"Look at your hands - are they red like mine?"
Marty McConnell, final line of one of her poems
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Superman sheets.
I remember my girlfriend coming over in 8th grade and the excruciating humiliation of her seeing the Superman covers I had on my bed. I part of me still hasn't forgiven my parents for not helping me update my bed sheets til high school. My mom had the same theory with bed sheets as she did towels (like the 2 bright pink ones she sent along with me for college) -- "They're in perfectly good shape - who cares what's on them?"
Superman sheets.
Today I visited the memorial centre for the genocide in Rwanda. I don't really have anything clever or insightful to try to capture the experience, so I'm going to do my best and pass along some things I wrote down word for word from the wall of the memorial at different points. I spent almost 6 hours slowing trying to absorb what is remembered in that space.
I got to the "personal belongings" room, where articles of clothing, jewelry, and shoes are displayed of people killed in the Genocide. Right in the center, stretched out, was my identical set of Superman sheets. I even walked up to it and inspected it with a sort of confused horror, a cold sweat and chills down my back, half thinking someone had borrowed my old one.
Then there was the "family photo" room. Thousands upon thousands of pictures of people before they were killed:
a middle-aged mother with her hair done, dressed up to go out
a daughter doing a cookie dance at a party
a father in his new jogging outfit about to sprint down a hill
a couple on their wedding day
an auntie laughing, holding a baby's hand as it took its first steps
a crooked, bucktoothed smiling big brother with his little brother in a head-lock
a sweet 16 party
a cocky teenage playboy in his new vest
a man bowing his head for communion in church
a graduation
a grandmother seated in a chair, surrounded by her son, daughter-in-law and two grandchildren - all of whom were killed together on one day of the genocide.
Then I went to the room for the children who were killed - massive blown up family pictures of the kids - towering above each viewer. Here is what I found written on the walls (with the photos above the writing):
Ariane Umotoni
Age: 4
Favourite food: Cake
Favourite drink: Milk
Enjoyed: Singing and dancing
Behaviour: A neat little girl
Cause of death: Stabbed in her eyes and head
Bernardin Kambanda
Age: 17
Favourite sport: Football
Favourite drink: Tea
Favourite food: Rice
Character: Clever at school
Cause of death: Killed by machete at Nyamata church
Irene Umutoni and Uwamwezi Umutoni
Ages: 6 and 7
Relationship: Sisters
Favourite toy: A doll they shared
Favourite food: Fresh fruit
Behaviour: Daddy's girls
Cause of death: A grenade thrown in their shower
Mami Mpinganzima
Age: 12
Favourite food: Chips with mayonnaise
Enjoyed: Traditional dance
Favourite song: "The Beauty of Woman"
Last word: 'Mum, where can I run to?'
Cause of death: Shot dead
Nadia Chanelle Ruterana Kanyange
Age: 8
Favourite sport: Jogging with her father
Favourite sweets: Chocolate
Favourite drink: Milk
Favourite song: "My Native Land Which God Chose for me"
Enjoyed: TV and music
Cause of death: Hacked by machete
Francine Murengezi Ingabire
Age: 12
Favourite sport: Swimming
Favourite food: Eggs and chips
Favourite drink: Milk and Fanta tropical
Best friend: Her elder sister Claudette
Cause of death: Hack by machete
David Mugiraneza
Age: 10
Favourite sport: Football
Enjoyed: Making people laugh
Dream: Becoming a doctor
Last word: 'UNAMIR will come for us.'
Cause of death: Tortured to death
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There is no organized, neat, or adequate way to convey what's going on inside of me right now. I'm just going to paste these fragmented bits I wrote down today and you can do with them as you will:
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WOMEN AND CHILDREN
"Women and children were a direct target of the genocidaires for murder, rape and mutilation.
The killers were determined to ensure that a new generation of Tutsis would never emerge.
Tutsi women were systematically raped and sexually mutilated as a weapon of genocide. This was often by known HIV-infected males. They were then either killed or spared to suffer on another occasion.
Hutu women in mixed marriages were raped as a punishment.
Women and children were not only victims of the genocide, but also perpetrators. Children were frequently forced to participate, often by killing their friends or neighbors.
Victims were sometimes forced to kill their loved ones just before they themselves were killed.
Hutu and Tutsi women were forced to kill their own Tutsi children."
"The primary identity of all Rwandans was originally associated with eighteen different clans. The categories Hutu, Tutsi, and Twa were socio-economic classifications within the clans, which could change with personal circumstances. Under colonial rule, the distinctions were made racial, particularly with the introduction of the identity card in 1932. In creating these distinction, the colonial power [Belgians] identified anyone with ten cows in 1932 as Tutsi and anyone with less than ten cows as Hutu, and this was applied to his descendents. We had lived in peace for many centuries, but now the divide between us had begun..."
"The Catholic Church influenced education in Rwanda. Teaching increasingly conveyed the racist 'Hamitic' ideology, largely accepted by the Church. Hamitic ideology portrayed the Tutsis as a superior group."
"Genocide was being rehearsed. Massacres of Tutsis were carried out in October 1990, January 1991, February 1991, March 1992, August 1992, January 1993, March 1993, and February 1994. None of the massacres constituted spontaneous outbreaks of violence. Despite knowing about these atrocities, the French government continue to support the Habyrimana regime. French soldiers participated in identifying Tutsis on behalf of the government."
"We...say to the Inyenzi [cockroaches] that if they lift up their heads again, it will no longer be necessary to go fight the enemy in the bush. We will...start by eliminating the internal enemy...They will disappear."
-- Hassan Ngeze, Kangura, Jan. 1994
Radio Television Libre des Mille Collines (RTLM)
[Photo of beautiful church / Photo of inside of church with body parts of 2,000 corpses scattered over the pews]
"Nyange: Two thousand congregants were sheltering in the church when Father Seromba gave the order to bulldoze the church building. He murdered his own congregants in his own church."
"A tree can only be straightened when it is young."
Traditional Proverb
[Photo of a group of teens, hanging out and laughing]
"Muhingana George (first from right) and Mujawamariya Epiphaine (fourth from right) before the Genocide. Muhingana George and Mujawamariya Epiphaine were chained together with this chain before they were buried alive."
[Rusted chain and lock in glass viewing case]
"When they were exhumed their corpses were still tied together."
"When French troops arrived, there were still survivors in the hills. It is reported that they reassured the [Tutsi] resisters that it was safe to come out of hiding, then left. Thinking it was safe, the weak survivors emerged to be slaughtered by the interahamwe."
"The guilt of survival."
300,000 ORPHANS
"Many survivors offered to take orphans into their homes on the grounds that they would have wanted someone to do the same if their own children had been orphaned."
"When they said 'never again' after the Holocaust, was it meant for some people and not for others?"
-- Apollon Kabahizi
YAHAYA NSENGIYUMVA
"Yahaya Nsengiyumva was a Muslim living in Nyamirambo. During the Genocide, he is said to have saved the lives of over 30 people, whom he protected or hid in his outhouse.
'The interahamwe killer was chasing me down the alley. I was going to die any second. I banged on the door of the yard. It was opened almost immediately. He[Nsengiyumva] took me by the hand and stood in his doorway and told the killer to leave. He said that the Koran says:
If you save one life, it is like saving the whole world. He did not know it is a Jewish text as well.'
-- Beatha Uwazaninka"
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In a video testimony of one of the survivors, a woman spoke of how haunting the silence was when she first returned - even the birds were mute.
As I stumbled into one corner of the Memorial I found myself watching a 5 minute video, with no sound, of the mutilated bodies of countless people. Children with machete gashes exposing their brain. Churches turned into mass graves.
Then the power went out. And the whole hallway fell dark, like a ghost had just blown out a candle.
I crumpled down against the wall and cried. Dirty, hot, selfish tears.
And then I walked outside and looked over the hill, behind the memorial, where 250,000 people murdered in the Genocide are buried.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Election Day (Kigali, Rwanda)
Yesterday was a holiday -- election day. A day in many countries that warrants getting the hell out of town as quickly as possible. If there were elections in Kenya last week, for example, I think I would have skipped the Nairobi leg of the trip or at least skipped town before they took place.
Not here, though. The day was peaceful and totally calm. It was such a nice day so I decided to take a walk. A couple of hours later I ended up at this quaint little pond. I just took in the breeze and people watched for a while.
These little kids were screaming and jumping around in the water. I think it was pretty cold (even for them!) because they would dive in head first and then come squeeling out immediately.
As I walked by the houses, people would look at me so curiously and surprised. It kind of reminded me of my time in Zambia, in the township where I worked (M'tendere), where a lot of the folks were so shocked to see me walking through. Rwanda is very much like Zambia, and very different from Kenya, or even Tanzania, in that way. Kenyans and most Tanzanians are much more accustomed to seeing foreigners around. In Kigali tourists are totally non-existent so the only foreigners you see really are people working for different NGOs and such that are stationed here.
The little kids almost whisper as I pass, "Mzungu," (white person/one who travels) as if a strange festive float just rolled down their street.
And then I smile big and wave, "Bon jour! Sa va?"
And they blush and smile big too, as if they were just caught sneaking a cookie before dinner and respond, "Sa va bien."
There's a shyness, a curiosity, a gentleness that I sense here.
Not here, though. The day was peaceful and totally calm. It was such a nice day so I decided to take a walk. A couple of hours later I ended up at this quaint little pond. I just took in the breeze and people watched for a while.
These little kids were screaming and jumping around in the water. I think it was pretty cold (even for them!) because they would dive in head first and then come squeeling out immediately.
As I walked by the houses, people would look at me so curiously and surprised. It kind of reminded me of my time in Zambia, in the township where I worked (M'tendere), where a lot of the folks were so shocked to see me walking through. Rwanda is very much like Zambia, and very different from Kenya, or even Tanzania, in that way. Kenyans and most Tanzanians are much more accustomed to seeing foreigners around. In Kigali tourists are totally non-existent so the only foreigners you see really are people working for different NGOs and such that are stationed here.
The little kids almost whisper as I pass, "Mzungu," (white person/one who travels) as if a strange festive float just rolled down their street.
And then I smile big and wave, "Bon jour! Sa va?"
And they blush and smile big too, as if they were just caught sneaking a cookie before dinner and respond, "Sa va bien."
There's a shyness, a curiosity, a gentleness that I sense here.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
"'94" and the Hotel Des Mille Collines (Kigali, Rwanda)
Rwanda is beautiful. Getting out of the airport and meeting up with Guen, who I'm staying with while I'm here, I immediately thought of Bogota, where a lot of my Colombian family lives or has lived - lights decorating hills like a Christmas tree on a Saturday night about to pulse to life.
And Kigali, where I am right now, is one of the cleanest cities I've ever seen. So much feels new or freshly paved, painted, just arrived. Guen says that there's always been a tradition of appearance being very important, whether it's the way folks dress, or the city's streets, whatever -- "it's something that was around well before '94," as she said.
This is the only way the past exists here. And the word used to describe it: "'94"
Today though - no one is Hutu anymore. No one is Tutsi. I still can't get a straight answer on whether any specific laws forbid the mention of either "arbitrary grouping" publicly (as a number of Rwandans I've met have identified them as candidly) but there are just things you don't talk about. There are other things you discuss "on the porch." A woman today told me that there's no tribal origin that explains the Hutus or Tutsis - she says the Belgians merely divided the population into those who owned "more than 10 cows at the time" - Tutsis - and those who didn't - Hutus.
All the districts have been renamed, as well as the cities, and, although most Rwandans in most parts refer to places with the old names, you can't find any maps or formal documents that mention them. There is a lot of strong negative sentiment against the French, although many still use French in their every day lives. I was told today that the French trained and supported the Interahamwe, who led the genocide that left almost 1,000,000 Rwandans dead.
Last night I had some great food and went dancing til 4am at a disco. We had drinks and had fun. I was captivated by the people I saw out. The women are stunningly beautiful. So are the men. I can't distinguish any two groups, although you'll hear a thousand different folkloric ideas about what "physical characteristics" separate the two. It makes me think of turn of the 20th century anthropology and other "science" that hierarchized the identified races.
I honestly didn't feel the heavy weight I thought I would have felt since I got here. It sort of felt like a dream - and a good one at that. Everyone seemed well-dressed and buzzed. Everyone was smiling. Lil Wayne bumped at the club. And everyone, whether they spoke Kinyarwanda, French, Kiswahili, English, whatever, they sang along to the song like they wrote it.
Everything was cool. Until 2 hours ago.
I went with Guen to have a drink at the Hotel Des Mille Collines - the infamous hotel talked about in the book "We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families" and in the film "Hotel Rwanda" that tell the story of a hotel manager, Paul Rusesabagina, who saved 1268 people by giving them refuge at the hotel on a hill in Kigali.
Today the Mille Collines is still a hotel. With the same name. No mention of Paul Rusesabagina. No memorial or monument. It's a slightly over-rated 3.5 star hotel. It kind of looks like a Holiday Inn in Boca Raton where someone would go with their grandparents for a weekend golfing trip.
I sat at a table and drank a sprite and Guen said to me, "The first 2 weeks it really weighs on you...and then you forget. It's fucked up but you do. I came here to watch music last Thursday, it didn't even cross my mind...and then you see a guy trimming a lawn with a machete."
"They still allow machetes in this country?" I asked, shocked.
"I mean it is a useful tool," she answered.
At the supermarket, after we left, she came up 100 Rwandan Francs short at the checkout counter. I remembered that I had been given two 100 Franc bills by Mrs. Mwinzi as a parting gift before I had left Nairobi. They were from her last trip to Rwanda.
As I pulled out the bill, something very abrupt happened - a sharp shift in the air. Everyone immediately stopped - all four cashiers in a line, the customers all turning around to look at me.
No one smiled. No one talked. The cashier carefully put her hand around the bill and rolled it over twice, a sort of weighted, slightly numbed nostalgia in her face - like she was looking at an infant handprint petrified in volcanic ash or an old photo about to turn to dust.
The bill was from 1989.
From the era "before '94," in a world where the past is like a forgotten dream broken down into increments that exist either "before '94" or "after '94."
This "land of a thousand hills," with a people described by most Rwandans I've met as a "fun-loving people who love to party."
For a few brief moments, today, I met Rwanda.
And Kigali, where I am right now, is one of the cleanest cities I've ever seen. So much feels new or freshly paved, painted, just arrived. Guen says that there's always been a tradition of appearance being very important, whether it's the way folks dress, or the city's streets, whatever -- "it's something that was around well before '94," as she said.
This is the only way the past exists here. And the word used to describe it: "'94"
Today though - no one is Hutu anymore. No one is Tutsi. I still can't get a straight answer on whether any specific laws forbid the mention of either "arbitrary grouping" publicly (as a number of Rwandans I've met have identified them as candidly) but there are just things you don't talk about. There are other things you discuss "on the porch." A woman today told me that there's no tribal origin that explains the Hutus or Tutsis - she says the Belgians merely divided the population into those who owned "more than 10 cows at the time" - Tutsis - and those who didn't - Hutus.
All the districts have been renamed, as well as the cities, and, although most Rwandans in most parts refer to places with the old names, you can't find any maps or formal documents that mention them. There is a lot of strong negative sentiment against the French, although many still use French in their every day lives. I was told today that the French trained and supported the Interahamwe, who led the genocide that left almost 1,000,000 Rwandans dead.
Last night I had some great food and went dancing til 4am at a disco. We had drinks and had fun. I was captivated by the people I saw out. The women are stunningly beautiful. So are the men. I can't distinguish any two groups, although you'll hear a thousand different folkloric ideas about what "physical characteristics" separate the two. It makes me think of turn of the 20th century anthropology and other "science" that hierarchized the identified races.
I honestly didn't feel the heavy weight I thought I would have felt since I got here. It sort of felt like a dream - and a good one at that. Everyone seemed well-dressed and buzzed. Everyone was smiling. Lil Wayne bumped at the club. And everyone, whether they spoke Kinyarwanda, French, Kiswahili, English, whatever, they sang along to the song like they wrote it.
Everything was cool. Until 2 hours ago.
I went with Guen to have a drink at the Hotel Des Mille Collines - the infamous hotel talked about in the book "We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families" and in the film "Hotel Rwanda" that tell the story of a hotel manager, Paul Rusesabagina, who saved 1268 people by giving them refuge at the hotel on a hill in Kigali.
Today the Mille Collines is still a hotel. With the same name. No mention of Paul Rusesabagina. No memorial or monument. It's a slightly over-rated 3.5 star hotel. It kind of looks like a Holiday Inn in Boca Raton where someone would go with their grandparents for a weekend golfing trip.
I sat at a table and drank a sprite and Guen said to me, "The first 2 weeks it really weighs on you...and then you forget. It's fucked up but you do. I came here to watch music last Thursday, it didn't even cross my mind...and then you see a guy trimming a lawn with a machete."
"They still allow machetes in this country?" I asked, shocked.
"I mean it is a useful tool," she answered.
At the supermarket, after we left, she came up 100 Rwandan Francs short at the checkout counter. I remembered that I had been given two 100 Franc bills by Mrs. Mwinzi as a parting gift before I had left Nairobi. They were from her last trip to Rwanda.
As I pulled out the bill, something very abrupt happened - a sharp shift in the air. Everyone immediately stopped - all four cashiers in a line, the customers all turning around to look at me.
No one smiled. No one talked. The cashier carefully put her hand around the bill and rolled it over twice, a sort of weighted, slightly numbed nostalgia in her face - like she was looking at an infant handprint petrified in volcanic ash or an old photo about to turn to dust.
The bill was from 1989.
From the era "before '94," in a world where the past is like a forgotten dream broken down into increments that exist either "before '94" or "after '94."
This "land of a thousand hills," with a people described by most Rwandans I've met as a "fun-loving people who love to party."
For a few brief moments, today, I met Rwanda.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
a night at the theater (Nairobi, Kenya)
Last night I hung out with Mrs. Mwinzi (Mwende Edozie's mom) and a few of her colleagues. She treated me to a night on the town in Nairobi - I guess a sort of farewell tour to Kenya, for now, since I'm flying out to Kigali this evening.
Evening getting to our first location was quite a endeavor. We left at 5pm on a Friday (which is when they all had arrived back from work).
The traffic in Nairobi is an unreal. And on Fridays?? Wow. Nuts. Mrs. Mwinzi had gotten tickets for us to go see a play at the Phoenix Playhouse that was opening last night called "6 Characters in Search of an Author" - by a noted Italian playwright whose name I can't recall right now. So, after navigating the hour and 40 minute, 5 km or so journey we arrived at the theater. It was a comedy that was satirizing a lot of the theory behind acting and the theater I suppose, as 6 "characters" show up to a theater while these "actors" are performing and challenge the director to create a production where the "characters" merely relive portions of their lives instead of actors pretending to be them.
It seemed like folks were still working out the lines and the show (I don't think folks do previews here) so there were a few kinks but I really enjoyed it nonetheless. There was this really cute baby sitting right in front of us, name Kenyatta no less, who seemed to captivate our whole side of the theater...I can imagine that little man has a big future.
In any case, after the theater we went to this restaurant called Open House where I had, hands-down, the best Indian food I have ever eaten. Wanna talk about talking in hyperboles?? I'm dead serious. And I spent a month IN India in 2001. This spot had the best Indian food I've ever had. I highly recommend it.
A few hours from now I'll be hopping on a RwandAir flight to Kigali. I feel like since arriving in Africa I write and talk differently. Do these journal entries seem like my vernacular is a bit different?? haha
Hope this finds whoever is reading this healthy and well. much love.
Evening getting to our first location was quite a endeavor. We left at 5pm on a Friday (which is when they all had arrived back from work).
The traffic in Nairobi is an unreal. And on Fridays?? Wow. Nuts. Mrs. Mwinzi had gotten tickets for us to go see a play at the Phoenix Playhouse that was opening last night called "6 Characters in Search of an Author" - by a noted Italian playwright whose name I can't recall right now. So, after navigating the hour and 40 minute, 5 km or so journey we arrived at the theater. It was a comedy that was satirizing a lot of the theory behind acting and the theater I suppose, as 6 "characters" show up to a theater while these "actors" are performing and challenge the director to create a production where the "characters" merely relive portions of their lives instead of actors pretending to be them.
It seemed like folks were still working out the lines and the show (I don't think folks do previews here) so there were a few kinks but I really enjoyed it nonetheless. There was this really cute baby sitting right in front of us, name Kenyatta no less, who seemed to captivate our whole side of the theater...I can imagine that little man has a big future.
In any case, after the theater we went to this restaurant called Open House where I had, hands-down, the best Indian food I have ever eaten. Wanna talk about talking in hyperboles?? I'm dead serious. And I spent a month IN India in 2001. This spot had the best Indian food I've ever had. I highly recommend it.
A few hours from now I'll be hopping on a RwandAir flight to Kigali. I feel like since arriving in Africa I write and talk differently. Do these journal entries seem like my vernacular is a bit different?? haha
Hope this finds whoever is reading this healthy and well. much love.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Twana Twitu (Migwani, Kenya)
Most of my time here in Nairobi has been connecting with and spending time with the incredible crew that works for Twana Twitu (www.twanatwitu.org) here in Nairobi - Wamaitha, John, and Raphael. A couple days back I got a tour of the town with Wamaitha via matatu (a.k.a. dalla-dalla in Tanzania a.k.a. mini bus) and saw a bunch of the sights around town.
Twana Twitu is an organization seeking to fight the HIV/AIDS pandemic by supporting and finding stable housing for children orphaned by the virus. Their belief is that these children will have a much healthier and stable development as they grow older if they are situated with relatives or other close family relations as opposed to being put in orphanages with other parentless children are housed. Their belief is that the orphanage system should be a means of last resort, as it often fragments the family structure and can have detrimental effects on the child's social development. The work they do is fantastic. And the non-profit was founded by Mwende Edozie, with who's mother I have been staying here in Kenya.
Yesterday Raphael (the program coordinator) and I drove out to Migwani district, where Ms. Edozie is originally from, to visit the Twana Twitu site out there and visit some of the families and kids. It was about a 3 hour or so drive each way but it's such a beautiful trip you kind of forget you're in a car as the time passes.
We stopped by a few different families and hung for a bit. We stopped by one house where the grandfather and uncle are caring for an 11 year-old girl whose parents both passed away as a result of AIDS. It was a crazy shift from my usual thinking of things. In the U.S. and most places there is so much made of single mothers and other extended family women rearing and caring for children that may or may not be their own. But here's this 84 year old grandpops talking about how much joy he has (but also how much work it is) to raise this granddaughter.
We met the uncle on our way out, who had just walked down to the girl's school to bring her her lunch. We mentioned to him how different it was to see two men raising a child who wasn't their own, to which he responded, "Of course I will care for her. It is our duty and I will do it to the max!" - with a big warm smile on my face, equal parts warm-hearted and mischievous. Awesome.
I spoke with a few different folks about the play I've been doing interviews for, "A World Without Fathers." Man, have I met some characters. I spoke with Mwende's, the founder of Twana Twitu's, grandfather who is 112. And this dude looks great! He was cleanly shaven, well-dressed, and joking non-stop. He had these bright blue eyes, I think since he is losing his sight - not because he is sick (as he told me) but because he so old. haha
On the way back it rained and this rainbow came out. We pulled over the car and just took it in for a few minutes.
It's been a lot of work and traveling and absorbing since I've arrived here and I'm pretty exhausted but I feel great.
Twana Twitu is an organization seeking to fight the HIV/AIDS pandemic by supporting and finding stable housing for children orphaned by the virus. Their belief is that these children will have a much healthier and stable development as they grow older if they are situated with relatives or other close family relations as opposed to being put in orphanages with other parentless children are housed. Their belief is that the orphanage system should be a means of last resort, as it often fragments the family structure and can have detrimental effects on the child's social development. The work they do is fantastic. And the non-profit was founded by Mwende Edozie, with who's mother I have been staying here in Kenya.
Yesterday Raphael (the program coordinator) and I drove out to Migwani district, where Ms. Edozie is originally from, to visit the Twana Twitu site out there and visit some of the families and kids. It was about a 3 hour or so drive each way but it's such a beautiful trip you kind of forget you're in a car as the time passes.
We stopped by a few different families and hung for a bit. We stopped by one house where the grandfather and uncle are caring for an 11 year-old girl whose parents both passed away as a result of AIDS. It was a crazy shift from my usual thinking of things. In the U.S. and most places there is so much made of single mothers and other extended family women rearing and caring for children that may or may not be their own. But here's this 84 year old grandpops talking about how much joy he has (but also how much work it is) to raise this granddaughter.
We met the uncle on our way out, who had just walked down to the girl's school to bring her her lunch. We mentioned to him how different it was to see two men raising a child who wasn't their own, to which he responded, "Of course I will care for her. It is our duty and I will do it to the max!" - with a big warm smile on my face, equal parts warm-hearted and mischievous. Awesome.
I spoke with a few different folks about the play I've been doing interviews for, "A World Without Fathers." Man, have I met some characters. I spoke with Mwende's, the founder of Twana Twitu's, grandfather who is 112. And this dude looks great! He was cleanly shaven, well-dressed, and joking non-stop. He had these bright blue eyes, I think since he is losing his sight - not because he is sick (as he told me) but because he so old. haha
On the way back it rained and this rainbow came out. We pulled over the car and just took it in for a few minutes.
It's been a lot of work and traveling and absorbing since I've arrived here and I'm pretty exhausted but I feel great.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
U.N. International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (Arusha, Tanzania)
I guess the point of any journey, literal or figurative, is to disrupt or shatter or undo all previous preconceptions. To see the gap in what really exists out in the world and what we are told exists. This whole trip has been saturated with that realization.
Right now I'm back in Nairobi but still very much thinking about the day I spent yesterday in Arusha, while still in Tanzania. I went to the U.N. International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, where almost 60 people have been or are in the process of being tried for participating in the genocide in Rwanda that left close to 1,000,000 Tutsis and (moderate/sympathetic to Tutsi) Hutus dead in just over 3 months in 1994.
From previous experience, I know that court proceedings don't have the climactic arc or drama of Law and Order - often times, they're pretty boring to be honest. This was no different, except what distinguished this case was the seeming boredom of all involved in the process. That and them looking absolutely exhausted. Burnt out. Nothing left. It seemed like they'd all been in this room for the past decade or so having a cyclic discussion with no end.
The way the court room is set up is in a rectangular shape with a glass window making up one of the four walls - this is called the "public gallery" where anyone can come and watch the proceedings with a headset (that translates into about 5 or 6 different languages). Three cases are convened simulataneously, so one can travel between the three rooms and watch each for as long or little as you like.
If someone has been a victim of the genocide (or was there during the genocide) they are surrounded with a curtain, and their identities are kept anonymous for their protection. This was the case in the first court room I went into. A woman was behind the curtain being asked if she knew of, or was familiar with, any of a long list of names being read off to her.
The majority of my time though was spent in the 2nd court room. It was eery. As I walked into the gallery almost everyone in the court room glanced over at me. You'd think that with all the people moving in and out of the gallery that such an occurrence wouldn't really warrant much attention. I soon began to understand why.
An Italian priest, who was visible (not behind a curtain), was being questioned by the prosecutor about one of his parishioners (please excuse my ignorance on all the religious labeling with this...which I'm sure is quite inaccurate). In any event, one of his parishioners, who was a noted local politician, was being accused of coordinating the mass killing of Tutsis. One example I heard about, which included a number of local Hutu religious figures was the murdering of classrooms full of school children who were promised safe refuge in churches only to find armed infantries of Hutu soldiers who hacked them to death with machetes or locked them in the church and set them on fire.
The Italian priest being questioned was very stoic throughout. Never looked up. Thought before answering each question and hardly acknowledged anything or anyone. The only time I saw the priest show any emotion was the only time I saw anyone else show any reaction to much - when the translator stopped translating into English, when the priest was told he was speaking too fast and giving answers that were too long by the presiding judge, and when the lead defense lawyer objected to a certain line of questioning by the prosecutor. With the objection, the prosecutor slammed his mic off and seemed to curse profusely down at the floor and at his team, threw his hands on his head, breathing out deeply and staring at the ceiling. Neither the objection nor the prosecutor's response seemed to have much to do with the actual matter at hand, but rather ego. It seemed more like a pissing contest. Both sides of their exchange seemed equally absurd and misplaced. It was like anyone was looking for anything to diffuse the exhaustion, frustration, tedium, whatever.
After the priest was told that he was being too long-winded by the judge he pretty much answered mono-syllabically. At one point the prosecutor had asked the priest why his parishioner had said that he moved out of politics, to which the priest responded:
"The political atmosphere."
I was like...huh? So was everyone else. And the prosecutor responded,
"And to what kind of political atmosphere are you referring? Please be more specific in your answer."
And the priest answers, "Please be more specific in your question."
It was really intense to watch all these incredibly loaded and haunting layers unfold. Everyone had so much underneath everything they said or did, it was amazing to see how they each coped with it. Some of the lawyers, like that previous example, seemed to act out - almost like a bratty teen. Some chose to choke everything in and remain almost robotic - like the priest. Others seemed petty and easily distracted - like the presiding judge who constantly seemed to stop and intervene on silly small things that were happening.
Others just took a whole other approach - like most of the security that worked at the U.N. I.C.T.R. - who were some of the most casual and jovial, fun-loving folks I came across in my entire trip to Tanzania.
Walking through security initially, this dude with a huge smile says, almost playfully taunting,
"Do you have a camera?"
To which I replied, "No, do I need one?"
He giggled at my response and pulled out two sign in books.
"This one is where you sign in your camera. And this one is where you sign in your gun" - and he falls out laughing with his head back as if he said the funniest thing of all time.
I sort of looked quizically at him and laughed nervously.
"Just playing my brother!" he said as I passed through the metal detectors, "Have fun!" he said with a parting smile, as if I was about to get on a ride at Disney World.
Wow.
Anyway, I'm back in Nairobi. Recorded 2 more songs with Kamikazee and Mama C. on Sunday night and had a nice bus ride back yesterday. Have plans to visit the Twana Twitu AIDS orphanage tomorrow.
I'll write again soon. Much love.
Right now I'm back in Nairobi but still very much thinking about the day I spent yesterday in Arusha, while still in Tanzania. I went to the U.N. International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, where almost 60 people have been or are in the process of being tried for participating in the genocide in Rwanda that left close to 1,000,000 Tutsis and (moderate/sympathetic to Tutsi) Hutus dead in just over 3 months in 1994.
From previous experience, I know that court proceedings don't have the climactic arc or drama of Law and Order - often times, they're pretty boring to be honest. This was no different, except what distinguished this case was the seeming boredom of all involved in the process. That and them looking absolutely exhausted. Burnt out. Nothing left. It seemed like they'd all been in this room for the past decade or so having a cyclic discussion with no end.
The way the court room is set up is in a rectangular shape with a glass window making up one of the four walls - this is called the "public gallery" where anyone can come and watch the proceedings with a headset (that translates into about 5 or 6 different languages). Three cases are convened simulataneously, so one can travel between the three rooms and watch each for as long or little as you like.
If someone has been a victim of the genocide (or was there during the genocide) they are surrounded with a curtain, and their identities are kept anonymous for their protection. This was the case in the first court room I went into. A woman was behind the curtain being asked if she knew of, or was familiar with, any of a long list of names being read off to her.
The majority of my time though was spent in the 2nd court room. It was eery. As I walked into the gallery almost everyone in the court room glanced over at me. You'd think that with all the people moving in and out of the gallery that such an occurrence wouldn't really warrant much attention. I soon began to understand why.
An Italian priest, who was visible (not behind a curtain), was being questioned by the prosecutor about one of his parishioners (please excuse my ignorance on all the religious labeling with this...which I'm sure is quite inaccurate). In any event, one of his parishioners, who was a noted local politician, was being accused of coordinating the mass killing of Tutsis. One example I heard about, which included a number of local Hutu religious figures was the murdering of classrooms full of school children who were promised safe refuge in churches only to find armed infantries of Hutu soldiers who hacked them to death with machetes or locked them in the church and set them on fire.
The Italian priest being questioned was very stoic throughout. Never looked up. Thought before answering each question and hardly acknowledged anything or anyone. The only time I saw the priest show any emotion was the only time I saw anyone else show any reaction to much - when the translator stopped translating into English, when the priest was told he was speaking too fast and giving answers that were too long by the presiding judge, and when the lead defense lawyer objected to a certain line of questioning by the prosecutor. With the objection, the prosecutor slammed his mic off and seemed to curse profusely down at the floor and at his team, threw his hands on his head, breathing out deeply and staring at the ceiling. Neither the objection nor the prosecutor's response seemed to have much to do with the actual matter at hand, but rather ego. It seemed more like a pissing contest. Both sides of their exchange seemed equally absurd and misplaced. It was like anyone was looking for anything to diffuse the exhaustion, frustration, tedium, whatever.
After the priest was told that he was being too long-winded by the judge he pretty much answered mono-syllabically. At one point the prosecutor had asked the priest why his parishioner had said that he moved out of politics, to which the priest responded:
"The political atmosphere."
I was like...huh? So was everyone else. And the prosecutor responded,
"And to what kind of political atmosphere are you referring? Please be more specific in your answer."
And the priest answers, "Please be more specific in your question."
It was really intense to watch all these incredibly loaded and haunting layers unfold. Everyone had so much underneath everything they said or did, it was amazing to see how they each coped with it. Some of the lawyers, like that previous example, seemed to act out - almost like a bratty teen. Some chose to choke everything in and remain almost robotic - like the priest. Others seemed petty and easily distracted - like the presiding judge who constantly seemed to stop and intervene on silly small things that were happening.
Others just took a whole other approach - like most of the security that worked at the U.N. I.C.T.R. - who were some of the most casual and jovial, fun-loving folks I came across in my entire trip to Tanzania.
Walking through security initially, this dude with a huge smile says, almost playfully taunting,
"Do you have a camera?"
To which I replied, "No, do I need one?"
He giggled at my response and pulled out two sign in books.
"This one is where you sign in your camera. And this one is where you sign in your gun" - and he falls out laughing with his head back as if he said the funniest thing of all time.
I sort of looked quizically at him and laughed nervously.
"Just playing my brother!" he said as I passed through the metal detectors, "Have fun!" he said with a parting smile, as if I was about to get on a ride at Disney World.
Wow.
Anyway, I'm back in Nairobi. Recorded 2 more songs with Kamikazee and Mama C. on Sunday night and had a nice bus ride back yesterday. Have plans to visit the Twana Twitu AIDS orphanage tomorrow.
I'll write again soon. Much love.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Carlos in Tanzania
It's funny how life works out. I always make fun of the absurd fetishizing hyperbolosity of going abroad. Everyone always talks about the inspiring and life-changing moments that happen. It's inevitable. As if foreign countries were built to have these life altering exchanges and moments to be shared at dinner parties and look "cultured." And then I'll talk about the people I met - the guy who made me a mango smoothy on the sidewalk in Puerto Plata with the eyes of a voodoo Orisha sage who probably couldn't give a fuck about me. How a little girl pressed her delicate hand against the window of my cab in Calcutta and how it made me...blah blah blah blah
I hate that shit. All that said. I am all hyperboles right now. As I've come to realize though - every moment of life, wherever you are is full of the beauty, humanity, and inspiration that we often only allow ourselves to feel while we're abroad or on an "adventure" - we seem to put our kid glasses on then. Maybe we should do it more often.
In any event, right now I'm in Imbaseni, Tanzania, a village just outside of Arusha, staying with Mzee Pete and Mama Charlotte O'Neal. Two Black Panthers who have been living here for almost 40 years since Mzee Pete was forced into exile after a trumped gun possession charge. He was the founder and chairman of the Black Panther Party in Kansas City, Missouri.
This community center they've built is a dream. No other words to describe it. There are murals snaking their way around all of the seemingly endless walls, with drawings of Malcolm and Martin shaking hands smiling, east African emcees and Masai families, inspiring words, and a red, black, and green painted recording studio with egg crates sound-proofing it. When I got here from Nairobi on Friday, I went into the studio with Mama Charlotte and her producer, Kami, and we cut this crazy track with Mama C chanting, singing, me emceeing, and Kami laying down one of his ill beats. Today I hung out with Mzee Pete for a while in the afternoon and he told me all kinds of stories from his youth and childhood and what life was like growing up in KC. Tomorrow I'm planning to watch one of the trials of the U.N. International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda that is convened in Arusha to try accused war criminals of the Rwandan genocide.
Being here gives me some real hope after a summer filled with some sobering reminders of the less inspiring character or settled-for mediocrity that seems to plague adulthood. It's made me less enthusiastic about growing into this supposed "man" that I'm viewed as.
But then I meet Mzee Pete and Mama Charlotte on Friday.
And these two revolutionaries (and I really mean it when I use it for them) LIVE what they speak. And 40 years since almost having their lives taken away for what they believe they are enacting all the things they spoke about - workshops for the local community on everything from computer science to reading and language study to dance (and everything and anything in between), a water purification system they have set up that is accessible to everyone in the surrounding villages, and a space where creativity and well-informed ideas are not only nurtured but constantly demanded of those who stay here. You should see Pete's book collection - insane. Stuff out of print, stuff just printed - I have no idea where he gets all this stuff. And then the photos of Pete and Mama C in their hey day - with rifles in their hands and berets. Wow. I know how cute and fun it is for folks to romanticize all that shit and all the "crunchy grassroots activists" (like me) back home who put on a cool t-shirt and yell loud and think we're "revolutionary," but they lived in a time where it wasn't halloween or a costume ball party folks called a "protest."
To see the peace and careful listening of two people as imperfect and human as Mzee Pete and Mama C really teaches me something. I don't even know right now what the full scope of it is, but these last few days I've been feeling like someone reached into my ribcage and sort of washed off my dusty heart. The stars really sing here at night. I feel like I don't look up enough.
I hate that shit. All that said. I am all hyperboles right now. As I've come to realize though - every moment of life, wherever you are is full of the beauty, humanity, and inspiration that we often only allow ourselves to feel while we're abroad or on an "adventure" - we seem to put our kid glasses on then. Maybe we should do it more often.
In any event, right now I'm in Imbaseni, Tanzania, a village just outside of Arusha, staying with Mzee Pete and Mama Charlotte O'Neal. Two Black Panthers who have been living here for almost 40 years since Mzee Pete was forced into exile after a trumped gun possession charge. He was the founder and chairman of the Black Panther Party in Kansas City, Missouri.
This community center they've built is a dream. No other words to describe it. There are murals snaking their way around all of the seemingly endless walls, with drawings of Malcolm and Martin shaking hands smiling, east African emcees and Masai families, inspiring words, and a red, black, and green painted recording studio with egg crates sound-proofing it. When I got here from Nairobi on Friday, I went into the studio with Mama Charlotte and her producer, Kami, and we cut this crazy track with Mama C chanting, singing, me emceeing, and Kami laying down one of his ill beats. Today I hung out with Mzee Pete for a while in the afternoon and he told me all kinds of stories from his youth and childhood and what life was like growing up in KC. Tomorrow I'm planning to watch one of the trials of the U.N. International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda that is convened in Arusha to try accused war criminals of the Rwandan genocide.
Being here gives me some real hope after a summer filled with some sobering reminders of the less inspiring character or settled-for mediocrity that seems to plague adulthood. It's made me less enthusiastic about growing into this supposed "man" that I'm viewed as.
But then I meet Mzee Pete and Mama Charlotte on Friday.
And these two revolutionaries (and I really mean it when I use it for them) LIVE what they speak. And 40 years since almost having their lives taken away for what they believe they are enacting all the things they spoke about - workshops for the local community on everything from computer science to reading and language study to dance (and everything and anything in between), a water purification system they have set up that is accessible to everyone in the surrounding villages, and a space where creativity and well-informed ideas are not only nurtured but constantly demanded of those who stay here. You should see Pete's book collection - insane. Stuff out of print, stuff just printed - I have no idea where he gets all this stuff. And then the photos of Pete and Mama C in their hey day - with rifles in their hands and berets. Wow. I know how cute and fun it is for folks to romanticize all that shit and all the "crunchy grassroots activists" (like me) back home who put on a cool t-shirt and yell loud and think we're "revolutionary," but they lived in a time where it wasn't halloween or a costume ball party folks called a "protest."
To see the peace and careful listening of two people as imperfect and human as Mzee Pete and Mama C really teaches me something. I don't even know right now what the full scope of it is, but these last few days I've been feeling like someone reached into my ribcage and sort of washed off my dusty heart. The stars really sing here at night. I feel like I don't look up enough.
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