peregriNation: Restoration Hardware

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect next, after my visit to the church. Mishek, my driver, pulled up to the Kigali Memorial Centre, which was a beautiful building with a fountain in the front, and gardens on the side. It was designed as more of a traditional museum and I spent two hours inside reading the exhibits, observing the photos, searching for answers.

In Rwanda, in the 18^th century, if you had many cows you were a Tutsi, if not you were a Hutu, and depending on the size of your herd, you could fluctuate between the two. In the 19^th century, the Belgians came in to colonize Rwanda and used Eugenics to racialize the Tutsi and the Hutus, meaning they artificially created an ethnic race where there was not one before. If you had more than 10 cows, you were Tutsi, if not, you were Hutu. ID cards were issued, and what were previously social classes became fixed as inappropriate ethnic classifications. The Belgians convinced the Tutsis they were superior, and the Tutsis oppressed and indentured the Hutus for many years, treating them horribly. Time passed, the Belgians left, and new generations of Hutus rose up, eventually gaining some positions of power. They, in turn, began a campaign of hatemongering against the Tutsis that was reported at the time, as rivaling that of Hitler. It included leaders of government, politicians, clergy, people in the media, and even Rwanda’s favorite pop star.

On April 6, 1994, an airplane carrying the presidents of Rwanda and Berundi, was shot down as it prepared to land at Kigali. Both presidents were killed when the plane crashed. The assassination was the straw that broke the camel's back and the Hutu’s unleashed their anger in an unfathomable way. The victims had become the killers.

Seventeen years later, in the aftermath, we’re left with the carnage still apparent in the lives of the Tutsis, and the lives of thousands of Hutu’s who fled, afraid they might be convicted, whether involved or not, living as refugees outside of Rwanda afraid to come home. The United Nations, though it denied help for the Tutsis during the genocide, created the Tribunal, which holds the main perpetrators accountable. For the smaller crimes, they use a system, which has always been in place in Rwanda. Called Gacaca, it is a judicial way of local justice used in the villages, with elected judges from the community. The goal of Gacaca is to find the truth, for that is the only way healing can truly come about. Those who confess, show remorse, and help find the bones of those they killed are given lighter sentences or folded back into the community. This takes a tremendous amount of forgiveness. I read a story of a perpetrator who killed a woman’s husband and all of her children. After his confession at Gacaca she said,

“I have no one now. I will take you into my home and treat you as a son.” The healing power in that kind of forgiveness is undeniable.

Attendance at Gacaca each week is mandatory, as are many things in Rwanda. Umuganda Day, is the last Saturday of the month and it is a day of required community service throughout the entire country. They have cleaned, repaired, planted and rebuilt. Plastic bags are now outlawed in Rwanda and a visitor can even be fined if your luggage is searched and you are found with one. Ethnicity has been formally outlawed in Rwanda as well, in the effort to promote a culture of healing and unity. One can stand trial for discussion of the different ethnic groups. Rwandans believed that women bore the brunt of this war and should have more power in the restoration. They reserved seats for them in Parliament, and after the last election, they now hold the majority. There is a tight rein, a clamp down on anything untoward. Some say with all the mandates, it is a dictatorship cloaked in democracy. I don’t know enough to have a valid opinion, but my first impression is that whatever is happening, it’s working for now.

Mishek delivered me home to the Discover Rwanda Youth Hostel.

“Asante sana.” Thank you very much. I waved as he drove away. I would have missed the important component of Nyamata if he had not insisted on taking me. I went out to the porch, and found the other guests were also collecting there at the end of the day. I grabbed a beer and using the honor system, recorded my purchase on the notepad placed at the bar.

“Hello. How was your day?” someone asked.

“Rough. I’ve been immersed in the genocide.” I pulled up a chair. “Tell me about yourselves, why are you here? I need to take my mind off the topic.”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you then,” said a young Canadian woman covered in tattoos and piercings, “I’m a Photographic Restorationist. I’m preserving the photographs of the genocide for the museum.”

“Me either, I’m working on my Doctorate, studying the colonial period in Rwanda. I’m interviewing the elderly people to find out their take on the hatred,” said a Belgian woman.

Another Belgian said,

“For my Masters thesis, I’m studying the effectiveness and relationship between donors and the Rwandan Government. Your country is a leading contributor by the way.”

An American man spoke,

“I’m a lawyer, clerking for the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. My job is to help raise the standards of the judicial system.”

“I’m American too,” said a young woman, “I work with KIVA, overseeing micro loans for people to start small businesses now, in Rwanda.”

“I’m from Holland, interning at the Dutch Embassy.”

My jaw dropped open at the first of the introductions and never closed.

“My gosh! Who ARE you people!? I feel like I’m in the presence of greatness, found on a Rwandan hillside, in a Youth Hostel?” They grinned.

These people, staying for six or nine months at a time, were working on the larger picture, the big issues, trying to change thought processes, traditions, and laws, from the top.

I felt small.

“I’m just on the ground trying to help one person at a time.”

Next to me, a man named Marc chimed in,

“Don’t look at me, I’m just a loser tourist.”

We laughed, raised our glasses, and toasted to change.

Earlier that morning before my journey through the museums began, I checked the international news on my laptop. I was surprised by one article. It read:

A genocide fugitive, Jean Mary Vianney Mudahinyuka,

was handed over by United States, Chicago Authorities

following a deportation order of immigration fraud. He

is expected to begin a 19 year sentence which he was given

in abstencia. He was instrumental in the deaths of many

and also killed families himself. Known to be violent, say

authorities, he assaulted a US police officer.

I was very proud of the United States, for bringing this man to justice. Many countries have assisted by helping with housing, providing seeds for planting, AIDS education and antiretroviral drugs, counseling for victims, and help for orphans and children born of rape.

This is how Rwanda heals, on many different levels in many different ways: one person with the courage to forgive, another with a new idea, or someone willing to give their time. The world wants them to succeed, to create a stable, viable society in which the Hutus and the Tutsis can live side by side as one, again. They don’t have to do it alone. Everyone can take part. Everyone, for even Marc, the tourist, had come to trek gorillas, which is Rwanda’s number one source of income.