Hanging on.

This past week and a half has been a complete whirlwind.  On the bus ride back to Kigali after a very intense trip to Butare and then an impromptu trip with my host sister, I happened to notice these boys hanging onto the back of a slow-moving truck, catching a ride.  The truck was chugging sluggishly up a hill and these boys, huge grins on their faces, would race after the truck, take a flying leap and grab hold of the truck’s various protrusions.  I felt I could understand the thrill somewhat—it’s dangerous, it’s hard, it’s thrilling, it’s a rush.  This program is so unbelievably intense; I mean, we’re unpacking genocide, discussing the horrible ends of way too many people, on a daily basis.  It’s hard but it’s such a thrill to finally be talking about these kinds of incredibly important issues.  We all chose to be here.

On the way to Butare, we visited Murambi Genocide Memorial.  50,000 people killed in 24 hours.  Just think about it.  The place felt so eerie, so trapped.  It was a boarding school in construction, the spot chosen for its beauty, its serenity, its breath-taking view.  The school was surrounded by hills, which during genocide were filled with watchful eyes of perpetrators, eyes peeled for any attempt of escape from the school where thousands of people had been told to flee to escape the mass killings.  The structures in the back of the main building—classrooms, they said—were filled with bodies preserved in their skeletal form (using some kind of limestone stuff??).  The images will stay with me forever: chalky remnants of humanity, filling the air with the stench of fear and horror.  Mothers holding bundled babies.  Tiny toes curled forever, mimicking innocent sleep.  Large, strong leg bones of men so suddenly deprived of power and ability.  Deformed skulls with clumps of brown, fuzzy hair, still clinging to their human owners.  Children—brothers perhaps—with brows resting together in security.  Gaping mouths with crooked teeth, bearing the screams of this atrocity.  Rack after rack of bodies.  Room after room.  The horror was incredible.

We also visited the National University of Rwanda in Butare.  There we met with a group of students from a university club called Students’ Club for Unity and Reconciliation (SCUR) who gave us a tour of their school and talked with us the whole way.  Their club, while impressive at first, made us really wonder about the value of critical thinking.  Instead of an atmosphere of critical thinking and careful study so typical at least of my university at home, Rwanda’s National University students reeked of government indoctrination; their club very carefully reiterated a specific government image of development and reconciliation that some of us are beginning to think is just a show for western investors.  The students actually asked us, “How did your country (the US) develop so quickly?” insinuating that they wanted to know so that Rwanda could follow the American model.  When we responded with comments that heavily criticized our government and the methods used to get where we are today (exploitation, genocide, imposing values/systems elsewhere in the world), they found it quite inconceivable that the US was anything but perfect.  Yet so many Americans I know, at least, don’t hesitate to critique the government and its policies, and American news is filled with violence—so that’s one thing: where does this image of the US come from and who creates it?  And why?

Another thing: when asked to critique their own government and its highly westernized plan of development, their answers were incredibly vague and mainly continued to support their beloved President Kagame’s implements.  Some claim that the genocide was able to happen because “culturally” Rwandans tend towards obedience of authority; the idea is that Rwandans blindly followed orders, even if those orders were to brutally murder their own wives, because the orders came from an authority figure.  I don’t know how much I believe that claim but it certainly makes one wonder.  The students at the university essentially refused to critique their government; speakers who lecture during our classes perpetually fail to thoroughly answer our theoretical/critical questions; a model youth village to help “vulnerable children” encourages their kids to “Tell me what’s not good about [blank]” which they have found is a completely new exercise for many of the youth; we asked a lecturer the other day about main topics of disagreement between the ten different political parties in Rwanda and he couldn’t think of a single disagreement.  Why is there this utter lack of opposition?  Of voicing disagreeing opinions?  We’re used to an atmosphere where critical thinking is highly prized and actually encouraged—but what has Rwanda been able to gain by its citizens unquestionably following a government that has implemented so many positive reforms towards reconciliation and rebuilding?  How much more can their government get done because its citizens put their complete trust in them?  How beneficial is critique and opposition?  Are they necessary for a healthy democracy?  How are our answers shaped by the utterly polarized political space that we Americans have created for ourselves, the model country for “freedom of speech”?  How much are we getting done??

I also took a very impromptu trip to the northern province, to the towns of Musanze and Gisenyi, with my host sister Ariane to visit her eldest brother, Jimmy.  He made sure we had a super relaxing, awesome weekend—complete with an afternoon at the pool, a trip to the beach at Lake Kivu, a paddleboat ride, a great night of dancing, and a look at the DRC border!  At Gisenyi, you could look across Lake Kivu and literally see Goma, the most talked about city in the news as of late it seems.  No worries—I didn’t hear gunshots, see any rebel armies, or encounter anyone at all flustered about the apparent proximity of DRC’s civil war.  Some of us are beginning to wonder if what we hear in the news about that area is even remotely accurate.  The news is very carefully chosen, the audience very carefully noted, and the events twisted for all sorts of political reasons.  So who knows?  Regardless, I got to enjoy a beautifully relaxing afternoon on the shores of Lake Kivu, surrounded by swaying palm trees, happily dancing people on the beach, and warm sunshine—a perfect way to end a stressful week.