My time in Kigali is coming to an end. People ask me whether I feel like I have achieved a lot while I was here. Personally, I have learned a lot, not just in a sense of personal growth and overall life-lessons, but even about my own topic. I think I am leaving with a pretty good sense of how things are around here, and what kind of delicate situation survivors are dealing with, both politically and emotionally. I was influenced, heavily, by people who have quite critical position regarding government policies and the current state of survivor organizations (forgive my taciturnity, as long as I am here, I have to exercise the discretion of a Rwandan). But the more I learn about what kind of obstacles they were facing, my position has mellowed—a lot. Things that are wrong are wrong, but sometimes the choice is not between right and wrong, but better or worse. It is too easy to sit on the pedestal of distance and say, you can have it so much better, when here, it is hard to be so optimistic. Let me correct myself—optimistic, yes, but dramatically so, no.
Reconciliation programs here are very controversial—some think Rwanda’s ingenious program of gacaca, or community-based justice, is the new-best-thing in terms of transitional justice in impossible situations, while others think, indiscreetly put, a big sham. My research is not directly on this topic—I am most positive that I will have nothing new to say on this over beaten subject—but inevitably the conversations wander to this territory. Whatever my interviewee’s political position, or temperament, the soft spoken answer I get is, despite everything one could point out that is wrong about the program, it is still a compromise that they could live with. Or have to live with.
This sobering view, especially on the question of justice after genocide, is, often surprisingly, coming from a lot of the survivors themselves. Of course, not everyone agrees with this—I am sure still quite a few people want all killers locked up and out of sight. And even those who quietly and reluctantly agree to the compromise situation of today, where justice is slow and often incomplete, deep down inside they would want, well, unbridled vengeance.
One of the past presidents that I interviewed gave an almost hopeless sense of resignation as he said, perhaps the only thing that can ‘solve’ the situation is time. However cleverly designed the policy, he said, without the necessary objectivity and ability to abstract oneself and criticize to execute it sufficiently, the policy becomes hollow. How could we, he asked, in the 1990’s, just a few years after seeing our parents, siblings and friends slaughtered, sit back and say, okay let’s think this through. We tried, he said, but we were too much involved in it, too deep in the thick of the event, and taking a step back to think would have been betrayal to ourselves. His words had the danger of sounding self-apologetic, especially as a leader of the survivors who may feel like he has not squarely met the challenges of the position. But what does ring true is, even if he is just spewing out self justifications, is that this in it of itself is reality—the combination of an extra-ordinary situation with ordinary self interest. Even in an apocalyptic time, could the success of a policy rest on the exceptional devotion and heroism?
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Fiztgerald over African Tea
I think I drove home the point that I have a lot of alone time in this town. Lol. Although it would have been absolutely pragmatic of me to study for the LSATs, pragmatism is far less alluring than wallowing in self pity, and spicing it up with the absolutely romantic activity of reading people like Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Garcia. Just finished This Side of Paradise and wanted to share a few insights:
A)For anyone who is contemplating the absurdity and complexity of the social scene at Harvard, with its archaic divisions and bizarre insularity, read the chapter ‘Spires and Gargoyles’; Amory Blaine’s (protagonist) first two years at Princeton. His dreams to ‘make it’ and ultimately get a bid (punch, tap, rush, whatever the right terminology is) from one of the more prestigious ‘eating clubs’ made me slap my knee with laughter, ironic laughter—so little has changed (for some people, though) since the 1910’s. For heavens.
B)“[…] These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend here, who think they think. Every question that comes up, you’ll find his type in the usual ghastly muddle One minute it’s the ‘brutality and inhumanity of these Prussians’—the next it’s ‘we ought to exterminate the whole German people.’ They always believe that ‘things are in a bad way now,’ but they ‘haven’t any faith in these idealists.’ One minute they call Wilson ‘just a dreamer, not practical’—a year later they rail at him for making his dream realities. They haven’t clear logical ideas on one single subject except a sturdy, solid opposition to all change. They don’t think uneducated people should be highly paid, but they won’t see that if they don’t pay the uneducated people their children are going to be uneducated too, and we’re going round and round in a circle. That—is the great middle class!” - pg 255
The second quote tickled my fancy in so many different ways. First, in my defense, I am not as quite as sardonically elitist as the Amory Blaine who uttered those words. Or so I hope. In fact, my fear is that I am, unwittingly and clearly unwillingly, becoming one of the quarter-educated, stale-minded (wo)men in the aforementioned quote. I do not see myself as someone who instinctively goes against change, but I do see myself falling into a vicious cycle of criticism-for-the-sake-of criticism. Criticism, warranted or not, is the easiest way to earn distinction, and prove cleverness, albeit shallow. It is hard to get recognized by agreeing. Simple example: in section, how many times have I criticized the author, simply for something intelligent sounding to get through the day? Intelligent in the sense of intellectually gimmicky, definitely not wise.
But what is so wrong about being the great middle class. I mean, nothing, if you are asking me about being part of the middle class, income-wise. Hell, that is still a pretty good life, especially in a country like America. But what is personally unacceptable for me is resulting in a ‘stale-minded’ person after the sort of education I was fortunate enough to fall upon. My scholarship pays me around 50,000 dollars a year (…I think that’s about right) to go to Harvard. That would probably be enough money to help irrigation in the dry Eastern Province in Rwanda, and therefore help children get three full meals a day. The trauma counselor/psychiatrist in Bugesera District would finally be able to prescribe the medicine she wants to, and make all the housecalls she needs to for thousands in her area who suffer from acute PTSD till this day with that money—for years. When your education alone costs more than the money people require to simply function as an individual, whether it be physically or psychologically, it is hard not to wonder, if you are turning out to be your money’s worth. If the invisible hand of, well, the universe, had a way of redirecting resources to something more lucrative, would I still be a good investment?
The struggle to not end one’s story, with the exclamation: “I know myself, but that is all—“
A)For anyone who is contemplating the absurdity and complexity of the social scene at Harvard, with its archaic divisions and bizarre insularity, read the chapter ‘Spires and Gargoyles’; Amory Blaine’s (protagonist) first two years at Princeton. His dreams to ‘make it’ and ultimately get a bid (punch, tap, rush, whatever the right terminology is) from one of the more prestigious ‘eating clubs’ made me slap my knee with laughter, ironic laughter—so little has changed (for some people, though) since the 1910’s. For heavens.
B)“[…] These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend here, who think they think. Every question that comes up, you’ll find his type in the usual ghastly muddle One minute it’s the ‘brutality and inhumanity of these Prussians’—the next it’s ‘we ought to exterminate the whole German people.’ They always believe that ‘things are in a bad way now,’ but they ‘haven’t any faith in these idealists.’ One minute they call Wilson ‘just a dreamer, not practical’—a year later they rail at him for making his dream realities. They haven’t clear logical ideas on one single subject except a sturdy, solid opposition to all change. They don’t think uneducated people should be highly paid, but they won’t see that if they don’t pay the uneducated people their children are going to be uneducated too, and we’re going round and round in a circle. That—is the great middle class!” - pg 255
The second quote tickled my fancy in so many different ways. First, in my defense, I am not as quite as sardonically elitist as the Amory Blaine who uttered those words. Or so I hope. In fact, my fear is that I am, unwittingly and clearly unwillingly, becoming one of the quarter-educated, stale-minded (wo)men in the aforementioned quote. I do not see myself as someone who instinctively goes against change, but I do see myself falling into a vicious cycle of criticism-for-the-sake-of criticism. Criticism, warranted or not, is the easiest way to earn distinction, and prove cleverness, albeit shallow. It is hard to get recognized by agreeing. Simple example: in section, how many times have I criticized the author, simply for something intelligent sounding to get through the day? Intelligent in the sense of intellectually gimmicky, definitely not wise.
But what is so wrong about being the great middle class. I mean, nothing, if you are asking me about being part of the middle class, income-wise. Hell, that is still a pretty good life, especially in a country like America. But what is personally unacceptable for me is resulting in a ‘stale-minded’ person after the sort of education I was fortunate enough to fall upon. My scholarship pays me around 50,000 dollars a year (…I think that’s about right) to go to Harvard. That would probably be enough money to help irrigation in the dry Eastern Province in Rwanda, and therefore help children get three full meals a day. The trauma counselor/psychiatrist in Bugesera District would finally be able to prescribe the medicine she wants to, and make all the housecalls she needs to for thousands in her area who suffer from acute PTSD till this day with that money—for years. When your education alone costs more than the money people require to simply function as an individual, whether it be physically or psychologically, it is hard not to wonder, if you are turning out to be your money’s worth. If the invisible hand of, well, the universe, had a way of redirecting resources to something more lucrative, would I still be a good investment?
The struggle to not end one’s story, with the exclamation: “I know myself, but that is all—“
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Overheard in Kigali
Actually, more like a collection of hilarious T-Shirts I saw in Kigali.
"My Wife Stinks"
Marital bliss all the way.
"Go TROJANS" (in all orange)
I mean, no one was really rooting for lifestyles...
"Will be Single for a Long Time"
This is the new-age chastity ring.
"I'm Popular"
Good to know.
"Jesus"
..I'm not sure he was trying to say that he likes Jesus, he is Jesus, or just a
random exclamation (Jesus!)
"My Wife Stinks"
Marital bliss all the way.
"Go TROJANS" (in all orange)
I mean, no one was really rooting for lifestyles...
"Will be Single for a Long Time"
This is the new-age chastity ring.
"I'm Popular"
Good to know.
"Jesus"
..I'm not sure he was trying to say that he likes Jesus, he is Jesus, or just a
random exclamation (Jesus!)
Nature Call(ed)
Oh hay, so I had a few first-in-my-life experiences yesterday.
One would be, well, I had my first moto ride. Moto being the motorcycle taxi that is ubiquitous in Kigali. I know, I know, how they HELL did I manage to stay in Kigali for so long without taking a moto? That’s like saying I walked without legs. Or swam without water. Answer is: the analogy is both and poor and apt, because you CAN walk without legs (per se) and swim without water (per se). There are only a few neighborhoods I need to go to on a regular basis in Kigali—one would be downtown (ville, or mumugi), which I usually walk to, the IBUKA office, which is a little too far to take a moto (in my experience, as I don’t really want to show up to an interview covered in red dust), some neighborhoods where my friend’s live (like Nyamirambo and Kimihurura) where I either take the bus to (which is pretty cool too), or need to take a taxi because I don’t know exactly know how to get there, and thus can’t really explain to the moto driver (this mostly applies to Nyamirambo. Since I usually end up going there for dinner, I have no idea how to get anywhere in that area, so a taxi driver who speaks English/understands my broken French is essential). So yeah, bottom line is I never really needed to. On top of that, I am not so good with speed, and hills, so combined, it was rather scary. So unless it was absolutely necessary, I was going to stay away from it for the time being – besides, NOT riding a motorcycle was part of my grant contract anyways. Law-abiding citizen at your service.
But yesterday, covered in dust, tired, sweating like a pig, I started to walk and three steps after, I was like, eff this. I am not moving another step. So I hopped on a moto, and somehow decided I had picked up enough kinyarwanda to haggle the price in kinyarwanda (oh fatigue inspired delirium!), and miraculously did. Hilariously, the driver was delightfully mislead to believe that I understood kinyarwanda, so he proceeded to talk to me non-stop throughout the drive, and I just politely laughed when I thought appropriate and chimed in a few ‘yego’(yes) here and there. I’m not sure if he totally bought the act, but he kept on patting my back like ‘good job’ after I got off, so at least he enjoyed my fake-fluency.
Did I love it? I can see how I would enjoy such a ride after a long day. But I definitely do not want to show up to a senators office with matted hair from the helmet and dust all over my shirt. And I had visions of somersaulting over the driver every time he hit the breaks abruptly. (For the record, I’ve been taking them quite frequently after the experience, but mostly POST interviews where I don’t have to see anyone. Still really not into the slightly-coated-in-dust look. Does not work for me).
The other first-time experience: Safari. Rwanda is not known as a safari hot-spot, because well, it is not a safari hot spot. Mountain gorillas, yes, but this tiny country can’t compete with the vast, diverse beauty of Tanzania or Kenya (not that I’ve been, but so I’ve been told). But considering the last time I saw animals, save a few pigeons, cats and dogs, was say, when I was about 10 (you all know how much I love nature. I revel in the wilderness of the cities, and homo sapiens are totally my favorite species.) it was super exciting for me.
The Akagera National Park is about 2 hours away from Kigali, so totally do-able as a day trip (especially the kind that you kind of hop on after getting a call from a friend of a friend you’ve never met in person). It is a not-so-vast expanse of dry savannah (is that even the correct term? Matt Bird I need your help) with acacia trees, populated with antelopes, bush bucks(?), fish eagles, hippos, baboons, monkeys of different sorts, zebras, warthogs and lots of giraffes. Oh the giraffes. I loved the funny looking creatures too much I think, and I got to see them up THIS close (‘this’ being like 30 cm distance. NO JOKE.) I had the constant urge to narrate the event in the National Geographic channel-esque voice, but considering I had never met any of my safari-friends in person before the trip, I kept the narration internal.
After a few super super hot, arid hours of safari-ing, I returned to my reality that is Kigali. I have actually not been able to eat much since my minor bout of food poisoning (I am all better now), so the Indian food I had for dinner was pretty much heaven. Well fed, well entertained, and finally NOT tearing my head apart because I have no idea what I am doing in terms of research, I had a pretty good nights sleep. Thanks for the diversion, pumba & co.
One would be, well, I had my first moto ride. Moto being the motorcycle taxi that is ubiquitous in Kigali. I know, I know, how they HELL did I manage to stay in Kigali for so long without taking a moto? That’s like saying I walked without legs. Or swam without water. Answer is: the analogy is both and poor and apt, because you CAN walk without legs (per se) and swim without water (per se). There are only a few neighborhoods I need to go to on a regular basis in Kigali—one would be downtown (ville, or mumugi), which I usually walk to, the IBUKA office, which is a little too far to take a moto (in my experience, as I don’t really want to show up to an interview covered in red dust), some neighborhoods where my friend’s live (like Nyamirambo and Kimihurura) where I either take the bus to (which is pretty cool too), or need to take a taxi because I don’t know exactly know how to get there, and thus can’t really explain to the moto driver (this mostly applies to Nyamirambo. Since I usually end up going there for dinner, I have no idea how to get anywhere in that area, so a taxi driver who speaks English/understands my broken French is essential). So yeah, bottom line is I never really needed to. On top of that, I am not so good with speed, and hills, so combined, it was rather scary. So unless it was absolutely necessary, I was going to stay away from it for the time being – besides, NOT riding a motorcycle was part of my grant contract anyways. Law-abiding citizen at your service.
But yesterday, covered in dust, tired, sweating like a pig, I started to walk and three steps after, I was like, eff this. I am not moving another step. So I hopped on a moto, and somehow decided I had picked up enough kinyarwanda to haggle the price in kinyarwanda (oh fatigue inspired delirium!), and miraculously did. Hilariously, the driver was delightfully mislead to believe that I understood kinyarwanda, so he proceeded to talk to me non-stop throughout the drive, and I just politely laughed when I thought appropriate and chimed in a few ‘yego’(yes) here and there. I’m not sure if he totally bought the act, but he kept on patting my back like ‘good job’ after I got off, so at least he enjoyed my fake-fluency.
Did I love it? I can see how I would enjoy such a ride after a long day. But I definitely do not want to show up to a senators office with matted hair from the helmet and dust all over my shirt. And I had visions of somersaulting over the driver every time he hit the breaks abruptly. (For the record, I’ve been taking them quite frequently after the experience, but mostly POST interviews where I don’t have to see anyone. Still really not into the slightly-coated-in-dust look. Does not work for me).
The other first-time experience: Safari. Rwanda is not known as a safari hot-spot, because well, it is not a safari hot spot. Mountain gorillas, yes, but this tiny country can’t compete with the vast, diverse beauty of Tanzania or Kenya (not that I’ve been, but so I’ve been told). But considering the last time I saw animals, save a few pigeons, cats and dogs, was say, when I was about 10 (you all know how much I love nature. I revel in the wilderness of the cities, and homo sapiens are totally my favorite species.) it was super exciting for me.
The Akagera National Park is about 2 hours away from Kigali, so totally do-able as a day trip (especially the kind that you kind of hop on after getting a call from a friend of a friend you’ve never met in person). It is a not-so-vast expanse of dry savannah (is that even the correct term? Matt Bird I need your help) with acacia trees, populated with antelopes, bush bucks(?), fish eagles, hippos, baboons, monkeys of different sorts, zebras, warthogs and lots of giraffes. Oh the giraffes. I loved the funny looking creatures too much I think, and I got to see them up THIS close (‘this’ being like 30 cm distance. NO JOKE.) I had the constant urge to narrate the event in the National Geographic channel-esque voice, but considering I had never met any of my safari-friends in person before the trip, I kept the narration internal.
After a few super super hot, arid hours of safari-ing, I returned to my reality that is Kigali. I have actually not been able to eat much since my minor bout of food poisoning (I am all better now), so the Indian food I had for dinner was pretty much heaven. Well fed, well entertained, and finally NOT tearing my head apart because I have no idea what I am doing in terms of research, I had a pretty good nights sleep. Thanks for the diversion, pumba & co.
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