such intellectual and emotional engagement from her audience, and ultimately, it is productive that she does so. As Doris Sommer points out, “the boundaries between informing and performing are porous” (115); in this moment, Juliette’s speech enacts the very education that she espouses in her writing. For the audience of the play, this scene is similarly didactic. Linden’s audience witnesses Juliette’s assertion of voice but also observe

Juliette’s audience, compelled by her words and invested in her message. The representation of

Juliette’s authority amongst this gathered crowd is the literal representation of the play’s ultimate objective: to assert the value of Rwandan narrative and subsequent discussions of the Rwandan

Genocide to a broad global audience, refuting the perception that Rwandan genocide does not have real-world consequences for the citizens of London.

The play closes not with Juliette standing proudly at the front of this crowd, but rather with Simon and Juliette standing together. Simon reads from Juliette’s book in English, and

Juliette follows after in Kinyarwandan; together, they read Juliette’s retelling of the history of

Rwanda: 259

Simon: Once upon a time…in the heart of Africa…there was a small paradise, a

beautiful country of forests and lakes and mountains…which we called the land of

milk and honey…and the country of a thousand hills.

Juliette: Chera…umutima wa africa…harijihoogoo chamatanawbootchi

ijihoogoo…chimisawzi ijihumbi. (63-64)

This tandem reading demonstrates a shared dedication to this topic, and emphasizes the collaborative nature of writing and political engagement. Although Juliette has gained a voice in

England, she has not lost her native Rwandan voice. Furthermore, the reading of the narrative in

Kinyarwandan is a performative choice that asserts the value of Rwandan language and culture on the British stage and within British culture more generally, a compelling rejection of colonial hierarchies imposed by Britain and other Western nations. The choice to offer audiences a new vision of Rwanda in this scene also conveys the message that although the genocide is relevant to the future of Rwanda, it should not define all aspects of national identity and discussion. Juliette, a survivor of the genocide, is an advocate for a renewed definition of Rwanda on the global stage.

Both Véronique Tadjo’s The Shadow of Imana: Travels in the Heart of Rwanda and Sonja

Linden’s I have Before Me A Remarkable Document Given To Me By A Young Lady From

Rwanda explore the pressing issues of post-genocide Rwanda, and these texts are determined that readers will understand the genocide as only one facet of modern Rwandan identity. The authors adopt literary approaches that encourage strong reader responses; the fragmented structure and observational tone of Tadjo’s travel narrative allows readers the space to construct their own responses without being overly influenced by authorial response. Linden’s play 260 demonstrates the value of cross-cultural interaction and, by representing a personal narrative of genocide survival on stage, encourages a greater discussion of issues of socio-political concern in public forums. Both narratives emphasize the potential of honest interaction to offer solutions to complex problems. While neither text stays true to the genre of life narrative, both texts are particularly invested in representing lived experience in order to educate their audiences. The potential strength of this approach should not be under-estimated, as “life narrative plays a vital role in the public sphere as it deals in and through private lives. It renegotiates and redefines how we imagine ourselves in relation to others” (Whitlock 10). In asking readers and viewers to undergo just such a renegotiation, the authors assert the value of interactions between cultures and nations.

As demonstrated by the media coverage of the genocide in 1994, “testimonial narrative does not always prick the conscience: it can languish unremarked and unwitnessed when its public becomes estranged and unsympathetic” (Whitlock 73-74). The reasons for these ignored narratives can be attributed to compassion fatigue, which occurs when glimpses of other lives are offered without any grounding in the larger cultural and political realities, and no clear course of action is offered to the reader. In contrast to these narratives, which occur most often in news reports, both Tadjo and Linden focus on providing intellectual and emotional traction for their audiences. Their shared interest here is in aiding individual and collective education by representing Rwandan culture and Rwandan citizens with as much nuance as possible. This action is inherently political, and challenges the tropes which maintain inequality. Finn Tschudi praises Eveline Lindner’s work on egalisation as establishing “a movement towards equal dignity in our global village. Egalisation is about whether we use fear as the glue for coercive hierarchies or prefer to live in creative networks held together by mutual respect [and] equal 261 dignity” (Tschudi 51). Certainly these texts affirm the value of equality during cross-cultural exchanges, and encourage their audiences to recognize the social, cultural, and political hierarchies imposed by the forces of neocolonialism and racial discourse in international exchanges.

Suffering contextualized by cultural, social, and political knowledge enables recovery with greater dignity for those involved. However, it is important to remember that in a globalized world, the Rwandan genocide was a trauma which touched a diverse population.

Allowing Rwanda to remain a space of genocide in the collective imagination is a further trauma to witnesses and survivors of the genocide. Just as trauma can be transmitted through cultural productions, so too can recovery be passed along the same lines of transmission. Recovery from an event as significant as the Rwandan genocide can occur only once global citizens have an awareness of the cultural, social, and political causes of the violence, an understanding of the long-term implications of the violence for survivors and witnesses, and an acceptance of equality among all people. Both Tadjo and Linden demonstrate their commitment to these aspects of recovery in their texts. In Linden’s play, the audience recognizes that Juliette’s recovery is powerfully strengthened by Simon’s interest in understanding her cultural identity, both before and after the genocide. Their friendship, a model for the cross-cultural recovery that Linden aspires to, ultimately gives rise to a powerful and coherent cultural statement of unity, one which inspires the audience to see the productive potential of such engagements. 262

Chapter Six: Decolonizing the Western Mind through Western Literary Engagement

If you want to build a ship, don’t drum up people together to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea. Antoine de Saint-Exupery.

The texts which explore the Rwandan Genocide for Western readers are significant because as one half of the imperial-colonial binary, they develop awareness of an event which remains poorly understood in Western society. Public knowledge about Rwanda prior to the genocide was informed by three pre-existing discourses: the nineteenth century construction of

African identity as an inversion of Western identity, the tropes of the colonial encounter which undermined African social order and development, and the late twentieth century framing of

Africa as a continent unable to sustain itself and requiring Western aid. As an African nation,

Rwanda is framed by centuries of Western public discourse which negate African value.

Specific knowledge of Rwandan national identity in the Western public forum prior to the genocide was limited to media coverage of the following events: Rwanda’s independence, a spate of massacres in the 1960s and 1970s, and the economic hardships which challenged the nation in 1989. These events established Rwanda as a socially, politically, and economically turbulent nation in the Western imagination.

Rwanda became independent in 1962, and ostensibly this independence should have permitted the nation to take an assertive role in the political discourse of the African continent and the wider global community of nations. However, decolonization in many African nations was offered as a half-measure; countries became internally independent while external relations retained the exclusionary politics of the colonial regime. Rwanda and other African nations were given the freedom to enact their own politics within their borders, but were not involved in 263 international discussions. Rwanda was not elected as a non-permanent member of the UN

Security Council until 1994, and has not been permitted a second opportunity21. In terms of political involvement in global affairs, Rwanda has not played a significant social or political role in any non-African event.

In part, this lack of involvement both reflects and reifies the neocolonial superstructure, a system of racial and cultural inequality which emerged to fill the vacuum created by the end of colonial rule in the 1960s and 1970s. Like the colonial project, the neocolonial superstructure maintains inequality by propagating the perception of difference between global citizens.

Moreover, the neocolonial superstructure naturalizes detachment between global citizens by controlling the discourse about “others” and limiting the audibility of “other” voices in local and global discussions. Nations that claim militaristic or economic authority can influence global socio-political discourse, while nations with a history of colonial imposition and limited economic recourse remain excluded from self-definition on the global stage. Despite becoming an independent nation, Rwanda has not been integrated in the larger socio-political community of nations. In the global imagination, the construction of Rwanda has not changed significantly from the colonial to the neocolonial era. Just as the colonial construction of Tutsi/Hutu ethnicity remained in place within Rwanda even after decolonization, colonial-era constructions of

Rwandan identity remained in place for Western citizens in the neocolonial period. Given that

21 By comparison, Canada, a massive former colony, rich in resources, has been made a non-permanent member of the Security Council six times since the formation of the council in 1946, spaced at approximately even intervals each decade (UN Security Council Details, online source). Ireland, a former colony three times larger than Rwanda, but with less than half of Rwanda’s population, has been given three opportunities to serve on the UN Security Council, beginning in 1962 and reoccurring approximately every twenty years (“UN Security Council: Members”). The UN has recently introduced a new means of selecting non-member nations by dividing the nations of the world into five regional groups and choosing one nation from each group according to the traditional two-year schedule. In this new arrangement, the African group accounts for 28% of the member nations, making it the most populated group among the five. This high percentage means that African countries must wait longer between opportunities to sit on the council. Conversely, the Eastern Europe and Western Europe + others groups have 12% and 15% of the global member nations, respectively, meaning that individual countries from these groups are more regularly appointed to the council (“Joint United Nations Programme on HIV/AIDS”). 264

Rwanda is such a small African nation, it may well be that constructions of Rwandan identity prior to the genocide were reflections of African identity more generally conceived. What remains is that the Rwandan Genocide of 1994 was perhaps the first significant point of contact between Rwandan and global citizens. Influenced primarily by the neocolonial superstructure, the Western coverage of the genocide constructed a concerning image of the independent nation of Rwanda for Western audiences. Rwanda’s recovery efforts have largely been ignored by

Western media, meaning that post-genocide Rwandan identity in the Western imagination does not accord with emergent post-genocide identity within Rwanda. Rwandan recovery has involved an innovative engagement with the construction of national identity, and as such, has the potential to re-define Western constructions of Rwandan citizens, and Rwanda as a nation.

As the genocide has become a primary signifier of Rwandan identity for Western citizens, it is important to consider how knowledge of the genocide has been and continues to be disseminated. Evidence presented in chapter two demonstrates that there was significantly more

Western interest in the humanitarian crisis than in the genocide, and that Western audiences and actors valued Western recovery efforts over Rwandan recovery efforts. The coverage of the

ICTR is evidence of this, as Western media have reported on the findings of the ICTR over the past eighteen years, while coverage of Rwandan judicial proceedings has been extremely limited.

Many books have been written to clarify the facts of the genocide, detailing killing rates and major sites of death, and to evaluate the justice of Rwandan and international recovery efforts.

However, the texts under exploration in this dissertation represent a change in the way that the

Rwandan Genocide is represented to Western readers. These texts are distinct because of the nature of their exploration and representation. This emerging body of literature conveys to readers a vision of the Rwandan Genocide contextualized by Rwandan history and culture, 265 providing Western readers with complex representations of Rwandan identity and community interactions, and demonstrating Rwanda’s recovery while advocating for increased cross-cultural interactions between Rwandan and Western citizens. Taken as a collective, these texts establish the basis for new definitions of Rwandan national identity. By examining the shared concerns of these texts, the nature of this literary ethnography becomes clear. Then, its social and political uses can be explored in greater detail.

Creating space for a new understanding of Rwandan national identity begins with education. Colonial and neocolonial enterprises rely on the perception of difference to maintain colonial and neocolonial control. Authorities from the centre construct the citizens of the periphery in ways that are internally consistent with pre-existing public narratives. This discursive control prevents accurate understandings of the “other” from being generated by the citizens of the centre. Permitted representations affirm the discourse of difference and so discourage further engagement between central and peripheral citizens. Providing citizens with accurate historical, cultural, and political information about a former colony allows for understandings based in fact rather than supposition and politically motivated constructions.

Gourevitch makes a particular effort to provide such an education in We Wish To Inform You

That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families, interspersing his movement through

Rwanda with discussions of Rwanda’s long political history and complex social structure. His travels also allow him to explore traditional elements of Rwandan culture, establishing for the reader a continuum of Rwandan identity which is not wholly defined by the colonial and continued neocolonial encounter. Furthermore, Gourevitch details for readers the development of ethnic tensions between Tutsis and Hutus in Rwanda, emphasizing the colonial origin of these divisions and tracing the development of ethnic rhetoric alongside shifts in Rwandan 266 constructions of personal and political identity. Significantly, voices from all segments of

Rwandan society are represented in Gourevitch’s text.

Facts about “other” spaces have long been proffered, without context, in order to affirm difference. The interpretation of history is not neutral; all events occur within a larger social framework and are then interpreted and understood within that framework. To ensure that

Western readers understand how Rwandan history has shaped current Rwandan identity, historical facts need to be framed by the social context in which they occur. Courtemanche’s A

Sunday at the Pool in Kigali highlights the interplay between historical realities and lived experiences for Rwandan citizens. Courtemanche uses local narrators to recount Rwanda’s history from a personal perspective. The narrative about how Gentille’s great-grandfather recognized the colonial manipulation of ethnic categories and paid to become legally Tutsi to escape the imposed limitations on Hutu citizens illustrates the diversity of responses available to local actors when encountering local realities. Courtemanche uses human experience, traced through four generations of a Rwandan family, to illustrate the personal cost of the politicization of Rwandan identity. As the reader witnesses the decimation of this family because of their attempt to embrace colonial politics, the complex colonial realities of Rwandan history become clear. This narrative also addresses the tensions between traditional and emerging culture in

Rwandan society; Courtemanche discusses the AIDS epidemic as a social and medical challenge for citizens of Rwanda as cultural tradition and modern knowledge offer conflicting perspectives on safe sexual conduct. This stark representation of a significant medical crisis demonstrates a culture in flux, an important task for literature about colonial and neocolonial spaces, as colonial representations emphasized stagnant and static local cultures. While these books take differing approaches to increasing their reader’s understanding of Rwanda’s history, culture, and social 267 organization, their emphasis is on accurate information which provides a firm basis for understanding post-genocide Rwandan identity.

These two educational texts also demonstrate new modes of interaction between

Rwandan and non-Rwandan citizens. Valcourt’s tour through the local hospital demonstrates the fallacy of international aid and undercuts the rhetoric of protection which is common in framing international engagements with Africa. Courtemanche challenges the binary representation of

Western actors as saviours and African citizens as victims, juxtaposing the discourse of international aid with the reality of global disinterest and demonstrating the tenacity of Rwandan citizens in facing their own challenges. Finally, Gourevitch’s powerful descriptions of the beauty of Rwanda and Valcourt’s decision to remain in Rwanda once the genocide ends denies lingering perceptions of Rwanda as a dangerous space, particularly for foreigners, and encourages readers to see Rwanda as a space of potential. Having characters and subjects demonstrate such feelings about a space which is popularly defined by the Rwandan Genocide challenges the colonial-era discourse of Rwanda as a dark and chaotic space and instigates a new rhetoric about Rwanda for Western citizens.

Contextualizing Rwandan history, cultural organization, and political dynamics provides readers with a factual basis for understanding Rwandan identity. However, factual knowledge is not sufficient evidence from which to instigate an understanding of Rwandan identity which demonstrates depth as well as breadth. For this reason, texts which evolve Western perceptions of Rwandan identity must also provide readers with the opportunity to hear the voices of citizens.

Developing reader empathy and understanding at a distance requires authors to pay attention to three specific goals: making the lived experiences of citizenship accessible, exploring and validating difference, and encouraging shared mourning. By offering an in-depth portrait of 268

Rwandan citizens, supported by local voices, such literature has the power to forge an emotional understanding between citizens divided by distance and a structurally imposed sense of difference.

In attempting to convey the lived experiences of Rwandan citizens, there is a great deal to consider. The genocide is, without question, the most widely recognized feature of Rwandan national identity. The coverage available to many international viewers emphasized destruction and mass violence, ignoring the impact of the genocide on the lives of survivors and the challenges of Rwanda’s recovery at the community level. Mapping individual experiences before, during, and after the genocide can develop informed empathy by making it clear to readers how the experience of genocide impact individual identity. Broken Memory, Deogratias, and The Oldest Orphan centre on how young Rwandan citizens attempt to negotiate their way through the powerful social forces unleashed during the genocide. Emma, the protagonist from

Broken Memory is a simple victim of the genocide, and her struggle for recovery is indicative of the struggles of many Tutsi and Hutu Rwandans genocide survivors. Deogratias and Faustin are more complex characters, as they are perpetrators as well as victims of the genocide; their acts of violence are spurred by the social chaos of genocide rather than any innate acceptance of the rhetoric of the genocide. Immediately, this characterization rejects the simplistic binary of victim/perpetrator which was so commonly imposed on Rwandan citizens during and after the genocide. Both Stassen and Monénembo make clear that these two young men are products of their environment, deeply scarred by their experiences in and after the genocide. Deogratias, committing rape during the genocide under severe pressure from the local Hutu militia leader,

Julius, becomes a conscientious murderer after the genocide, poisoning those he holds responsible for the genocide. Faustin, a survivor of the Nyamata massacre, hardened by his 269 isolation after the genocide, and desperate to protect his family, murders a friend for having sex with his sister. Deogratias’s intermittent breaks with reality and Faustin’s aggressive bravado challenge the reader to see past the stereotypical representation of Rwandan identity as framed by the genocide and understand the distinct forces that motivate these young men to act as they do. Seeing Deogratias and Faustin as victims as well as perpetrators helps readers to understand the complexity of post-genocide Rwandan identity. As Kaplan posits, “painful personal memories…expose the complex interrelatedness of the subject with the powerful and inevitable historical and political forces in which [they are] inescapably caught up” (20). Tracing individual experiences within the larger context of the genocide allows the reader to find compassion for these characters by observing the emotional realities which motivate each character’s actions.

Literature that seeks to undercut preconceived notions of national identity must demonstrate the complexities of civilian identity. Diverse representations of Rwandan citizenship undercut the ethnic binary of Tutsi and Hutu, and the social and political affiliations which these terms denote. In post-genocide Rwanda, these terms are no longer an element of public discourse, banned in an effort to avoid continued social inequality. However, narratives that explore the genocide itself must necessarily employ these terms, as they were the organizing principle behind the genocide itself and a fundamental aspect of genocide-era citizen experiences. Representations that employ this ethnic discourse must demonstrate the real diversity which these terms elide. The text which best undertakes this objective is Deogratias, in which Tutsi, Hutu, and Twa citizens with varying social and political allegiances interact.

Categories of ethnicity are evident here, but no significant overlap between ethnicity and social, economic, or political status is traceable within the narrative. While the discourse of Hutu Power 270 is demonstrated in the text, the simple binary which Hutu Power advocates is not reflected in the responses of citizens to genocidal violence. Bhabha reminds us that “what is theoretically innovative, and politically crucial, is the need to think beyond narratives of originary and initial subjectivities and to focus on those moments or processes that are produced in the articulation of cultural difference” (2). While Bhabha intended this in reference to the differences between nations or collectives, it can also be applied to the parsing of difference within a nation’s population. By peopling these texts with complex and distinct Rwandan characters and subjects, the authors demonstrate and ultimately celebrate the inherent diversity of all nations, regardless of any discursive coherency. Affirming differences between characters, both within and across national borders, reflects the larger postcolonial objective of celebrating diversity through the increased understanding of individual identities. By depicting how ethnicity fails to account for allegiances and estrangements between ethnically similar individuals, these texts reveal how discourses of ethnicity can fabricate identity categories and universalize diversity within any given population.

The final task of these texts of identity and community is to promote shared mourning.

The need for international recognition of large-scale traumas to encourage collective remembrance and understanding has been well documented. Productive mourning requires that citizens understand the historical, social, cultural, and political impacts of a given event, insights which can be conveyed through literature. Addressing the politics of distanced mourning,

Kaplan states that “it’s healthy that Western artists are mourning great injustices done to innocent peoples, but this may have little benefit for indigenous peoples and could seem an indulgence” (114). This is a helpful reminder, as mourning without informed understanding only affirms the need for accurate emotional and political engagements across distanced populations. 271

However, enabling emotional engagement alongside productive factual understanding of

Rwanda as a nation ensures the productivity of this interaction. Audrey Small observes that the first stage of comprehension in an event like the Rwandan Genocide is to “recognize that mourning—and the sharing of mourning—is not a finite task” (“The Duty of Memory” 98). It is important that texts lay bare the pain and suffering of Rwandan citizens to allow constructive collective mourning to begin. In The Oldest Orphan, the text opens and closes with Faustin’s statement that he will soon be put to death by the state. As an introduction, this is a shocking detail, but not one that profoundly affects the reader emotionally because this character is a stranger, notable only for his careless bravado. However, at the close of the novel, this same admission from the mouth of a young man who has witnessed the murder of his parents and the dissolution of his family, against his best efforts, compels sympathy as well as mourning for the loss this life represents. Faustin confides in the reader that he has been sentenced to death, and in the same breath, his memory of the initial trauma of the genocide is offered to the reader for the first time. This juxtaposition of effect and cause precipitates mourning because it so effectively demonstrates the cascading human loss implicit in the Rwandan Genocide. Faustin is a survivor of genocide who does not survive the reestablishment of social order in Rwanda. For distanced readers, his is a life that can be mourned because it can be understood. By collectively recognizing the real challenges that face the Rwandan nation throughout recovery, readers become invested in shared recovery.

While reading is a solitary practice, reading can also connect individuals and foster collective knowledge in ways that make it a powerful source of social and political change. This can occur in two ways. In Tadjo’s The Shadow of Imana, the author serves as a conduit to the knowledge of distant individuals and communities. Tadjo moves among a diverse Rwandan 272 citizenry and offers the reader an intentionally unmediated view of Rwanda as a nation emerging from genocide. This approach emphasizes the possibility of connection as the local environment of Rwanda becomes understandable for a distanced reader. Moreover, it demonstrates the need to see past the genocide to the genuine efforts of the Rwandan people to create a new nation with a new national identity. Conversely, I Have Before Me a Remarkable Document Given to Me by a Young Lady from Rwanda dramatizes an interaction between international citizens, demonstrating for audiences the tensions and difficulties of cross-cultural interaction. In particular, this interaction forces the preconceptions and prejudices of both actors to the fore, revealing how the neocolonial superstructure can also influence individual interactions between citizens. Both of these approaches have merit, fostering understanding and demonstrating the productivity of interaction. Each text addresses the difficulty of instigating interactions; Tadjo’s early narration avoids Rwandan citizens in favour of non-confrontational memorial sites. This organization suggests that Tadjo must confront and address the genocide before she can begin to forge connections with the survivors who remain. However, the horror Rwanda initially holds for Tadjo fades as she comes to know the land and people, suggesting to the reader that contextual understanding of the genocide can permit more productive cross-cultural interactions.

Similarly, Simon and Juliette’s early interactions are marred by preconceptions and disconnection, a fact beautifully demonstrated on-stage as they speak their frustrations to the audience in alternating asides. For Juliette, the burden of the genocide is eased as her cross- cultural interaction with Simon empowers her sense of self in her new nation. In each text, the act of interaction relieves the burden of the genocide by creating community.

Texts which aspire to engage readers politically must assert the potential of collective action. Change is the product of many voices united around a single cause. Events like the 273

Rwandan Genocide are difficult to broach because of the scale of their destruction, and the racial prejudice embedded into the current system of international interaction makes them even more so. Horror and disinterest are powerful sedatives. However, as Simon and Juliette’s interaction demonstrates, there is significant potential in the creation of politically engaged communities. In coming to understand Juliette’s experience, Simon is moved to sacrifice his pleasure for her; he foregoes his vacation to afford to reunite her with her brother and assure her emotional recovery.

While this seems a small act, it is a significant change for Simon, who is ignorant of even the smallest detail of the genocide at the start of the performance. This willingness to know and to act liberates Simon as much as Juliette; Simon reclaims a productive social voice alongside

Juliette, and it motivates his continued engagement in the socio-political discourse around the

Rwandan Genocide and the treatment of refugees within his nation. This demonstrates that local interactions are not bound to follow the hierarchies of the socio-political order. Although

Juliette’s needs and desires are ignored by the British authorities, her voice and experiences are shown to have value in her local community. Indeed, the crowd gathered to hear her speak suggests that there is a public interest in socio-political discussion concerning Rwandan identity beyond the genocide. In reading and speaking aloud, Juliette asserts her voice and her fundamental right of equality. Moreover, Juliette’s decision to read in Kinyarwanda claims space within English society for the concerns of a Rwandan writer. Ultimately, the play’s conclusion demonstrates the potential for productive social and political discourse within local communities.

While it is clear that each of these seven texts have individual interests and concerns, they share a significant social and political objective: conveying to Western readers the nuances of

Rwandan national identity. Each of the aspects of Rwandan identity raised in these texts is 274 important. Exploring history and culture affirms Rwanda as a distinct nation, empowering

Rwandan voices promotes empathetic engagement and recognition of Rwanda’s internal diversity, and demonstrating recovery through interaction encourages Western readers to see

Rwandan undertakings as valuable. As a whole, each of these discussions convey to readers and audiences a sense of Rwandan identity which is socially and politically informed. Tracing

Rwanda’s history and cultural development simultaneously reveals how broad understandings of

Rwandan identity have been marred by the colonial and neocolonial encounter. Conveying the internal complexity of Rwandan identities and community organizations reveals how Rwanda’s citizenry have been consistently homogenized for Western audiences. Demonstrating the productive potential of interaction across cultures and nationalities in recovering from large-scale conflict challenges the discourse of African ineffectuality and social chaos. Thus, these representations of Rwandan identity demonstrate the internal and external influences which have shaped Rwanda, knowledge which can be mobilized for socio-political purposes.

Establishing a sense of Rwandan national identity through literature is a productive endeavour. These texts convey Rwandan national identity as dynamic rather than fixed; as a collective, these texts show Rwandan national identity over time, and as comprised of multiple subject positions. There is no single identity affirmed here, but rather, multiple fluid constructions which are shaped by the most prominent aspects of Rwandan history, culture, society, and politics. Furthermore, these texts locate each character or subject within the larger social collective, so that each narrative interaction serves to develop the reader’s sense of

Rwanda’s emergent national identity. As such, I propose that the understanding of Rwandan identity developed through this literature is better termed reflexive national consciousness.

These texts produce a sense of Rwandan identity by mapping a web of Rwandan history, culture, 275 local voices, and ongoing recovery efforts. This identity becomes consciousness when it is understood in light of local, national, and international socio-political pressures. Offered to

Rwandan readers, these books would accurately affirm the complex and diverse reality of emerging Rwandan national consciousness. Offered to Western readers, this national consciousness becomes reflexive, as it enables Western readers to grasp the breadth and depth of

Rwandan identity within local and international forums.

Reflexive national consciousness is fostered primarily by understanding the practical realities which define the national space. It is imperative that literary productions which seek to develop reflexive national consciousness in readers explore the history, culture, and politics of the nation in light of the colonial and neocolonial relations that have existed and continue to exist between former colonial subjects and former colonial authorities. While the perception of difference often shuts down communication between citizens from different nations, literature which facilitates understanding of historical and cultural differences ultimately narrows the gulf between citizens. Forging connections between people of disparate cultures enables such

“combat literature” (Fanon 173) to become particularly powerful; by demonstrating the actual differences between citizens and nations, this literature reveals the construction of difference which is at the heart of the neocolonial enterprise. The superstructure, which manufactures difference in order to legitimate inequality, is momentarily imperilled when this mechanism of cultural difference is exposed. While the value of this education may seem fleeting, recognition of how the superstructure functions to shape “other” identities in daily life is an imperative step towards negating the neocolonial gaze, which is a pervasive element of citizenship in nations which exert influence on other nations through cultural, political, or economic means. 276

The literature of the Rwandan Genocide offers engaged readers a clear sense of Rwandan national consciousness. This is valuable knowledge, as the barriers between Western and

Rwandan citizens, such as language, mode of communication, and access, can limit the opportunity for personal experiences between citizens which would supply this knowledge.

However, this information can also be used to deconstruct Western socio-political discourse in three potentially powerful ways. First, Rwandan national consciousness can undercut limiting

Western representations and discussions of Rwandan identity propagated through media and political discourses, providing readers with a more informed sense of Rwandan national identity.

Second, the complexity of Rwandan national consciousness can be considered alongside the media and political discourses which have shaped Western perceptions of Rwandan identity, revealing the divergences between Rwandan and Western representations of Rwandan identity, and so, the ways in which Western representations have sought to reshape and “other” Rwandan identity. Third, such divergences in national representation enable Western readers to recognize the neocolonial superstructure in action. As the neocolonial superstructure maintains its authority by naturalizing its hierarchies, enabling readers to recognize the methods of the superstructure has significant political advantages. Taken together, these narratives instigate a decolonization of Western readers. Using strong and accurate understandings of Rwandan national consciousness to interrogate the neocolonial system which continues to undercuts the value of Rwandan identity, Western readers can recognize how the neocolonial superstructure maintains its authority. Empowered by this knowledge, these readers can challenge the use of neocolonial politics to affirm colonial era hierarchies of race within socio-political discourse.

* 277

The representation and discourse surrounding the Rwandan Genocide has been discussed in chapter two. However, in asserting the potential of literature to enable more critical engagements with the popular framings of the genocide, some of the tropes and trends of

Western media discussions of the genocide will be briefly reviewed: the use of tribal framing to explain the genocide, the dismissal of the genocide as insignificant, the reliance on essentializing discourse, and the use of the genocide to codify Rwandan identity for Western viewers.

Analysis of the coverage of the Rwandan Genocide in the United States and other

Western nations has demonstrated that very specific frames have been used to explain the violence to Western audiences. The most dangerous trends concern ethnicity and race. The socio-political tensions between Tutsis and Hutus were explained as tribal hatreds, the cause of which was said to be unknowable rather than the clear result of oppressive power structures and inflated public rhetoric. Dallaire, a witness to the initial violence of the genocide, describes the public perception of Rwanda as “just a bunch of tribes going at each other, like they always do”

(“The Media Dichotomy” 13). Many reports on the genocide offered basic facts about the violence without providing the context necessary for audiences to construct the information into an accurate understanding of the issues motivating the killing. Instead, reporters relied on tropes which would be familiar to their audiences, validating rhetorics of racial essentialism reminiscent of colonial-era oppression in order to most quickly convey stories of Rwandan suffering. Susan

Moeller recognizes this tendency to simplify and invoke questionable rhetoric in the coverage of crisis events, particularly in lesser-known countries, as an increasingly common trend in Western reportage: “as disasters multiply and compassion runs thin…the disasters all run together in people’s minds because they are all covered in the same way” (314-315). The Rwandan coverage was framed as yet another African conflict, and with no clear way to parse the actors of 278 the genocide from vague Western news reports, audiences were encouraged to accept simplistic narrative offered by the loudest media machine.

The voice of the media is a powerful tool, setting the agenda of public discourse by covering or avoiding specific stories. Rwanda’s diminutive size and location, land-locked in the

African continent, was emphasized in order to make its crisis seem less relevant to global audiences. Because the scale of the genocide was not accurately understood by broadcasters in the first three weeks, despite reports emerging from inside the country, attention was not redirected onto Rwanda until late into the one hundred-day event. The limited coverage of the

Rwandan Genocide suggested to viewers, through the geographic, racial, and economic details of the narrative, that the genocide was not worthy of Western attention. African voices were not sought out with any regularity to comment on or contextualize the violence, and when Rwandans spoke, they were consistently framed as victims in need of aid rather than citizens in need of support to end the violence. John Eriksson’s “The International Response to Conflict and

Genocide: Lessons from the Rwanda Experience” report on the media coverage of the Rwandan

Genocide states that “inadequate and inaccurate reporting by international media on the genocide itself contributed to international indifference and inaction” (69) and concludes that media outlets should review their coverage of the genocide in order to develop more judicious approaches to covering future conflicts. What is clear in the aftermath of the Rwandan Genocide is that the genocide coverage by media outlets affirmed colonial-era constructions of Rwandan identity rather than developing nuanced Western understandings of the conflict between Tutsis and Hutus in Rwanda. The coverage of the Rwandan Genocide, as presented to audiences, offered very little to compel further investigation or public discussion. 279

As Western interest in the ICTR far outmatched Western interest in the genocide itself, the post-genocide representation of Rwandan perpetrators has been the most consistent element of post-genocide representations of Rwandan identity for Western viewers. However, this emphasis on Hutu perpetrators without accurate understanding of the way in which Hutu participation in the genocide was mobilized through extreme propaganda and social pressure has had negative ramifications on Western understandings of post-genocide Hutu identity.

Eltringham offers the words of an exiled Rwandan academic, five years after the genocide, to explain this problematic reality: “there is a globalisation of guilt for Hutu, when not all of them are guilty. The international community has never globalised guilt, but emphasised the principle of personal guilt and that each person should go before the ICTR depending on their individual responsibility” (72). To have the inaccurate rhetoric of the Western genocide coverage parlayed into Western perceptions of one-dimensional ethnic identities is to re-inscribe the colonial assessment of Rwandans with social authority. It also means that even eighteen years after the genocide, Rwanda remains mired by inaccurate Western perceptions of the genocide which overlook Rwanda’s efforts to become a productive, recovering nation, building on local potential.

Considering the impact of the Western media’s disinterest in covering post-genocide

Rwanda, Jennifer Parmelee observes that “ironically, Rwanda’s 15 minutes of infamy – which confirmed the clichés in the minds of many foreigners that Africa is doomed to an eternal hell of ethnic violence – may consign it to an even deeper oblivion” (qtd. in Moeller 223). Parmelee is circling an essential point here: the way that Rwanda was portrayed to Western viewers during the genocide affirmed colonial-era stereotypes of Africa, and the Western media’s disinterest in acknowledging Rwanda’s substantive post-genocide recovery undermines the potential for 280 emerging Rwandan self-definitions to be recognized by Western citizens and governments alike.

While there is a substantial benefit to exploring Rwanda’s recovery within the public discourse,

Rwanda has never been rehabilitated in the Western imagination. Instead, the genocide is only

“recalled in the end-of-the-year wrap-up pieces, not to surface again on the front pages or on the nightly news until war crimes charges are brought or until violence on a massive scale starts anew” (Moeller 232). Thus, the genocide remains the defining feature of Rwandan identity outside of Rwanda, reinforcing the stereotype of African nations as perpetually mired in social and political conflict.

It is clear that public discourse in Western nations concerning the Rwandan Genocide has not enabled effective understanding of the causes or the actors of the genocide. Considering these discursive trends alongside the understanding of the genocide that is developed thought the literature of the Rwandan Genocide productively demonstrates the distinctions between these two representations of Rwandan identity. While the media coverage and political discussion of the genocide relies on colonial-era narratives of Rwandan tribalism, the texts make clear that the ethnic discourse of the genocide was imposed by the colonial Belgian authorities, ultimately creating social division in Rwanda along ethnic and class lines as this discourse of ethnicity became antagonistic. Western media coverage suggests that Rwanda is not an important nation, and that the genocide there was not the concern of Western nations. To that, the literature of the genocide conveys how totally the ethnic divisions and the subsequent genocide destroyed individual lives and communities, implicitly refuting the suggestion that such suffering is not worthy of Western attention. The use of essentializing discourse in discussing Rwandan identity, specifically the generalization of Hutus as perpetrators of genocide is challenged by the multiple subject positions explored in-depth in the literature of the genocide. Finally, the use of the 281 genocide as a key signifier of Rwandan identity is rejected by the literature of the genocide, as

Rwanda’s long history and post-genocide efforts to reassert a new national identity are powerful elements of the literature under consideration. The socio-political ramifications of these comparisons will now be considered.

The literature of the Rwandan Genocide undercuts the media and political discourse of the genocide. This is significant because it demonstrates the way that false framing or inaccurate representations can be mobilized within public discourse to legitimate or normalize questionable courses of action. This same effort has been at the heart of much academic scholarship in gender theory, critical race theory, and postcolonial theory, among others; enabling citizens to critically engage with socio-political discourses can instigate productive changes to local, as well as national, spaces.

Texts which allow readers an alternative understanding of Rwandan identity enable readers to recognize the formal social and political structures which play a part in naturalizing the hierarchies which exist in global interactions. Conflicting representations of the Rwandan

Genocide can spur readers to further examine the public discourse which is constructed, recognizing the social and political objectives which may lay behind these narratives.

The trends in Western representations of the Rwandan Genocide previously discussed can be clearly mapped onto the subsequent socio-political actions of Western governments. The use of the word “tribal” to explain both the citizens and the conflict in Rwanda asserted a fundamental difference between Western and Rwandan actors. Pursuant to this point,

Eltringham argues that

the term ‘tribal violence’ suffers from the same weakness of the supposedly global

phenomena of ‘ethnic violence’, suggesting identical ‘reoccurring scripts’ rather than 282

context-specific processes…Although the positive concept of a ‘multi-ethnic society’ is

prevalent in Western Europe (ethnic groups can live together) no one speaks of ‘multi-

tribal societies’ with the same positive sense [Emphasis in the original]. (65)

The use of this word, and the references to Rwanda’s supposed “ethnic hatred” positioned

Rwanda’s conflict as fundamental to the construction of Rwandan society. Mistaken reports that the genocide was a civil war suggested to viewers that there were no clear victims to this violence, only two groups who equally perpetrated violence against one another. As many scholars have noted, this misrepresentation of the nature of the conflict discouraged Western viewers from engaging on either side of the conflict. Subtly invoking the colonial trope of

African violence, Western governments avoided action on behalf of Rwandan Tutsis by implicitly suggesting to citizens that there was no way to end the violence.

The media discourse about the genocide was limited. Rwanda was not generally seen as an important nation, and news of a violent genocide within Rwanda’s borders was given limited attention. By dismissing the genocide as an insignificant news story, and by minimizing coverage offered to Western viewers, the neocolonial superstructure which continues to shape

Western opinion of non-Western nations achieved two objectives. First, limiting the attention given to the news story over the one hundred days of killing minimized the public discourse about the event; citizens were discouraged from paying attention to Rwanda because the media similarly seemed to ignore the story. Second, avoiding circulation of the details of the event enabled Western governments to delay their own entry into the conflict; uninformed citizens cannot challenge the decisions of their government. More fundamentally, the fact that Rwanda’s genocide could so easily be overlooked amidst the O. J. Simpson trial and the democratic 283 elections in South Africa, marking the end of apartheid offers further clues about the continuing impact of neocolonialism in global interactions.

The media’s use of essentializing narratives to explain the genocide, and the imbalanced attention paid to Rwandan perpetrators over Rwandan survivors offers readers further insight into the way that public Western discussions about Rwanda reflected and affirmed the neocolonial superstructure. The lack of nuanced depictions of Rwandan identity demonstrated the media’s disinterest in parsing the social and cultural differences between Western and

Rwandan citizens in order to uncover the diversity of Rwandan identity. Moreover, the post- genocide interest in assigning guilt and blame to Hutus generically rather than judiciously is indicative of Western prejudice, and affirms an already circulating narrative about violence in

African nations. Recognizing how fabricated or manipulated narratives in media discourse can reify constructs that are already in social and political circulation is particularly valuable to readers.

That the Rwandan Genocide remains the defining element of Rwandan identity in

Western nations is itself a result of the neocolonial superstructure. As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, Rwanda was given almost no specific attention by Western media or political discourse until the genocide. In part, this is because media attention is determined by social and political importance, and Rwanda has never been seen as particularly important to the

West. The attention given to Rwanda prior to the genocide asserted its internal chaos, both social and economic. Thus, the shocking images and confusing narratives of the genocide have not been evolved in the minds of Western citizens. Regardless of Rwanda’s internal recovery, the genocide continues to define Rwanda. Eric Kabera, a Rwandan filmmaker who has made two films about the genocide for Western audiences, observes that in the era of post-genocide 284 recovery, “ten to fifteen films were made about the genocide and that sort of became the defining, iconic element of the Rwandan film industry” (Lillian and Weihl). Maintaining a discourse of Rwanda as a space of genocide negates Western citizens’ awareness of Rwanda’s post-genocide development, and so affirms the neocolonial system once again. Readers who come to recognize the use of socio-political narratives to shape the Western worldview thus have the potential to offer resistance to this system of subtle control.

Reflexive national literature is ultimately a concerted effort to use cultural productions to politicize Western readers. These literary engagements educate readers about the history, culture, and social organization of a particular nation, encouraging understanding and empathy for the citizens of the nation, and compelling increased political engagement by revealing the neocolonial superstructure, and the other hierarchies that shape international engagements. This construction of national identity is reflexive because it makes the national consciousness of

Fanon’s postcolonial recovery available to an external audience. Local knowledge and local voices are exported from postcolonial and neocolonial spaces and enter into the cultural, social, and political discourse of nations with neocolonial authority. These representations of the traditional ‘other’ illuminate the politics of the neocolonial system of control, providing the reader with a new understanding of their own position within the larger socio-political system of international exchange. While reading such literature does not compel political action, it fosters political understanding and recognition of the lived costs of socio-political hierarchies for those whose value is so easily negated within the current political environment. In sum, it fosters reflexive national consciousness.

Western readers who are empowered to critically identify problematic media and political discourses and recognize the role of the superstructure may begin to affect change. The first 285 objective in challenging a superstructure is to reveal its function in the space of interaction.

Homi Bhabha, writing about the way power is reified through its very enactment, observes that demonstrating the construction of authority “radically revalues the normative knowledge of the priority of race, writing, history” (130). Within the international community, there is a long history of unequal interactions, of which the relationship between Rwanda and the colonial powers is only one. While Rwanda was never ruled directly by nations other than Germany and

Belgium, there are only ever two positions within the colonial relationship: colonial authority or colonial subject. While there were varying enactments of these roles, particularly for colonial subject nations, colonial interaction was a superstructure which empowered all colonial authorities over all colonial subjects through a shared hierarchical rhetoric. This framework for international relations did not conclude at decolonization, but has instead morphed into a less visible but still powerful superstructure recognized by postcolonial scholars as neocolonialism.

Most practically observed in economic interactions, this superstructure remains as an unseen aspect of political discourse. During the Rwandan Genocide, it was the unspoken neocolonial hierarchy which permitted powerful nations and the UN Security Council to excuse themselves from the responsibility of acting to prevent the deaths of 800,000 Rwandans. This sin of omission was similarly enacted by Western citizens who did not challenge the inaction of governing bodies by engaging the political discourse concerning Rwanda. Such notable silences only affirm the validity of the hierarchies which the neocolonial superstructure imposes on all international interactions, regardless of scale.

It is a liberating realization to find that the discourse of politics, even on an international scale, is fundamentally linked to the discourse of citizens. While superstructures thrive on anonymity, the public recognition of hierarchies has enabled diverse citizens to collectively 286 challenge social organization. One clear example is the racial prejudice which enabled African slavery as a social and economic reality within European nations, colonial spaces, and in the

United States throughout the seventeenth, eighteenth, and early nineteenth century. While the initial racial discourse of slavery brooked little resistance, gradually citizens with the authority to exercise their own voices began to challenge the commonly held perception that race and colour were indicative of a fundamental humanity, or a lack thereof. Public discourse raised the issue for national and international debate, and as the hierarchy of the racial superstructure was rendered visible and ceased to seem a neutral fact, the practice of slavery became socially untenable. While it would be naive to suggest that public discourse was the sole cause of the change, or that this discourse negated all racial inequality that supported the system of slavery, the voice of citizens can undercut the viability of social and political hierarchies in international discourse. Uncovering the superstructures of current international politics through literature empowers informed citizens to reject the constructions that maintain exclusionary political authority.

As the objective of conveying Rwandan identity to Western readers is to produce Western citizens who are politically aware of the superstructures that shape international politics, literature that is intended to develop this consciousness must similarly explore the impact of the superstructure on local, national, and international identity. Because superstructures shape human interactions, whether on the individual or international level, their construction is often perceived as a fundamental of the space of exchange rather than a construct imposed on that space. Superstructures permit hierarchies to colour the identification of individuals based on aspects of identity such as race, gender, class, and age. Such superstructures are commonplace 287 throughout human history, always supporting an imbalance of power in favour of one group over another.

Literature which fosters reflexive national consciousness in readers is, at its heart, political. Western readers who engage with the literature of the Rwandan Genocide are empowered to evaluate the alternative narratives that circulate about this event and recognize in the points of disparity the efforts of the neocolonial superstructure to maintain control of Western socio-political discourses concerning Rwanda’s genocide, and the Western role in that genocide.

Understanding how social media and political discourses can be used to shape public knowledge is fundamentally valuable to the development of a more productive and dynamic public discourse. However, for Rwanda, and for other nations similarly marginalized through faulty representations, there are even greater benefits to the education and politicization of Western citizens. Simply put, the neocolonial superstructure is a force which shapes “other” nations by maintaining a discourse about those nations which can change internally without affecting its relation to the centre. Just as the colonial mission disguised some elements of its control by naturalizing hierarchical discourses within subject populations, it also disguised these elements of control from its own citizens. Support for the colonial endeavour in Africa relied on the constructed perception that African citizens needed governance. When the implicit devaluation of African identity embedded within this discourse was widely realized, support for the colonial project among Western citizens slowed.

In the literature of the Rwandan Genocide, there is a similar potential for change. By educating Western citizens about Rwandan identity, and framing that identity within socio- political structures, Western readers begin to understand how pervasively Rwandan identity is mediated through Western lines of communication. In realizing that this mediation is in place to 288 limit Western responsibility to action and to allow Western nations to control socio-political discourse, Western readers become aware of the neocolonial superstructure as a force which limits the potential of other nations by denying the existence of that potential. The neocolonial system of control is a pervasive system of frames and rhetorics which influences how many

Western citizens understand the world. However, I propose that Rwandan national consciousness can empower Western readers to recognize the neocolonial superstructure which shapes Western discourse and enactments in other nations, and simultaneously enables those citizens to reject the control of neocolonial system. This, in effect, achieves a socio-political change that is long overdue: the ideological decolonization of Western citizens.

To express this proposal more thoroughly, let us consider Rwanda’s post-genocide recovery in greater detail and then examine the following question: how might this emergent

Rwandan identity function to challenge perceptions of Rwanda on the global stage? Despite being largely ignored in Western social and political discourse, Rwanda’s national recovery has been achieved through innovation; collective changes to the organization of Rwandan society have allowed Rwanda a means of escaping the colonial and neocolonial influences which have powerfully shaped Rwandan history. Rwanda’s recovery efforts have hinged on addressing the internal causes of the genocide. There were three issues that enabled violence to spiral out of control in April, 1994: a culture of social division based on exclusionary ethnic constructions, a virulent system of public discourse with no strong oppositional voice, and economic tensions caused by falling global coffee prices and wide-spread poverty. Each of these shifts alienated the

Rwandan population internally along ethnic lines and degraded the possibility of effective national discourse. The colonial-era ethnic categories of Tutsi and Hutu undermined the shared national identity which fosters inclusivity in most national environments. The radio and print 289 media were used to spread hate and silence public resistance; Radio Rwanda and Radio

Télévision Libre des Mille Collines made violent discourse against the Tutsi population part of daily social engagement. Finally, the strain of poverty exacerbated cultural divisions by limiting the opportunities available for education and success. The system of public discourse in place in the early 1990s made it simple for Hutus to publically blame Tutsis for tensions created by economic and social need.

Enric Castelló, discussing the practical efforts of nation-building, argues that “promoting symbols (flags, anthems, national sports or images), using the educational system for purposes of socialization or establishing political institutions and executing a cultural policy…involves an ideological view of the community, [and] is known as nationalism” (305). In its efforts to support social, cultural, and political recovery, Kagame’s post-genocide government has directly addressed the tensions of national discord by attempting to recreate a strong sense of collective national identity within the Rwandan population22. Given the divisive nature of the Rwandan

Genocide, this emphasis on shared identity provides the basis for an inclusive national discourse.

The first effort undertaken to refute the division of the genocide was to challenge the problematic colonial discourse of identity politics. Kagame has made the terms “Tutsi” and “Hutu” illegal, and Rwandan citizens are strongly discouraged from using language that creates divisions within the population23. Instead, the population is encouraged to think of themselves as “Rwandan,” a term which asserts national identity as the primary means of personal identity construction.

22 The national motto of Rwanda reflects the emphasis on collective civilian engagements: “Ubumwe, Umurimo, Gukunda Igihugu” (“About Rwanda”), which translates as “Unity, Work, and Patriotism.” This motto, adopted after the genocide, demonstrates a governmental commitment to the development of a collective national consciousness, one which can serve as a means of recovery from the genocide as well as from the colonial history which preceded the genocide. The education provided in secondary schools about the genocide, the construction of memorials, and the application of traditional systems of justice to address the crimes of the genocide are all efforts which help to integrate the genocide into Rwandan identity. 23 After the genocide, when current President of Rwanda Paul Kagame took power in March 2000, he challenged the discourse of ethnicity which permitted the genocide by abolishing identity cards and the terms “Tutsi” and “Hutu” from Rwandan public discourse. In its place, he encouraged citizens to think of themselves as Rwandan. 290

Susanne Buckley-Zistel supports this course of action, writing that “arguably, Rwandan citizenship assists in dissolving the hostile perceptions of the identity groups since it neutralises the weight of fear and of differences over historic developments which lie at the heart of the conflict. Due to its inclusive and egalitarian nature, it has the potential to erase the injustices of the past” (103). Buckley-Zistel goes on to observe that Rwandanness constitutes “a “deep horizontal comradeship” or a “fraternity amongst equals”, expressed in national sentiments”

(108). By removing the colonial terms of division and adopting a shared identity which affirms the nation as an inclusive space, Rwandan citizens engage in active genocide recovery and assert a national identity which does not rely on colonial terminology. While removing the terms of politicized ethnicity from the social discourse may seem a small step, this new emphasis on

“Rwandanness” as a uniting element of identity also marks a turning inward to find self- definition within the Rwandan community, something what was not evident after decolonization in 1962.

Post-genocide education in Rwanda, in conjunction with the efforts of local writers, has focused on clarifying the causes of the genocide and developing a public discourse that can prevent future violence by encouraging social cohesion. The genocide education program implemented in Rwandan secondary schools addresses the imbalance of power between Tutsi and Hutu instigated by colonial rule, as well as the politicization of ethnic identity which took place as decolonization began. The facts and consequences of the genocide are covered in the curriculum, emphasizing the social, cultural, economic, environmental, and human cost of the genocide (“Rwanda” 157). Rwandan students are encouraged to see themselves as responsible for the recovery of Rwanda as a productive nation through education and efforts towards unity.

The development of public memorials are also important tools of education, demonstrating the 291 government’s dedication to memorializing the loss of 800,000 citizens. While six of the main memorial sites are situated in the communities most violently affected by the genocide, there is a central memorial centre in Kigali which educates visitors and citizens alike about the genocide within the larger context of Rwandan history. This memorial contains evidence and detailed records of the genocide, from written testimony to recorded statements and public responses to the violence of 1994. This public space asserts the belief that these memories and artefacts are valuable and productive in the redevelopment of a strong Rwandan identity. This collective identification with “sites commemorating mass death are especially potent since the rhetoric of national identity emerges particularly through the pathos of remembrance” (Ray 142).

Simultaneously, such educational memorialization can instigate public discourse about the recovery of the nation.

New definitions of national identity in post-genocide Rwanda help citizens to recover from the genocide, as well as from the older divisions of colonialism. Ethnic divisions, established by colonial rule, were at the heart of the genocide. By rejecting colonial ethnic discourse, genocide recovery simultaneously addresses the need for colonial recovery. Recovery from both events requires the development of collective national identity which can affirm the unity of citizens. This collective identity, rooted in the nation, also enables the development of productive political discourse. As Brown observes,

first, nationalism is particularly able to offer individuals the ideological myths of

ancestry, kinship, permanence and home, which promise a sense of identity, security and

moral authority to individuals faced with the complexities and uncertainties of modernity.

Second, individuals are more likely to need this form of ideological support if their face- 292

to-face communities and authority structures of family and locality are being attenuated

or disrupted. (22)

Given that both colonial imposition and genocide are disruptions to local social order, Brown’s definition offers a helpful starting point for considering how the discourse of national identity can enable both Rwanda’s ideological decolonization and recovery from genocide. Fanon argues that decolonization requires the development and assertion of a collective national consciousness, through which citizens can gain political authority. The emergence of national consciousness in a decolonizing population is, for Fanon, the mark of a productive socio-political discourse and an engaged citizenry. Similarly, genocide destroys productive collective discourse within a nation, and recovery requires that citizens reclaim a shared sense of identity through collective identification and shared public discourse. While Rwanda has been engaged in this recovery of national consciousness through public discussion and education, this development has not been meaningfully conveyed to Western citizens.

The relationship between the colonial authority and the colonial subject is predicated on the acceptance of hierarchical rhetoric which naturalizes the colonial encounter through language. While the rhetoric imposed in colonial spaces counters the construction of local authority, this same rhetoric is active within the colonial centre, affirming for citizens the view of colonial subjects which is most conducive to maintaining support for the colonial project itself.

The colonial centre asserts a hierarchy which is naturalized through the use of power for subject citizens as well as for the citizens of colonial authority. When the narratives which support this encounter are challenged, either in the centre or the periphery, colonial authority is destabilized.

This foundational principle of postcolonial theory is helpful in considering the current neocolonial control of Rwanda. Rwanda did not properly decolonize in 1962. While Rwanda 293 claimed independence, the nation did not reject the social structures imposed by the colonial regime. The discourse of ethnicity which fractured Rwandan national identity during colonial rule was not recognized as a divisive colonial tool, and in fact became fundamental to independent Rwandan identity. Similarly, these categories of identity were also maintained for the citizens of colonial authority. Within Rwanda and within Western nations, the rhetoric of ethnic difference imposed on Rwandans as a means of asserting colonial control remained fundamental to Rwandan identity in the postcolonial period. Thus, Rwanda’s decolonization did not foster a recovery of precolonial Rwandan identity, nor the construction of a new understanding of Rwandan identity reflective of Rwanda’s burgeoning independence. When the genocide occurred, the colonial narratives of ethnicity were at the heart of the conflict in

Rwanda, and were fundamental to the framing of the genocide for Western citizens.

As earlier discussions have shown, the coverage of the genocide in Western nations emphasized the ethnic tensions as fundamental to the genocide without ever acknowledging that ethnicity was a discourse cultivated as a means of colonial empowerment. This mechanism of colonial control also served to control the discussion of the genocide within Western nations, enabling authorities to delay acting in accordance with international agreements by mobilizing the perception of Africa as a space of social chaos, and the more specific constructions that

Rwandan citizens had always been divided along ethnic lines. These two frames discouraged

Western citizens from engaging with the genocide in informed, productive ways. While scholarship has shown the Western response to have been contingent on a number of factors, such as the imbalance of attention to international events, and the compassion fatigue implicit with fleeting, uncontextualized news reportage, the colonial framing of the Rwandan conflict as fundamental to Rwandan identity further enabled Western citizens to dismiss the Rwandan 294

Genocide as a reflection of African instability and internal divisions. As with the colonial project, Western governments ensured public support in their actions in Rwanda by mobilizing, through the rhetoric of the media and political actors, colonial stereotypes. What this affirms is that, despite Rwanda’s then thirty-two year independence, Rwanda was never properly decolonized in the Western mind. It is with this knowledge that we now turn to consider the ramifications of Rwanda’s post-genocide recovery on Western understandings of Rwandan national identity.

Rwanda’s post-genocide recovery has made use of Fanon’s framework for decolonization; asserting a new collective identity which is informed by political as well as cultural and social concerns enables the emergence of politicized citizens24. Fanon offers national consciousness as a means of refuting the colonial system of control by engaging citizens in the construction of independent national identity. This approach links the self-constructions of the nation with its emergent political will, thereby mobilizing a political discourse that is fundamentally representative of the people. Rwanda has finally rejected the discourse of ethnicity as fundamental to self-identity, incorporated the genocide into the national discourse through memorialization and education, and made massive strides towards practical, social, economic, and political recovery. These efforts achieve what Fanon deemed necessary for real independence: national consciousness. Rwandan citizens are beginning to recognize the external

24 Fanon’s text, The Wretched of the Earth, explores the psychological trauma of colonization on Algerian citizens under French rule and maps the steps necessary to escape colonial control. One of Fanon’s arguments is that colonized citizens must be empowered in order to reclaim a productive sense of national identity; well aware of the violence of the colonial project, Fanon does not shy away from advocating violence as a means of self- empowerment in the battle for national autonomy. He suggests that “violence is a cleansing force. It rids the colonized of their inferiority complex, of their passive and despairing attitude. It emboldens them, and restores their self-confidence” (51). While I agree with Fanon’s view of violence as a means of restoring a subjugated population during colonial imposition, challenging the neocolonial framing of Rwanda is ultimately less about recovering Rwandan authority, and more about revealing the nature of the superstructure to Western citizens. Western citizens who buy into the narrative of fundamental and inexplicable difference ultimately empower the neocolonial superstructure, and there is no violence which can challenge this ignorance more effectively than education. 295 forces that have shaped their nation, and it is this understanding of the nation from within and without that enables national consciousness to begin. However, the neocolonial superstructures has limited acknowledgement of Rwanda’s recovery by Western nations.

Rwanda’s emerging national identity breaks with the colonial framing of Rwandan identity for Western citizens. In rejecting the discourse of ethnicity, Rwandan asserts independence; for Western citizens, engaging with this new construct of Rwandan identity requires two things: recognition that the colonial imposition of ethnicity was a tactic to maintain colonial control, and recognition that the same construct permitted Western inaction during the genocide. Fanon argues that knowledge of the mechanics of colonial and neocolonial control is a powerful opportunity, and in the case of Western understandings of the Rwandan Genocide, this is true. Engagements with an independent and decolonized Rwandan national identity reveal the inaccuracies of the neocolonial discourse about Rwanda which continue to shape Western perceptions of Rwanda. Moreover, the act of attending to Rwandan self-definitions affirms

Rwandan independence and so further supports the value of changing the nature of social discourse about Rwanda so as to support Rwanda’s development within international discourse.

Rwanda’s recovery from the genocide has been startling, and while this newly independent nation is still in a process of self-definition and self-assertion, both nationally and internationally, there is tremendous value to be gained from strong Rwandan voices on the global stage. Rwandan self-representation, in all its complexity, refutes the continued use of colonial- era narratives to limit or deny Rwandan identity. Accurate articulations of post-genocide

Rwanda enable Rwanda to step out of the shadow caused by the genocide; to this day, Western media discourse frames Rwandan identity within the simplistic narrative of the genocide which has been popularized for Western citizens, or uses the genocide as a reference point for 296 understanding Rwandan identity. I believe that the literature of the Rwandan Genocide has the potential to convey to Western readers an historically informed, well-rounded understanding of

Rwandan identity which positions post-genocide Rwanda as a productive emerging nation. This vision of Rwanda, contrasted with the construction of Rwanda by media discourse during the genocide, empowers citizens to recognize the tropes which negated Rwandan identity and thus, the way that colonial hierarchies are still used to shape access to power within international relations.

While this proposed system for addressing endemic inequality across national boundaries through education, empathy, and political engagement is productive, it does require some compromises on Fanon’s original concept of national consciousness. There are three particular limitations that should be considered when evaluating the potential of this method of enabling productive Western engagements with emerging post-genocide Rwandan identity: distinctions between internally and externally generated constructions of national identity, the use of collaboration rather than Rwandan authorship in creating these narratives, and the use of Western literary forms to represent African identity. Each of these concerns will be addressed below and considered in light of the net gain and loss they offer to the discourse.

The first concern centres on the use of the term “national consciousness” to reference the understanding of the nation which these books can provide to Western readers. Fanon’s use of the term refers to the development of a renewed definition of self and nation which occurs after decolonization. Such a definition positions national consciousness as the product of daily experiences within the nation, daily experiences informed by the history of colonial imposition which shaped the nation. During independence, dramatic changes can occur within the social, 297 cultural, economic, and political of the nation, and an emergent national consciousness would reflect both the fact of and the nature of these changes. However, as reflexive national consciousness is constructed outside the nation, it is not based on the aggregate details of daily experience within the nation. Furthermore, the vision of the nation offered by authors, regardless of their efforts towards inclusivity, cannot offer the perspective of every citizen of the nation, and so cannot be seen to reflect the full dynamism of an emergent national identity.

While authors represent a variety of subject positions in their writing, their work cannot capture the constantly evolving nuance of national identity. Authors should strive to represent the diverse realities of lived experience within the nation, but their output is eventually fixed by the fact of publication; their publications can only explore the sense of national identity available to them during the process of writing. There is no way to resolve this without exploring forms other than the printed word. This limitation could be overcome by the use of written technologies, such as blogs and web pages, which can be updated more regularly to reflect the developments of national identity underway within the nation. It should be accepted that national consciousness within the nation and of the nation are two distinct constructions which are forged from the same raw material: the realities of life within the borders of the nation.

While reflexive national consciousness endeavours to convey the national consciousness of one nation to the readers of another nation, it remains that this representation will not ever be a direct reflection of the national consciousness in the source nation. While reflexive national consciousness cannot directly convey the realities of local national consciousness, this weakness does not discount the value of representing local definitions of national identity to non-local readers. 298

A second concern for consideration is the fact that these texts are collaborative rather than written by the citizens of the nation under discussion. Fanon notes that it is in the act of creating “inventive cultural manifestations” (179) that citizens and collectives begin to assert themselves and claim a new identity. Reflexive national consciousness does not call for the writings of the nation, but rather, the collaboration of authors from diverse nations to address the interests and concerns of the nation. Here, I take my cue from Fanon’s language. Literature born out of collaboration is fundamentally “inventive” (179) in nature; the form of collaborative writing challenges the construction of the author as an authority over his or her own subject, and instead affirms the value of both author and subject. The literature written about the Rwandan

Genocide demonstrates collaboration, ranging from direct research and interviews with Rwandan citizens to lived experiences informed by the citizens of Rwanda. These international authors write with a clear understanding of the social, cultural, political, and historical facts of Rwandan identity, and their work reflects the voices and concerns of Rwandan citizens. While the value of these voices cannot be overestimated, there is also a great value to be gained from embracing collaboration.

Informed writing that is produced through discussion with the author’s subject remains a valuable approach to the circulation of knowledge within an international readership. As a form of engagement, it demonstrates the productivity of cross-cultural connections across the myriad boundaries which can limit individuals and communities. Several of the texts here create space for the voices of extremely marginalized individuals; Tadjo’s interaction with Nelly, who survived the genocide and now cares for the baby of her daughter’s rape, is perhaps the most compelling exchange offered in Tadjo’s text. Without the collaborative form, Nelly’s story would likely remain her own, and the complex realities of her existence would not inform the 299 understanding of Rwandan national identity for international readers. Furthermore, the use of collaboration unsettles the concept that ‘authentic’ knowledge of the nation can only be created by citizens of the nation. While accuracy is paramount within the production of these narratives, their ultimate goal is to foster cross-cultural interactions, and so the use of collaboration serves to affirm the interaction between the citizens of different nations as productive and authentic to an emergent cross-cultural identity.

Perhaps the most obvious concern is that these texts, intended to convey a sense of a specific local identity, rely on Western literary forms. Fanon warned against using Western forms of production, which he saw as complicit with colonial control in undercutting local production. Certainly, his anxiety around the use of Western forms to express local identity and experience is well-founded; the colonial encounter destroyed local culture and tradition.

However, in the neocolonial era, and given the mandate of reflexive national consciousness, the risks here have evolved. While the concern about supporting local cultural forms remains in place, the audience of this production is different from the audience of Fanon’s cultural manifestations. While Fanon’s productions were intended for local consumption, these texts are destined for an international audience. English is an increasingly global language and market demands mean that texts that take the novel or play form can be translated across many borders, making them highly productive as a means of circulating new understandings of national identity.

There are benefits to using a range of literary forms to convey local understanding. As discussed, the potential market penetration for a novel is very high in the centres of former colonial authority. As this is where the hierarchies of the neocolonial superstructure are the most pervasive and difficult to recognize, this ease of circulation is a strength of the project of 300 reflexive national consciousness. There is great value in enabling other cultural forms to enter into international discourse, particularly as Fanon’s concern around creative forms accurately indicative of the power they possess. However, there are some forms which do not translate easily across distance and cultural distance. Rwanda’s oral culture is productive within Rwanda, but as this form is not common within the centres of former colonial engagement, it is difficult to effectively translate local productions. Rather than permitting this limitation to impede increased understanding, it is better to adopt the literary form to convey instances of other cultural expression. Linden’s play does this very well when Juliette’s narrates Rwanda’s history in her native tongue to a diverse audience. Tadjo’s work offers a similar instance of orality, as she includes a traditional narrative in her text. While these are both compromises in representation, they demonstrate a willingness to engage with different means of cultural expression. In both cases, these inclusions also push the reader to see the value of cross-cultural expressions within a public discourse.

Literature is a cultural manifestation particularly well suited to address the political inequalities maintained by the neocolonial superstructure. To be productive, such literature must accurately reflect and explore the daily realities of a given nation, it must convey local voices and local concerns, and it must be diverse and inclusive with its representation of the nation’s citizenry. However, while Fanon calls for local authors to take up the call for such cultural productions, reflexive national consciousness is not necessarily developed by the exchange of local texts and productions between nations. This is not about creating political will and identity within the nation, but rather, about fostering cultural understanding between citizens with unequal access to social and political authority. Collaborative constructions best foster the development of invested understanding between citizens of distinct nations. Co-authoring or 301 informed authorship ensures that depictions of the nation and its citizens are informed by local realities while avoiding the limitations that often plague cross-cultural exchanges between distinctly different nations; differences in language, differences in forms of cultural production, and economic factors can all impede the circulation of discourses which can generate cultural understanding. The choice to encourage collaborative and locally guided narratives has the added benefit of precisely demonstrating the type of invested interactions which such writing is intended to encourage between citizens and nations.

Fanon identified cultural manifestations as the most productive means of unifying the nation and initiating political engagement. Literature has proven particularly powerful because it allows for diversity of perspective while encouraging unity through a collective readership. It can displace external power structures by asserting the authority of local voices. Chilton, considering the use of language in redressing longstanding conflict, writes that “verbal communication is essential to the initiation and conduct of conflict, so it is essential to its prevention, resolution and conclusion” (188). As colonial and neocolonial systems have long legitimated themselves, both for colonized citizens and the citizens of colonial authority, through discourses of racial, cultural, and political inequality, it is particularly appropriate that the rejection of these often discrete discourses should be offered through language as well.

To recover Rwanda in the Western imagination fundamentally requires that the nature of the social, cultural, and political relationships between Rwanda and the larger international community change. Although formal decolonization occurred within Rwanda’s borders in 1962, the decolonization of Rwanda outside of its borders has not yet occurred, as Rwanda is still defined by colonial and neocolonial constructions in Western social and political discourse. As colonization is a process that shapes the colonizer as much as the colonized, decolonization is not 302 fully complete until the colonizer relinquishes all means of colonial control. The tropes and narratives used by the colonizer to define the colony must be rejected and replaced by the colony’s self-definitions. Decolonization must include serious measures to refute the naturalized discourses of inequality and racial prejudice within all spaces of colonial authority. This process is complicated by the fact that the postcolonial era has witnessed a shift in global power balances, with authority now tied to economic and military authority rather than to traditional spaces of colonial control25. The lines between former colonies and colonial authorities are no longer clear and the web of socio-political influence in global politics is more complex that it was prior to decolonization. The only productive approach to eradicating the superstructure of neocolonialism is for all nations to examine their construction of former colonial spaces, particularly former colonial spaces that are consistently dismissed within international discussions, and ensure that such constructions are based on self-representation rather than biased external formulation.

Literature attempting to generate reflexive national consciousness in its readers must encourage readers to understand the complexity of specific social, political, and cultural situations for specific foreign citizens. Narratives which explore local identity within the context of the wider community allow distanced readers to see beyond surface differences to recognize local identity as multifaceted and shaped by specific local realities. This representation also undercuts the popular use of tropes to define local identity. This shared sense of social and cultural understanding creates “imagined communities” (Anderson 7) which motivates further

25 All of these nations are permanent members of the United Nations Security Council, which provides one rubric for assessing the relative international authority of specific nations, although this is hardly conclusive. Each of these nations holds significant military power, as well as nuclear capability. It should be noted that a seat at the Security Council can offer a notable power to nations working collectively, as the Security Council is the only UN body whose decisions regarding the actions of member states are absolutely non-negotiable (“UN Security Council: Members”). 303 cross-cultural engagements. In a world connected by technology, and yet still distanced by cultural, political, and religious difference, it is important to remember that nations are

“conceived in language, not in blood, and that one [can] be ‘invited into’ the imagined community” (Anderson 145) of the nation. Particularly in countries attempting to recover from systems of colonial and neocolonial control, this means of engaging external citizens in emerging definitions of national identity is potentially very productive. Imagined communities allow escape from the political hierarchies of nationhood by connecting citizens from difference cultures to understand one another outside of the terms imposed by socio-political superstructures. Imagined communities can support further recognition of the neocolonial superstructure and serve as the basis for a united political response to such hierarchies in a way that affirms the value of cross-cultural differences. 304

Chapter Seven: Conclusion

The Rwandan Genocide was a significant event. For Rwandan citizens, the genocide was the culmination of ethnic tensions which had been fragmenting national identity since the colonial era. For African nations, particularly those surrounding Rwanda, the genocide caused a massive influx of Rwandan citizens, and instigated humanitarian crises as refugees from Rwanda settled in temporary camps with insufficient resources. For Western governments and international organizations, the genocide tested the resilience of the neocolonial framework to control the discourse about “other” nations disseminated to Western citizens. For Western citizens, whose understanding of the genocide was mitigated by the use of colonial framings in an otherwise dismissive media discourse, this event served to affirm the tropes about African nations that circulate pervasively in Western culture and politics. While these framings set out only the broad strokes of the event, what is clear is that the genocide carried different social and political meaning for all of the actors involved. As genocide has been defined, since its inception, as an international event, all reactions to the genocide should be considered in discussions of the Rwandan Genocide.

Of particular interest in this dissertation is the way that post-genocide literature about

Rwanda explores the genocide and elaborates on some of the discourses mentioned above. This project explores the emerging literature of the Rwandan Genocide produced for Western audiences, mapping the shared concerns of the authors in representing Rwandan history, identity, and recovery. These areas of concern line up with the aspects of the genocide most commonly overlooked in Western media and political discourse, suggesting that this literature is actively attempting to educate readers about the complex nature of Rwandan citizenship as a response to existing understandings of Rwanda. However, I argue that this education also provides Western 305 citizens with the tools to recognize how public discussions about the genocide in 1994 were mobilized to discourage citizens from demanding political involvement in Rwanda’s genocide.

Socio-political discourse is a powerful tool of the neocolonial superstructure, and enabling

Western citizens to recognize this means of control has the potential to enlighten Western citizens about the way that the neocolonial superstructure continues to shape Western perceptions of “other” citizens and nations.

To begin this examination, chapter two offers readers a factual overview of Rwanda’s history, from the precolonial to the post-genocide period. As Rwanda’s culture, social structures, and even history have been subject to the influence of colonial rule, tracing the internal and external forces of change in Rwanda is productive. There are four distinct periods in the modern history of Rwanda available through oral or written records: pre-colonial, colonial, independence, and post-genocide. By considering the internal and external forces which shaped each period, Rwanda’s current national identity is more easily understood. The importance of this survey is to establish how colonial rule, and subsequent neocolonial rule, destabilized

Rwanda as a nation, establishing the potential for genocide. This chapter also maps the Western response to the genocide; the media discourse and the political response from Western nations is particularly problematic, and as the mis-framing of the genocide enabled Western governments and citizens to stand by as 800,000 Rwandan civilians were murdered, the nature and accuracy of these framings must be considered.

The literature of the genocide is divided in this dissertation into three core chapters, each considering two or three of the texts. Chapter three examines how Gourevitch’s We Wish To

Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families and Courtemanche’s A Sunday at the Pool in Kigali educate Western readers about Rwanda’s long history and complex culture 306 in an effort to contextualize the genocide as an event with a clear and knowable cause. What is central to both texts is the discussion of the colonial and neocolonial impact on Rwanda.

Gourevitch and Courtemanche show how Belgian colonial rule imposed essentializing ethnic identities on Tutsis and Hutus who had formerly considered such definitions to be social and economic identifiers rather than ethnic and political identifiers. The colonial rulers dismantled

Rwanda’s religious system and monarchy, undercutting national unity and instigating a sense of antagonism between Rwandan citizens. Upon exiting, the colonial rules inverted the existing power structure, marginalizing the Tutsi population through a rhetoric of Hutu empowerment.

These texts offer both facts and personal histories in order to demonstrate the chaos of this colonial influence on Rwanda’s national unity. In so doing, these texts refute the narrative of tribal conflict which was a pervasive frame of the genocide. By revealing the colonial role in the genocide, and by tracking the social and political shifts which spurred division between

Rwandan citizens, these text undermine the Western dismissal of Rwanda as another African nation engulfed by conflict. Moreover, these texts demand that Western readers acknowledge the role of the West in instigating the genocide, and in refusing to help end it.

In chapter four, three texts are discussed: Broken Memory: A Novel of Rwanda,

Deogratias: A Tale of Rwanda, and The Oldest Orphan. These texts explore the Rwandan

Genocide as an immediate reality; the reader witnesses the protagonists as they experience the

Rwandan Genocide. Of particular concern for these authors is the need to explore personal and communal experiences of the genocide for Western readers who, in the coverage of the genocide, were shown only helpless or murdered victims, or threatening perpetrators. These texts convey the genocide through the eyes of simple victims, individuals who are solely victims of genocidal violence, or complex victims, individuals who are victimized by the genocide, but who also 307 perpetrate crimes during or stemming from the genocide. This emphasis on multiple subject positions allows the authors to convey a far more nuanced understanding of genocide to their readers, and destabilizes the overly simplistic rhetoric of Rwandan identity propagated by the

Western media and political discourse. These texts collectively interrogate the rhetoric and actions of Western military, religious, and media actors, challenging Western readers to recognize that the discourses that frame Western military and religious involvement in other nations as productive is not always indicative of local perceptions of these actors. Likewise, the portrait of media involvement offered in The Oldest Orphan is a condemnation of the Western media as a tool which constructs passive victims in order to reify the self-perception of Western actors as heroic. These texts assert to Western readers the depth and complexity of Rwandan citizens, and further emphasize the importance of community and unity for Rwandan citizens.

The texts of chapter five move into the post-genocide era, exploring the recovery of

Rwanda and its citizens. Tadjo’s narrative The Shadow of Imana and Linden’s play I Have

Before Me a Remarkable Document Given to Me by a Young Lady from Rwanda are two texts which assert Rwanda’s recovery for Western readers. While these texts are structurally very different, as one is a travel narrative and one is a play, and are set in different nations, the first in

Rwanda and the second in London, these authors are led by the same objective, which is to represent the challenges and the successes of Rwanda’s post-genocide recovery. Demonstrating this process of recovery to distanced readers asserts the scale and importance of this effort for

Rwandan citizens. Public and political discussion of Rwanda in the West all but dropped off after the humanitarian crisis of Rwandan refugees ended, but these texts assert that witnessing recovery enables a degree of personal growth. Similarly, both texts emphasize the value of cross-cultural interactions, demonstrating for readers that while such interactions can seem 308 daunting, these connections can have profound impact on the lives of individuals and communities, both Western and Rwandan.

Individually, the literature of the Rwandan Genocide offers compelling narratives which, through their depth and power, try to inform and engage Western readers. Collectively, these texts emphasize the historical and cultural context of the genocide, the dynamism of Rwandan citizens and communities, and the efforts of Rwandan citizens to assert their own recovery.

Chapter six considers how these texts re-educate readers about the Rwandan Genocide as a national and international event in very provocative ways. These texts, which convey an emerging sense of Rwandan national identity, can provide for Western citizens an understanding of national Rwandan identity unmediated by the superstructure of Western neocolonialism. This reflexive national consciousness is fundamental to the decolonization of Western discourse about

Rwanda because it enables two additional socio-political changes. First, Western citizens, empowered by accurate and nuanced knowledge of Rwandan identity, are able to recognize the discursive tools employed by the media and political actors to limit Western citizens’ engagement with the Rwandan Genocide, and so recognize the existence and function of the neocolonial superstructure. Second, with this knowledge, Western citizens are empowered to engage more critically within social, cultural, and political discourse, and particularly to respond to the prevalent role of the neocolonial superstructure in shaping national and international discourse. The insights offered by the literature of the Rwandan Genocide can increase Western citizen engagement in all aspects of public discourse, and particularly with regard to the representation and treatment of non-Western citizens.

While reflexive national consciousness is not without limitations, it demonstrates the potential of literature to organize productive social and political responses to events of national 309 destruction and mass-violence. Developed as an external compliment to Fanon’s internal strategy of national consciousness, reflexive national consciousness is ultimately intended as a model for the development of productive literature for international readers in the wake of widespread conflicts. Its objective is simple: to empower readers outside of the national boundaries of the conflict to instigate socio-political discussions about the implications of the conflict and the larger superstructures which inform both the conflict and its reception in the international community. Such discussions must be informed by factual, emotional, and contextual understandings of the citizens of the nation in conflict. The application of reflexive national consciousness as a means of achieving a more invested and engaged citizenry is not limited to the literature of Rwanda, and could easily be applied to other instances of neocolonial influence.

This literary effort towards decolonizing the centre empowers citizens from the various “centres” of neocolonial control to recognize the hierarchies which impede effective cross-cultural understanding, providing them the means to challenge the reification of racial hierarchies through national and international policies.

This consideration of the literature of the Rwandan Genocide builds on established scholarship which has found compelling trends in the discussion and representation of the

Rwandan Genocide for Western audiences. Melvern and Wall argue that these framings were intended to undermine the efficacy of Western public discourse, thereby minimizing public pressure on Western governments to meaningfully engage with the genocide. As the analysis of rhetoric and public discourse has long been productive in clarifying the subtle pressures which circulate through populations, this dissertation engages in a similar analysis of the post-genocide narratives which circulate in Western nations. The seven texts considered here, representing a range of literary forms, offer detailed and complex considerations of Rwandan history, identity, 310 and post-genocide recovery. These narratives, by their very nature, are profoundly important, as

Rwandan voices and concerns have rarely been recognized as valuable in Western popular discourse. However, these texts also provide the basis for a more productive Western engagement with Rwanda; they reveal, through comparison, the faulty representations and discourses surrounding the Rwandan Genocide which have shaped the popular understanding of

Rwanda for Western citizens. In demonstrating the slippage between official Western narratives of the genocide and the self-representations and collaboratively generated representations of the genocide by Rwandan citizens, the function of the neocolonial superstructure becomes visible within a social and political context. While the genocide has been used as evidence of the chaos of African nations, this literature reveals such narratives as constructions which maintain

Western socio-political power in local, national, and international interactions. This literature, which makes Western citizens aware of the neocolonial superstructure, has the potential to create a more critically and politically engaged Western public.

Pointing to the social and political potential of such writings, Nigel Hunt argues that

“good literature is part of that tapestry of understanding, along with historical accounts, sociology and politics” (4). Rejecting single-source narratives of history, Hunt advocates for broader acceptance of alternate human records which, when compiled, can enable more complex understandings of historical events, international exchanges, and the socio-political discourses which implicitly shape local and cross-cultural understanding. This consideration of the literature of the Rwandan Genocide makes an attempt to demonstrate just how valuable literature can be in bridging the gaps created by hierarchies of difference. 311

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Appendix A: Chronology of Relevant Dates

1884 Germany assumes colonial control of Rwanda during the Berlin Conference.

1916 During WWI, Belgium invades Rwanda and seizes control from Germany.

1918 Following WWI, the former German colony of Rwanda-Urundi is declared a League

of Nations protectorate as part of the settlement terms of the Treaty of Versailles.

Belgium is granted governing power.

1926 Ethnic identity cards are introduced by the Belgians as a means of differentiating

Hutus from Tutsis.

1957 The Party for the Emancipation of the Hutus (PARMEHUTU) is established.

1959 Violence erupts as Hutu rebels target the Belgian colonial rulers and Tutsi elite;

150,000 Tutsis flee to neighbouring countries to escape violent retribution.

1960 Municipal elections are organized by Belgian colonial rulers, in which the Hutu

majority is victorious.

1961-62 Rwanda becomes an independent country, as under UN oversight Belgium

relinquishes colonial rule. A Hutu revolution in Rwanda installs a new president,

Gregoire Kayibanda; insurgent Tutsi guerrilla groups attach Rwanda from

neighbouring territories. Rwanda Hutu troups respond and thousands are killed.

1963 Further massacre of Tutsis in response to military attacks by exiled Tutsis in

Burundi. It is estimated that by the mid-1960s half of the Tutsi population is living

outside Rwanda, which has now become a Hutu-dominated de facto one-party state. 327

1973-74 General Juvenal Habyarimana seizes power and formalizes a one-party state. A

policy of ethnic quotas is entrenched in all public service employment. Thousands of

Tutsi doctors and professors are forced to resign in response to a public outcry

arguing their over-representation in such fields. Tutsis are restricted to nine percent

of available jobs, which represents their proportional population.

1975 Habyarimana's political party, the National Revolutionary Movement for

Development (MRND) is formed.

1978 Presidential elections are held in which Habyarimana is the only candidate on the

voting ballot.

1987 The Tutsi refugee diaspora in Uganda forms the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF), a

rebel group dominated by Tutsi veterans of the Ugandan war, under the command of

Fred Rwigema.

1989 Severe economic hardship befalls Rwanda as the global commodity price of coffee

collapses.

Jul. 1990 Under pressure from both the RPF and Western aid donors, General Habyarimana

concedes to allow multi-party democracy in Rwanda.

Oct. 1990 RPF guerillas invade Rwanda from Uganda. France replaces Belgium as Rwanda's

major foreign sponsor, committing troops, equipment and financial support to stymie

the RPF advance. On October 4th, the Rwandan government stages a fake attack on

Kigali in a propaganda effort designed to encourage the populace to report suspected

RPF sympathizers. More than 10,000 are arrested. Future Rwandan president Paul 328

Kagame assumes control of the RPF forces after Major-General Rwigema is killed

early in the invasion. Months of fierce fighting follow, with several unsuccessful

attempts at negotiating a ceasefire.

1990-91 The Rwandan army begins to train and arm civilian militias known as Interahamwe,

who will prove to be critically responsible for the scope of the coming genocide. For

the next three years Habyarimana stalls on the establishment of a genuine multi-party

system with an ineffective power-sharing solution. Throughout this period thousands

of Tutsis are killed in separate massacres around the country. Newspapers and

politicians critical of the Habyarimana government are persecuted.

Nov. 22, 1992 Dr. Leon Mugesera, a prominent Hutu activist, delivers an incendiary speech

encouraging Hutus to kill the Tutsis, and send the corpses "back to Ethiopia, via the

Nyabarongo river.”

Feb. 1993 Following reports of massacres of Tutsi, the RPF launches a new offensive, quickly

capturing Ruhengeri, a perceived stronghold of the Habyarimana regime. The rebels

immediately advance on Kigali. In reaction. France commits troops and ammunition

to stem the RPF offensive. This resultant military imbalance forces the RPF to

declare a unilateral ceasefire on February 20th.

Aug. 1993 Following more than a year of intermittent negotiation, Habyarimana and the RPF

sign the Arusha Accords, which allowed for the return of Tutsi refugees and the

establishment of a coalition Hutu-RPF government. 2,500 U.N. troops are deployed

in Kigali to oversee the establishment of the transitional government, slated to take

power on April 8th, 1994. 329

Sept. 1993- President Habyarimana stalls on setting up the power-sharing government. Training

Mar. 1994 of Interahamwe militias intensifies. The extremist radio station, Radio Mille

Collines, begins to beseech the Hutu population to attack the Tutsis. Human rights

groups warn the international community of impending disaster.

Mar. 1994 Fearing imminent widespread massacre, many Rwandan human rights activists

evacuate their families from Kigali.

Apr. 6, 1994 President Habyarimana and Cyprien Ntaryamira, the president of Burundi, are killed

when Habyarimana's plane is shot down near Kigali Airport. This causes the uneasy

tensions to finally boil over, and widespread killing begins that evening.

Apr. 7, 1994 Aided by Interahamwe militias, the Rwandan Armed Forces (FAR) establish

roadblocks and advance from house to house indiscriminately murdering Tutsi

civilians and moderate Hutu politicians. Several thousand are killed in the first 24

hours. U.N. forces stand by while the slaughter goes on, unable to intervene unless

they themselves are under direct assault. Ten Belgian soldiers assigned to guard the

moderate Hutu Prime Minister, Agathe Uwilingiyimana, are forced to lay down their

weapons, whereupon they are brutally tortured and humiliated before being

executed. The Prime Minister, in an effort to save her children, surrenders with her

husband to soldiers of the Presidential Guard, and is summarily executed before

noon that day. In response to these atrocities, the U.N. evacuates nearly 90% of its

peacekeeping forces, leaving just 270 U.N. soldiers in the capital.

Apr. 8, 1994 The RPF launches a major offensive to put an end to the genocide and rescue 600 of

their troops, now encircled by enemy forces in Kigali. The troops were stationed in 330

the city as part of the terms of the Arusha Accords.

Apr. 30, 1994 The U.N. Security Council spends eight hours discussing the Rwandan crisis. The

resolution condemning the ongoing killings omits the word "genocide."

Simultaneously, tens of thousands of refugees flee into Tanzania, Burundi and Zaire.

In one day 250,000 Rwandan Hutus cross the border into Tanzania to flee the

retribution of the RPF advance.

May 17, 1994 As the violence rages on, the U.N. commits to sending 6,800 troops and policemen

to Rwanda with mandated legal power to defend civilians. A Security Council

resolution says "acts of genocide may have been committed." Deployment of the

U.N. forces is delayed by a financial dispute between the United States and the U.N.

over the cost of providing heavy armoured vehicles for the peacekeeping forces.

Jun. 22, 1994 With the U.N. troop deployment stalled, the Security Council authorizes the

deployment of French forces in south-west Rwanda. They establish a "safe area"

controlled by the government. Killings of Tutsis continue in the safe area, although

some are protected by the French. The United States government eventually uses the

word "genocide" to describe the ongoing conflict.

Jul. 1994 The RPF captures Kigali. The remnants of the Hutu government flee to Zaire,

followed by an enormous wave of Hutu refugees. The French end their mission and

are replaced by Ethiopian U.N. troops. The RPF establishes an interim government

of national unity in Kigali. Reports Emerge that RPF troops have carried out

hundreds of reprisal killings in Rwanda. The killing of Tutsis continues in refugee

camps. 331

Aug. 1994 The new Rwandan government agrees to criminal trials before an international

tribunal to be established by the U.N. Security Council.

Nov. 1994 The Security Council establishes the international tribunal that will oversee

prosecution of suspects involved in committing acts of genocide.

Jan. 5-10, 1995 U.N. begins enacting plans with Zaire and Tanzania that will lead to the return of one

and a half million Hutus to Rwanda over the next five months. U.N. Security

Council refuses to dispatch an international force to police refugee camps.

Feb. 19, 1995 Shamed Western governments pledge $600 million in aid to Rwanda.

Feb. 27, 1995 U.N. Security Council urges all states to arrest those suspected of direct involvement

in the Rwandan genocide.

Mid-May 1995 The Rwandan government grows resentful of the lack of international financial aid.

Jun. 10, 1995 U.N. Security Council agrees to withdraw more than 50% of troops stationed in

Rwanda after a direct request from the Rwandan government.

Jul. 1995 More than 720,000 Hutu refugees around the city of Goma, Zaire refuse to return to

Rwanda.

Dec. 12, 1995 United Nations Tribunal for Rwanda announces first round of indictments against

eight suspects, charging them with genocide and crimes against humanity.

Dec. 13, 1995 U.N. Security Council extends its peacekeeping mission for three more months and

agrees to further reduce the number of U.N. troops stationed in Rwanda.

Nov. 1996 Mass repatriation from Zaire begins; the Rwandan government orders a moratorium 332

on arrests of suspected genocide perpetrators.

Dec. 1996 Trials begin for Hutus involved in the 1994 genocide.

Jan. 10, 1997 The trial of Jean Paul Akayesu (a local government official accused of ordering mass

killings in his area), begins before the International Criminal Tribunal in Arusha,

Tanzania.

Jan. 13-17, 1997 A woman who testified against Jean Paul Akayesu is murdered along with her

husband and seven children by Hutu extremists.

Feb. 2, 1997 Venuste Niyonzima is the first man tried locally for crimes against humanity in his

own village of Gikongoro, Rwanda. A U.N. Human Rights official in Rwanda

expresses "serious concern" over the lack of lawyers and adequate defense for those

accused of participation in the 1994 genocide.

Feb. 12, 1997 United Nations watchdog agency criticizes the management of the Rwandan

genocide trials.

Feb. 26, 1997 U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan fires the chief administrator, Andronico Adede,

and deputy prosecutor Honore Rakoromoanana, citing mismanagement and

inefficiency in the Rwanda criminal trials. Agwu Okali of Nigeria is appointed new

chief minister. By this date, the court has indicted only 21 suspects.