I worry about the Central African Republic. I suppose not many people do. It’s a small isolated nation in the heart of Africa. Surrounded by troubles in Sudan, Chad and Congo, nonetheless the CAR has proven capable of surfacing indigenous travails; most of which revolve around tribal politics or bad governance. The saddest part of the CAR’s plight is that nothing need be so bad. Ample opportunities to correct matters have been squandered over the years by self-serving politicians, military chiefs and even the people themselves via passivism in the face of egregious abuses and electoral choices that backfired. Yet, despite the malaise and corruption that belie the country, people are ever optimistic that matters will improve.
Currently, however, unrelated strife in two sections of the country poses difficulties. First, in the far northeast around the town of Birao – truly one of the most isolated towns in all of Africa – the Sudanese Darfur conflict spilled across the border in the form of raids by Janjaweed militias on horseback. The Birao region has much in common with Darfur. It is true Sahaelean land where the conflict between herders and agriculturalists mirrors the imbroglio across the border. Fighting around Birao, however, was exacerbated by CAR army troops who, being southerners from the woodlands and forests to the south, were incapable of distinguishing friend from foe, so chased everyone. With the support of French air power, the CAR army has prevailed for the time being, but Birao town was emptied and the citizenry highly annoyed. The CAR army is simply incapable of maintaining a strong military presence in the northeast; so how matters will shake out in the region in the months to come remains unknown. Perhaps one positive aspect of the fighting is the provision of an additional reason for the UN Security Council to act more vigorously vis a vis Darfur because the Council does have the specific mandate to contain international aggression.
Further west in the northern CAR around the town of Paoua near the Chadian border, the CAR’s internal politics are the cause for strife. The area in trouble is the home region of ousted and exiled President Felix Patasse. The incumbent government of President Francois Bozize continues to believe – with legitimate cause – that the region remains supportive of the ex-president. Thus, it over-reacts with violence to minor sparks of opposition. Short of more inclusive political reconciliation, which is unlikely, the region will remain a tinderbox; mostly to the detriment of rural inhabitants caught in the melee of government heavy-handedness.
One small bright spot in the CAR is in the far southeast along the upper reaches of the Mbomou River and border with the Congo and Sudan. There nearly forty thousand refugees from Sudan’s southern civil war settled since the 1980s and even before. Conclusion of that war in the Sudan in 2004 resulted in massive returns of these refugees to their ancestral homelands around Torit. To its credit the CAR had welcomed and assisted the refugees over the years. They, in fact, quadrupled the population of the thinly peopled east. Yet, despite the hospitality, they were still Sudanese refugees whose stay was temporary. When circumstances were right for their exodus, they went home.
So what can the outside world do for the CAR? There are no easy formulas. A regional, UN backed peace keeping mission has fostered peace in the capital, but doesn’t have the capacity (or mandate) to project forces. France, the former colonial power, retains interest and involvement in the CAR, but is reluctant to do too much. The U.S. has minimal diplomatic presence, few resources and little interest. The UN system responds adequately to humanitarian and refugee issues, but the remoteness of the needy areas limits effectiveness. So ultimately, it is up to the Central Africans themselves to shed the political and economic malaise that engulfs them. That is a tall order that can only be accomplished by many little steps. There is a continuing effort to rectify problems, but don’t expect too much. Meanwhile, worry.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Friday, April 20, 2007
Golf in Africa
Following is a piece that I wrote about my golfing experiences in Africa that was published in the April 2007 edition of the Foreign Service Journal.
Best and Worst Golf Courses
One valid subjective measure for rating an overseas post is the quality of the golf experience. In that spirit, I offer the following observations.
On becoming the consul in Mombasa, Kenya, I rented a house that backed up to the Nyali Club golf course. It was finally time for me to learn the game and become inculcated into the arcana of golf rules and, especially the formality of a British-origin club. I joined and, depending upon the season, played upon lush green fairways or hard-packed clay over fossilized coral rock. I regularly jumped my back fence for a few practice holes in the early evening. Baby monkeys carted off balls, doum palms ate them and the rough hid puff adders. Most refreshing during competitions was a cold fresh lime drink under the palm trees between nines.
The course in the middle of Kampala was full of ardent players. Thought modest, the prizes - a bicycle, a set of kitchen utensils or a bottle of scotch – were items beyond the reach of many players. Despite the fact that few players were British, an English sense of decorum prevailed. One did not fail to doff his hat upon entering the bar. Most entertaining were rule-committee arguments and rulings conducted in an open fashion over beers on the terrace. Real tension rose once a year in the regional competition organized on tribal lines; we foreigners were allocated any region where more players were needed. In keeping with Uganda’s strife plagued politics, the contest was war by other means. However, it all ended amicably in a huge drunk.
The course in Bangui became one of my favorites. It was not much of a course, with poorly mown fairways and oiled-sand greens, but it had very cold beer. As it happened either Political officer Stacy Kazacos, the only Central African Republic member Martin Yando, or I won every competition for about a year. This infuriated the largely French membership. My triumph was to capture the CAR national championship in 1995. Unfortunately, that was the last year it was played: the golf course succumbed to the ravages of civil strife, and has not reopened.
Kigali has a winding nine-hole course that crosses and recrosses an infernal stream. A challenging course, its fairways are narrow and grass greens unpredictable. The club had a mixed membership of Rwandans (mostly army officers who learned the game in Uganda) and international personnel. I tried to interest now-President Kagame in golf, but he preferred tennis (he rarely lost). Once a year we decorated the club house with left over July 4 bunting and played for the “American Cup.” We cooked hotdogs. I gave away putters, bags, balls to the winners.
Other memorable African courses that I know include Firestone East, located on a vast rubber plantation in Liberia. The main challenge was getting to and from the course, 40 miles from the capital. Players had to run a gauntlet of roadblocks manned by former dictator Charles Taylor’s goons and child soldiers.
The midtown course in Kinshasa is low lying with lots of water hazards. One rarely lost a ball, however, on account of the ever-present “crocodiles” – men who waited patiently by each pond, waded in and retrieved your ball for a small sum. In contrast the course in N’Djamena, Chad, had little vegetation but lots of sand. We carried around a swath of outdoor carpet to hit from into inconsistent oiled browns. Heat was the issue in Chad. It was already 95 degrees when we started at 9 a.m. and often 120 by the finish.
Djibouti’s course resembles Chad’s: sand and rock decorated by remnants of plastic trash bags. Heat and humidity, each about a 100, necessitated a dawn start. I would roust a caddy off his sleeping mat – they slept on the club veranda – and head out. One morning with a tail wind and good bounces, I had a legitimate sub-par round. The golf gods were telling me that even in Djibouti, they smile down on lunatics. A year later, my crowning achievement came on the course in Bujumbura. I aced hole number 12, a 180-yard, uphill par 3…bounce, bounce, in!
So which is the best or the worst? I can’t say. I liked them all. I needed them all! For without a golf course, any post is the pits.
Best and Worst Golf Courses
One valid subjective measure for rating an overseas post is the quality of the golf experience. In that spirit, I offer the following observations.
On becoming the consul in Mombasa, Kenya, I rented a house that backed up to the Nyali Club golf course. It was finally time for me to learn the game and become inculcated into the arcana of golf rules and, especially the formality of a British-origin club. I joined and, depending upon the season, played upon lush green fairways or hard-packed clay over fossilized coral rock. I regularly jumped my back fence for a few practice holes in the early evening. Baby monkeys carted off balls, doum palms ate them and the rough hid puff adders. Most refreshing during competitions was a cold fresh lime drink under the palm trees between nines.
The course in the middle of Kampala was full of ardent players. Thought modest, the prizes - a bicycle, a set of kitchen utensils or a bottle of scotch – were items beyond the reach of many players. Despite the fact that few players were British, an English sense of decorum prevailed. One did not fail to doff his hat upon entering the bar. Most entertaining were rule-committee arguments and rulings conducted in an open fashion over beers on the terrace. Real tension rose once a year in the regional competition organized on tribal lines; we foreigners were allocated any region where more players were needed. In keeping with Uganda’s strife plagued politics, the contest was war by other means. However, it all ended amicably in a huge drunk.
The course in Bangui became one of my favorites. It was not much of a course, with poorly mown fairways and oiled-sand greens, but it had very cold beer. As it happened either Political officer Stacy Kazacos, the only Central African Republic member Martin Yando, or I won every competition for about a year. This infuriated the largely French membership. My triumph was to capture the CAR national championship in 1995. Unfortunately, that was the last year it was played: the golf course succumbed to the ravages of civil strife, and has not reopened.
Kigali has a winding nine-hole course that crosses and recrosses an infernal stream. A challenging course, its fairways are narrow and grass greens unpredictable. The club had a mixed membership of Rwandans (mostly army officers who learned the game in Uganda) and international personnel. I tried to interest now-President Kagame in golf, but he preferred tennis (he rarely lost). Once a year we decorated the club house with left over July 4 bunting and played for the “American Cup.” We cooked hotdogs. I gave away putters, bags, balls to the winners.
Other memorable African courses that I know include Firestone East, located on a vast rubber plantation in Liberia. The main challenge was getting to and from the course, 40 miles from the capital. Players had to run a gauntlet of roadblocks manned by former dictator Charles Taylor’s goons and child soldiers.
The midtown course in Kinshasa is low lying with lots of water hazards. One rarely lost a ball, however, on account of the ever-present “crocodiles” – men who waited patiently by each pond, waded in and retrieved your ball for a small sum. In contrast the course in N’Djamena, Chad, had little vegetation but lots of sand. We carried around a swath of outdoor carpet to hit from into inconsistent oiled browns. Heat was the issue in Chad. It was already 95 degrees when we started at 9 a.m. and often 120 by the finish.
Djibouti’s course resembles Chad’s: sand and rock decorated by remnants of plastic trash bags. Heat and humidity, each about a 100, necessitated a dawn start. I would roust a caddy off his sleeping mat – they slept on the club veranda – and head out. One morning with a tail wind and good bounces, I had a legitimate sub-par round. The golf gods were telling me that even in Djibouti, they smile down on lunatics. A year later, my crowning achievement came on the course in Bujumbura. I aced hole number 12, a 180-yard, uphill par 3…bounce, bounce, in!
So which is the best or the worst? I can’t say. I liked them all. I needed them all! For without a golf course, any post is the pits.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Rwanda - President Bizimungu Freed
Lost in the flurry of reports from Rwanda last weekend commemorating the 1994 genocide was the news that President Paul Kagame pardoned former President Pasteur Bizimungu and released him from prison. Bizimungu had served five years of a fifteen year sentence for treason. Bizimungu was reportedly delighted (who would not be?) with the news. He was cautioned by officials to become a law abiding citizen.
Bizimungu’s initial arrest and conviction were contentious. Although there was probably some corruption mud on him, his troubles really arose from political reasons. As a Hutu, President during the early RPF era (1994 to 2000) and untainted by genocide, Bizimungu was apparently deemed to pose a credible threat to continued insider dominance by Kagame and the clique around him. After falling out with the inner leadership and resigning in 2000, Bizimungu announced his intention to contest for the top post in the upcoming election with his own new party on his own platform. However, fearing a possible return to ethnic politics, the Tutsi element was determined to prevail. Accordingly, a number of measures were adopted to make it impossible (as in Bizimungu’s case) or very difficult as regarding the effort by former Prime Minister Twagiramungu or other Hutus to run. Naturally, little of this was couched overtly in ethnic terms, even though the code was known by all.
I judged at the time that President Kagame had little to fear from an electoral challenger. He had the name recognition, the power of the military and the power of incumbency. He was the savior of Rwanda and its true leader. Given the way that Rwandan society works, his election would almost be automatic. Yet, electoral success was assured by arrest of Bizimungu and intimidation of other candidates. The message as (correctly) read by voters was continuation of Kagame’s rule.
Once won, however, the question arose of what to do with Bizimungu? Charges (even partially trumped up ones) could not be dropped as that would fly in the face of Rwanda’s very determined efforts to institute a rule-of-law regime nationwide, especially in dealing with genocidaires (which Bizimungu was not, but resolving his case prematurely would smack of favoritism). Also, failure to move forward on the Bizimungu case would indicate that the charges against him were more political than real. Finally, stubbornly proud Rwanda did not want to be perceived as caving to international pressure to free the former president. Thus, the legal process had to run its course. This involved a trial, conviction, sentencing and appeals. Only when all the legal maneuverings were complete could exercise of the presidential power of commutation be considered.
To his credit, when the time was propitious President Kagame exercised his power and had his former colleague released. I judge the decision to have been overdue, but it certainly was a mark of political maturity. Pasteur Bizimungu poses no political threat to the regime, yet his release does indicate that old animosities must pass on and that all Rwandans can and ought to live together harmoniously. That is good news. Rhetoric and reality should always match.
Bizimungu’s initial arrest and conviction were contentious. Although there was probably some corruption mud on him, his troubles really arose from political reasons. As a Hutu, President during the early RPF era (1994 to 2000) and untainted by genocide, Bizimungu was apparently deemed to pose a credible threat to continued insider dominance by Kagame and the clique around him. After falling out with the inner leadership and resigning in 2000, Bizimungu announced his intention to contest for the top post in the upcoming election with his own new party on his own platform. However, fearing a possible return to ethnic politics, the Tutsi element was determined to prevail. Accordingly, a number of measures were adopted to make it impossible (as in Bizimungu’s case) or very difficult as regarding the effort by former Prime Minister Twagiramungu or other Hutus to run. Naturally, little of this was couched overtly in ethnic terms, even though the code was known by all.
I judged at the time that President Kagame had little to fear from an electoral challenger. He had the name recognition, the power of the military and the power of incumbency. He was the savior of Rwanda and its true leader. Given the way that Rwandan society works, his election would almost be automatic. Yet, electoral success was assured by arrest of Bizimungu and intimidation of other candidates. The message as (correctly) read by voters was continuation of Kagame’s rule.
Once won, however, the question arose of what to do with Bizimungu? Charges (even partially trumped up ones) could not be dropped as that would fly in the face of Rwanda’s very determined efforts to institute a rule-of-law regime nationwide, especially in dealing with genocidaires (which Bizimungu was not, but resolving his case prematurely would smack of favoritism). Also, failure to move forward on the Bizimungu case would indicate that the charges against him were more political than real. Finally, stubbornly proud Rwanda did not want to be perceived as caving to international pressure to free the former president. Thus, the legal process had to run its course. This involved a trial, conviction, sentencing and appeals. Only when all the legal maneuverings were complete could exercise of the presidential power of commutation be considered.
To his credit, when the time was propitious President Kagame exercised his power and had his former colleague released. I judge the decision to have been overdue, but it certainly was a mark of political maturity. Pasteur Bizimungu poses no political threat to the regime, yet his release does indicate that old animosities must pass on and that all Rwandans can and ought to live together harmoniously. That is good news. Rhetoric and reality should always match.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Kenya - Who killed Robert Ouku?
On the morning of February 16, 1990 the Voice of Kenya radio announced that the mutilated and partially burned body of Robert Ouko, Kenya’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, had been found near his home in Koru. The minister had been reported as missing a day earlier.
Ouku’s death ushered in a long series of inquiries, investigations and speculations, but since the trail led into the highest reaches of Kenyan politics, further pursuit of culprits was stonewalled. No one has ever been charged with the crime.
Professors David William Cohen and E.S. Atieno Odhihambo wrote a book entitled The Risks of Knowledge: Investigations into the Death of the Hon. Minister John Robert Ouko in Kenya, 1990, Athens, Ohio University Press, 2004. The authors recount what is known and unknown about the minister’s death.
Risks of Knowledge is a difficult book to describe and an awkward one to read. It is an erudite mélange of scholarship, sensationalist reporting and stilted legalese. The authors have multiple goals that they spell out in the introduction. Foremost is to assess how the investigations into Foreign Minister Ouko’s murder transformed Kenyan society. The authors assert that the knowledge revealed both wittingly and unwittingly, shed light on ambition, corruption and the practice of politics by Kenya’s most powerful people. Among the consequences of the investigations was the exposure of various efforts to cover-up the high level involvement undertaken in order to confuse and keep the public in the dark. The authors stated that this objective failed as the brouhaha surrounding such blatant attempts to obfuscate led to expanded and ultimately successful efforts to reform and to democratize Kenya.
Like the investigations themselves, the book wanders around a bit jumping from the material at hand to ruminations on its meaning and impact. However, the book does provide a solid structure for revisiting the murder. In turn it highlights evidence of “the white car” seen by the housekeeper, the site of the death, the missing note that perhaps named the abductors, Ouko’s whereabouts in the days before the murder, the minister’s state of mind, corruption linked to the molasses factory, Ouko’s falling out with President Moi, theories of family problems, and special branch abuses. At times the book reads like a murder mystery, yet as the authors point out early, there are no conclusions as to who did it? or why? only mounting evidence that permits readers to draw their own conclusions. Nonetheless, the mounting evidence and the authors’ analysis of it provide fascinating insights into Kenyan political society.
I kept waiting for the authors to deliver a promised discussion of how the investigation elevated the status of servants (such persons including housekeeper Selina and herdsman Shikuku provided the bulk of the damning testimony), granting them credibility in a society that tended to ignore the thoughts and observations of the lower classes, but other than the statement to that effect there was little analysis of this facet.
My disclaimer: Since I lived briefly in Koru as a PCV (1968) and worked in that area for nearly two years, I easily recalled the physical geography relevant to the murder. Although I did not know the minister, I knew other “big men” who owned farms in the sugar zone. Additionally, I gleaned some understanding of the dynamics of Luo politics, at least from the perspective of the common man. Finally, from a later diplomatic posting in next door Uganda, I assisted Ouku’s brother Barrack Mbajah to join his son in the U.S. in 1991.
Those who served in Kenya during the early nineties undoubtedly recall the ongoing soap opera of the investigations, especially the commission’s months long hearings that were reported verbatim in the Daily Nation. All that verbiage will jump back out at you as you read this book. For others who knew Kenya before or after this event, this book serves as a good divider. Earlier observers of the political scene, recalling Mboya’s and Kariuki’s deaths, would perhaps not be terribly surprised, albeit disappointed, that assassination would occur again. Later observers will more realistically appreciate the political currents unleashed by Ouko’s death and the changes subsequently wrought. In any case, Risks of Knowledge is an interesting foray into a complex topic. If you have patience, it is an excellent read.
Ouku’s death ushered in a long series of inquiries, investigations and speculations, but since the trail led into the highest reaches of Kenyan politics, further pursuit of culprits was stonewalled. No one has ever been charged with the crime.
Professors David William Cohen and E.S. Atieno Odhihambo wrote a book entitled The Risks of Knowledge: Investigations into the Death of the Hon. Minister John Robert Ouko in Kenya, 1990, Athens, Ohio University Press, 2004. The authors recount what is known and unknown about the minister’s death.
Risks of Knowledge is a difficult book to describe and an awkward one to read. It is an erudite mélange of scholarship, sensationalist reporting and stilted legalese. The authors have multiple goals that they spell out in the introduction. Foremost is to assess how the investigations into Foreign Minister Ouko’s murder transformed Kenyan society. The authors assert that the knowledge revealed both wittingly and unwittingly, shed light on ambition, corruption and the practice of politics by Kenya’s most powerful people. Among the consequences of the investigations was the exposure of various efforts to cover-up the high level involvement undertaken in order to confuse and keep the public in the dark. The authors stated that this objective failed as the brouhaha surrounding such blatant attempts to obfuscate led to expanded and ultimately successful efforts to reform and to democratize Kenya.
Like the investigations themselves, the book wanders around a bit jumping from the material at hand to ruminations on its meaning and impact. However, the book does provide a solid structure for revisiting the murder. In turn it highlights evidence of “the white car” seen by the housekeeper, the site of the death, the missing note that perhaps named the abductors, Ouko’s whereabouts in the days before the murder, the minister’s state of mind, corruption linked to the molasses factory, Ouko’s falling out with President Moi, theories of family problems, and special branch abuses. At times the book reads like a murder mystery, yet as the authors point out early, there are no conclusions as to who did it? or why? only mounting evidence that permits readers to draw their own conclusions. Nonetheless, the mounting evidence and the authors’ analysis of it provide fascinating insights into Kenyan political society.
I kept waiting for the authors to deliver a promised discussion of how the investigation elevated the status of servants (such persons including housekeeper Selina and herdsman Shikuku provided the bulk of the damning testimony), granting them credibility in a society that tended to ignore the thoughts and observations of the lower classes, but other than the statement to that effect there was little analysis of this facet.
My disclaimer: Since I lived briefly in Koru as a PCV (1968) and worked in that area for nearly two years, I easily recalled the physical geography relevant to the murder. Although I did not know the minister, I knew other “big men” who owned farms in the sugar zone. Additionally, I gleaned some understanding of the dynamics of Luo politics, at least from the perspective of the common man. Finally, from a later diplomatic posting in next door Uganda, I assisted Ouku’s brother Barrack Mbajah to join his son in the U.S. in 1991.
Those who served in Kenya during the early nineties undoubtedly recall the ongoing soap opera of the investigations, especially the commission’s months long hearings that were reported verbatim in the Daily Nation. All that verbiage will jump back out at you as you read this book. For others who knew Kenya before or after this event, this book serves as a good divider. Earlier observers of the political scene, recalling Mboya’s and Kariuki’s deaths, would perhaps not be terribly surprised, albeit disappointed, that assassination would occur again. Later observers will more realistically appreciate the political currents unleashed by Ouko’s death and the changes subsequently wrought. In any case, Risks of Knowledge is an interesting foray into a complex topic. If you have patience, it is an excellent read.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Rwanda - Commemoration of the Genocide
April 7, 2007 marks the 13th anniversary of the commencement of Rwanda's terrible genocide. During the hundred days that followed April 7, 1994, almost a million souls perished in a cataclysm of violence that stunned the world...and the world did not respond to the violence. Consequently, guilt for the massive loss of life rests not only on the perpetrators, but also on those who stood by, both willingly and un-willingly, and did nothing. Without resolving issues of responsibility, it is, of course, proper that we pause again to honor the dead and the victims of this tragedy.
As U.S. Ambassador in Rwanda I attended a number of memorial services for the victims. Each year on April 7, a national commemoration was held. Such events involved the exhumation of a mass grave at a genocide site, then proper reburial of the victims. These were sobering occasions when the true horror of genocide was clear to see. Yet they were also healing sessions with prayers and speeches. The dead could now rest in peace. Those present recommitted themselves never to let such events happened again.
I was not in Rwanda when the genocide occurred, but I became the U.S. Ambassador there in the years afterwards. My tasks were recovery, return refugees, reconstruction and reconciliation. I wrote about these undertakings in my book "In the Aftermath of Genocide: the U.S. Role in Rwanda" (go to www.regribbin.com for more info). Reconciliation was the most nebulous of these tasks. How to contribute to a healing process between individuals and communities that were so decisively torn apart by hatred? Many Rwandans considered that the rendering of justice to be an important step. The U.S. could help there, so we created programs to help reconstitute the judicial system, train personnel, help draft a genocide law, etc. Socially, we supported a number of survivor groups, especially women's organizations, that inter alia worked to rebuild trust and communication between ethnic groups. Yet there was only so much outsiders could do. Reconciliation, that is admission of guilt, then forgiveness, are mostly individual decisions. Aid programs, church efforts, discussion groups, government attention to the issues, all could build a climate conducive to reconciliation, but the individuals involved had to make the decisions.
Even as people were coming to grips with such internalized issues, they had, had to get on with their lives. In this Rwandans were more successful. Homes were repaired, fields planted and commerce reignited. The refugees did return. The new ethic of "get along" promulgated by the government was accepted. After a while, peace and predictability returned to the hillsides.
One of the post-genocide/refugee return success stories was the placement of lost, orphaned or abandoned children with families throughout the nation. Initially over a hundred thousand children were collected into camps, orphanages and institutions. One model orphanage was run by an elderly American lady, the late Mrs. Roz Carr. A massive effort was undertaken to reunite the children with their families, extended families or place them in adoptive homes. This succeeded in fairly short order. By 2000 only several thousand children remained in group settings.
Following is an excerpt from my book that highlights this success.
" I visited an orphanage we supported in Rubungo just outside Kigali. A gracious lady, one of the sponsors of the orphanage, showed me around and explained how successful they were in placing children with extended or foster families. So much so, she said, that the institution would be closed within six months. In the meantime, she pointed with great pride to a cow contentedly chewing its cud in an adjacent pasture. She said the cow was newly acquired and would provide milk for the remaining children. She elaborated, saying that the cow had come to the orphanage as bride price. A girl in their charge agreed to marry, and the husband-to-be's family insisted that traditional practices be followed. Otherwise they believed the marriage would not be legitimate. Accordingly, a family group from the groom's side and a team of sponsors from the orphanage conducted traditional negotiations and settled on the cow as the bride price.
I found this transaction to be a remarkable statement of resilience and hope. Despite all the tragedy, lives went on. Customs adapted. "
As U.S. Ambassador in Rwanda I attended a number of memorial services for the victims. Each year on April 7, a national commemoration was held. Such events involved the exhumation of a mass grave at a genocide site, then proper reburial of the victims. These were sobering occasions when the true horror of genocide was clear to see. Yet they were also healing sessions with prayers and speeches. The dead could now rest in peace. Those present recommitted themselves never to let such events happened again.
I was not in Rwanda when the genocide occurred, but I became the U.S. Ambassador there in the years afterwards. My tasks were recovery, return refugees, reconstruction and reconciliation. I wrote about these undertakings in my book "In the Aftermath of Genocide: the U.S. Role in Rwanda" (go to www.regribbin.com for more info). Reconciliation was the most nebulous of these tasks. How to contribute to a healing process between individuals and communities that were so decisively torn apart by hatred? Many Rwandans considered that the rendering of justice to be an important step. The U.S. could help there, so we created programs to help reconstitute the judicial system, train personnel, help draft a genocide law, etc. Socially, we supported a number of survivor groups, especially women's organizations, that inter alia worked to rebuild trust and communication between ethnic groups. Yet there was only so much outsiders could do. Reconciliation, that is admission of guilt, then forgiveness, are mostly individual decisions. Aid programs, church efforts, discussion groups, government attention to the issues, all could build a climate conducive to reconciliation, but the individuals involved had to make the decisions.
Even as people were coming to grips with such internalized issues, they had, had to get on with their lives. In this Rwandans were more successful. Homes were repaired, fields planted and commerce reignited. The refugees did return. The new ethic of "get along" promulgated by the government was accepted. After a while, peace and predictability returned to the hillsides.
One of the post-genocide/refugee return success stories was the placement of lost, orphaned or abandoned children with families throughout the nation. Initially over a hundred thousand children were collected into camps, orphanages and institutions. One model orphanage was run by an elderly American lady, the late Mrs. Roz Carr. A massive effort was undertaken to reunite the children with their families, extended families or place them in adoptive homes. This succeeded in fairly short order. By 2000 only several thousand children remained in group settings.
Following is an excerpt from my book that highlights this success.
" I visited an orphanage we supported in Rubungo just outside Kigali. A gracious lady, one of the sponsors of the orphanage, showed me around and explained how successful they were in placing children with extended or foster families. So much so, she said, that the institution would be closed within six months. In the meantime, she pointed with great pride to a cow contentedly chewing its cud in an adjacent pasture. She said the cow was newly acquired and would provide milk for the remaining children. She elaborated, saying that the cow had come to the orphanage as bride price. A girl in their charge agreed to marry, and the husband-to-be's family insisted that traditional practices be followed. Otherwise they believed the marriage would not be legitimate. Accordingly, a family group from the groom's side and a team of sponsors from the orphanage conducted traditional negotiations and settled on the cow as the bride price.
I found this transaction to be a remarkable statement of resilience and hope. Despite all the tragedy, lives went on. Customs adapted. "
Friday, March 23, 2007
Rwanda - Gacaca
Rwanda's community level justice system dubbed Gacaca is designed to deliver justice to tens of thousands of persons implicated in the genocide of 1994. Over a hundred Gacaca courts are obligated to hear the "less severe" cases of persons who may not have killed, but who were otherwise involved in the slaughters. Initially, part of the idea of Gacaca was to relieve the regular court system of the burden of dealing with tens of thousands of genocide cases, as well as to reduce the number of people imprisoned. The regular courts would deal with about 10,000 category 1 individuals and Gacaca courts with about 75,000 other cases. But beware of what you wish for. Rather than reduce the number of cases, opening the Gacaca process to community accusations has dramatically increased the number of cases. Currently more than 800,000 cases are registered and the number of prisoners has rebounded.
Rwandan authorities are just beginning to think about how to resolve this intense, and unexpected, overload. Clearly mechanisms must be found to winnow down the numbers, but key to Gacaca justice - in principle - is local rather than central control. At the current scale Gacaca has serious economic, social and political implications. Economic because so many people are tied up in judicial proceedings and unable to farm or work or otherwise get on with their lives. Furthermore at the 800,000 level about one of every five adults is charged. A huge prison population costs money. Socially constant recrimination and airing of wounds creates new animosities and thus hinders reconciliation. Additionally, abuses of Gacaca to settle non-genocide scores such as land disputes are being documented. Politically Gacaca stings the Hutu majority that views it as Tutsi mandated retribution and not even handed justice. Continuation of such ethnically charged emotion does not bode well for long term political stability.
What are the solutions? First, Gacaca is not going away. Some new legislation will probably be crafted to reduce the numbers of accused, perhaps via a statue of limitations for certain offenses, revised sentencing guidelines or more just plain clemency. Additionally, there will be internal regulations that contribute to dismissal of many cases. Beyond that Rwanda is going to have to find a way to grapple with the political implications. Clearly justice must be delivered, but the sense of political victimization ought to be mitigated.
Following is a story I wrote about Gacaca.
Best Served Cold
Under a bright blue sky the light breeze roiled the stalks of grass on the sun dappled hill. The idyllic scene, however, was the setting for a long running sequence of nasty, emotional, heart wrenching dramas that played out every few days. Five serious citizens, three men, two women sat behind a table arraigned under several massive eucalyptus trees. A crowd of several hundred spectators splayed out on school benches, their own chairs or on the ground around them. Gacaca court was in session.
A free lance stringer, I had come to Rwanda some ten years after its terrible genocide to see for myself – and to get a good story – of how justice was being delivered. My interpreter Emile explained that these community courts were designed to handle the less severe cases. “Less severe?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied, “Not so many murderers, but those who have confessed and those who supported or profited from genocide in other ways.”
Emile was from this region fifty miles southwest of the capital and had chosen this hillside to visit because he said the case against Evariste Nahimana was odd. He was both a killer and a savior. It promised to be an intense discussion.
I felt like a voyeur intruding upon this airing of local passions. What right did I, a foreigner, have to listen and to judge events that were unfathomable? Yet, I stayed screwed to my seat as the dialogue began.
With a nod from the presiding elder the defendant was ushered to a seat before the table. He was a haggard man, of indeterminate middle age, skinny with a gaunt face and sunken eyes. I supposed that ten years of prison would age a man. He was dressed conventionally in trousers and a fraying yellow shirt. Appropriately deferential to the court and the community, he sat patiently as instructed. The president read the committal document from the Ministry of Justice as well as the brief confession Nahimana signed in prison. Next he turned to an old woman – not one of the court members - who being bent at the waist from years of agricultural toil, slowly rose. She identified Nahimana and recited his linage on the hillside. Without doubt this court had jurisdiction.
Emile gave me the gist of the confession. Nahimana had joined the killing bands late, only because he was coerced to do so by agents of the burgomaster. He was assigned to help hunt down Tutsis who had fled from their homesteads and hidden in the papyrus swamps. He said he did participate in searches and was compelled by his companions to chop two boys – teenagers he did not know - found that first day. Thus bloodied, Evariste was included in the evening feast of roasted goat meat – an animal seized and slaughtered by other marauders that day. Thereafter, Nahimana confessed, he went to do the ‘work’ required of him by his band. He witnessed several more killings, but stated he did no more chopping himself. He added that he went with heavy heart and thrashed about in the swamps without truly searching. Once, however, he spotted two women, Agnes and Felicia, hiding, cringing in fear with only their mouths poked above the murky water. He motioned to them not to fear and directed nearby hunters to move along.
The task before the Gacaca court was to hear testimony about Nahimana in order to prove or disprove his statement.
A survivor spoke, reciting the known facts that several hundred Tutsi from this hillside had been massacred. He called their family names. Some died when the interahamwe attacked the mission church nearby, others in their homes, more at roadblocks mounted by the burgomaster’s militia, and still more were chopped or bludgeoned to death after being dragged from the swamps. While the leaders were well known, few lived to identify the killers. Outraged, the victim shook his finger at the assembly stating, “We demand justice. End impunity. Don’t let those who killed and their families conspire to silence.” He concluded that Evariste was a self-confessed killer, his allegation of mercy probably invented, and that he deserved his fate.
A woman, a neighbor of Nahimana’s, stated her conviction that Evariste was fundamentally a good man from a known family. Sadly, like many in the commune, he had succumbed to the madness of the moment. She believed his reluctance to participate in events and his sparing of the Tutsi women.
A Gacaca judge asked if Agnes or Felicia survived? After some murmuring, someone responded that she had heard that Agnes did live, but that she was in Kigali and had never returned to the colline. The judge queried if anyone could substantiate the delivery of mercy to the two women. No one responded.
A man who lived near the swamp acknowledged that he had seen Evariste among the band that prowled the edges of the swamp and probed its depths. He said he was told by others from the band that Evariste chopped the two boys. He added that their bodies probably still lay un-recovered, sunken into the dark vegetation-choked water.
With little else to be said, the judges deliberated among themselves. After a half hour or so, the president delivered their verdict. Nahimana’s act of mercy could not be substantiated, but his act of murder was affirmed. He was to be returned to prison to serve another five years.
On the drive back to Kigali, Emile expressed satisfaction with the verdict. He confided that if not for my presence; that is, a white foreigner critically observing the proceedings, Nahimana would probably have gotten off easier. He added that Evariste’s act of mercy had really occurred. His cousin Agnes had confirmed it to him. “But,” I remonstrated, “you made no acknowledgement. You should have spoken out.”
“No,” Emile replied, “the two he killed were my brothers.”
Rwandan authorities are just beginning to think about how to resolve this intense, and unexpected, overload. Clearly mechanisms must be found to winnow down the numbers, but key to Gacaca justice - in principle - is local rather than central control. At the current scale Gacaca has serious economic, social and political implications. Economic because so many people are tied up in judicial proceedings and unable to farm or work or otherwise get on with their lives. Furthermore at the 800,000 level about one of every five adults is charged. A huge prison population costs money. Socially constant recrimination and airing of wounds creates new animosities and thus hinders reconciliation. Additionally, abuses of Gacaca to settle non-genocide scores such as land disputes are being documented. Politically Gacaca stings the Hutu majority that views it as Tutsi mandated retribution and not even handed justice. Continuation of such ethnically charged emotion does not bode well for long term political stability.
What are the solutions? First, Gacaca is not going away. Some new legislation will probably be crafted to reduce the numbers of accused, perhaps via a statue of limitations for certain offenses, revised sentencing guidelines or more just plain clemency. Additionally, there will be internal regulations that contribute to dismissal of many cases. Beyond that Rwanda is going to have to find a way to grapple with the political implications. Clearly justice must be delivered, but the sense of political victimization ought to be mitigated.
Following is a story I wrote about Gacaca.
Best Served Cold
Under a bright blue sky the light breeze roiled the stalks of grass on the sun dappled hill. The idyllic scene, however, was the setting for a long running sequence of nasty, emotional, heart wrenching dramas that played out every few days. Five serious citizens, three men, two women sat behind a table arraigned under several massive eucalyptus trees. A crowd of several hundred spectators splayed out on school benches, their own chairs or on the ground around them. Gacaca court was in session.
A free lance stringer, I had come to Rwanda some ten years after its terrible genocide to see for myself – and to get a good story – of how justice was being delivered. My interpreter Emile explained that these community courts were designed to handle the less severe cases. “Less severe?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied, “Not so many murderers, but those who have confessed and those who supported or profited from genocide in other ways.”
Emile was from this region fifty miles southwest of the capital and had chosen this hillside to visit because he said the case against Evariste Nahimana was odd. He was both a killer and a savior. It promised to be an intense discussion.
I felt like a voyeur intruding upon this airing of local passions. What right did I, a foreigner, have to listen and to judge events that were unfathomable? Yet, I stayed screwed to my seat as the dialogue began.
With a nod from the presiding elder the defendant was ushered to a seat before the table. He was a haggard man, of indeterminate middle age, skinny with a gaunt face and sunken eyes. I supposed that ten years of prison would age a man. He was dressed conventionally in trousers and a fraying yellow shirt. Appropriately deferential to the court and the community, he sat patiently as instructed. The president read the committal document from the Ministry of Justice as well as the brief confession Nahimana signed in prison. Next he turned to an old woman – not one of the court members - who being bent at the waist from years of agricultural toil, slowly rose. She identified Nahimana and recited his linage on the hillside. Without doubt this court had jurisdiction.
Emile gave me the gist of the confession. Nahimana had joined the killing bands late, only because he was coerced to do so by agents of the burgomaster. He was assigned to help hunt down Tutsis who had fled from their homesteads and hidden in the papyrus swamps. He said he did participate in searches and was compelled by his companions to chop two boys – teenagers he did not know - found that first day. Thus bloodied, Evariste was included in the evening feast of roasted goat meat – an animal seized and slaughtered by other marauders that day. Thereafter, Nahimana confessed, he went to do the ‘work’ required of him by his band. He witnessed several more killings, but stated he did no more chopping himself. He added that he went with heavy heart and thrashed about in the swamps without truly searching. Once, however, he spotted two women, Agnes and Felicia, hiding, cringing in fear with only their mouths poked above the murky water. He motioned to them not to fear and directed nearby hunters to move along.
The task before the Gacaca court was to hear testimony about Nahimana in order to prove or disprove his statement.
A survivor spoke, reciting the known facts that several hundred Tutsi from this hillside had been massacred. He called their family names. Some died when the interahamwe attacked the mission church nearby, others in their homes, more at roadblocks mounted by the burgomaster’s militia, and still more were chopped or bludgeoned to death after being dragged from the swamps. While the leaders were well known, few lived to identify the killers. Outraged, the victim shook his finger at the assembly stating, “We demand justice. End impunity. Don’t let those who killed and their families conspire to silence.” He concluded that Evariste was a self-confessed killer, his allegation of mercy probably invented, and that he deserved his fate.
A woman, a neighbor of Nahimana’s, stated her conviction that Evariste was fundamentally a good man from a known family. Sadly, like many in the commune, he had succumbed to the madness of the moment. She believed his reluctance to participate in events and his sparing of the Tutsi women.
A Gacaca judge asked if Agnes or Felicia survived? After some murmuring, someone responded that she had heard that Agnes did live, but that she was in Kigali and had never returned to the colline. The judge queried if anyone could substantiate the delivery of mercy to the two women. No one responded.
A man who lived near the swamp acknowledged that he had seen Evariste among the band that prowled the edges of the swamp and probed its depths. He said he was told by others from the band that Evariste chopped the two boys. He added that their bodies probably still lay un-recovered, sunken into the dark vegetation-choked water.
With little else to be said, the judges deliberated among themselves. After a half hour or so, the president delivered their verdict. Nahimana’s act of mercy could not be substantiated, but his act of murder was affirmed. He was to be returned to prison to serve another five years.
On the drive back to Kigali, Emile expressed satisfaction with the verdict. He confided that if not for my presence; that is, a white foreigner critically observing the proceedings, Nahimana would probably have gotten off easier. He added that Evariste’s act of mercy had really occurred. His cousin Agnes had confirmed it to him. “But,” I remonstrated, “you made no acknowledgement. You should have spoken out.”
“No,” Emile replied, “the two he killed were my brothers.”
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Kenya - Moon Rocket
I see it now in my mind’s eye – from my house in Songhor - wind blown tufts of light green sugar cane surging like a great sea on Kenya’s Kanu Plains to wash gently against the thousand foot heights of the Nandi Escarpment. Some thirty miles distant, Lake Victoria Nyanza glimmered in the late afternoon sun. The image is clear, yet complicated by the rush of other images, faces, smells, sounds - by the sheer exuberance of memories that so indelibly marked this time in my life.
I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Central Nyanza charged with supervising the construction of a rural water system designed to pipe potable water to 1200 farms on three government sponsored Settlement Sugar Schemes. I worked most closely with a group of eight men whom I trained in the skilled work of the project. When resting we kibitzed and talked. They had many questions.
Maurice almost always began. With a twinkle in his eye, he probed for the amazing differences he reckoned inherent between whites and blacks. He questioned me incessantly about why I had come to Kenya. I’m not sure he ever really understood my response. Maybe, presuming that I myself knew the answer, I couldn’t articulate it well. Altruism was beyond Maurice’s comprehension, but a thirst for adventure seemed to be a satisfactory motive. Another exchange went like this.
“Robert,” Maurice asked, “Is it true that Mzungus (Europeans) eat frogs?”
I pondered. “Yes,” I replied. “Some Mzungus eat frogs, but only the legs. When fried up they taste a bit like chicken.”
Maurice looked skeptical. “Really,” he frowned. “Frogs.” He concluded, “Mzungus are very weird.”
Inspired, I noted, “You know, Europeans think that eating termites is very strange.”
Maurice absorbed this information, then shot back with a surprised query. “Why?” he asked, “termites are good.”
A more telling exchange occurred in July 1969. Americans had just landed on the moon. The guys were very interested in this news - more intently than I would have expected.
“So Robert,” Maurice began, “Is it true that Americans have landed on the moon?”
“Yes,” I responded pointing to the wisp of a moon still visible in the morning sky. “They are up there now.”
This confirmation engendered discussion of rocket ships and airplanes, which demonstrated these poorly schooled rural men’s lack of appreciation for the science and the technological accomplishment of the moon trip. Francis who was more cynical than his colleagues observed, “If Americans can build airplanes then certainly they can build a rocket.” He was puzzled however, by the fact that it had taken so long to get to the moon. “After all,” he noted pointing again to the moon, “You can see it right there!” This again raised the question as to whether the landing had really happened.
Ligolo, older, taller and stronger with his front teeth knocked out in the traditional Luo style, and who rarely participated in these exchanges, cleared his throat. The men craned anxiously in his direction when he asked the crucial question. “So Robert,” he paused, “What color is God?”
I was stunned. I had no context for the question. Yet obviously it lay at the heart of their concern. James, the most worldly of the crew who sported sunglasses and who shed his family name Oyier in favor of Bondi in honor of agent 007, saw my consternation and came to my aid.
“Robert,” he said, “We Luo people believe that God takes several forms and that he lives, at times at least, on the moon. The issue goes to the nature of God. If God is good, he is black like Africans. However, if he is evil, he is red.” James continued, “Ligolo’s question is fair. If Americans have gone to the moon like you say, they must have seen God. So, what color is he?”
I admitted it was a good question, and with further discussion I learned more about Luo beliefs, but I had no answer. However, we agreed to look for the answer. I brought international editions of Time and Newsweek back from Kisumu the next week and we scrutinized the stories and pictures for evidence, but – of course – found none.
I realized afterwards that this was one of those quintessential moments when each of my friends took one more step into the modern world and away from tribal traditions. The trappings of old beliefs diminished against the onslaught of new reality.
Before too long the issue of God on the moon faded away. Soon Luo owned and operated sugar trucks and buses, perhaps subconsciously reflecting this religious heritage, soon started bearing names like “Moon Rocket” or “Apollo 12.”
In the years since, I have subsequently reflected with some sadness how man’s crowning technological achievement of the 20th Century unintentionally undermined beliefs that had sustained Luo people for generations.
I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Central Nyanza charged with supervising the construction of a rural water system designed to pipe potable water to 1200 farms on three government sponsored Settlement Sugar Schemes. I worked most closely with a group of eight men whom I trained in the skilled work of the project. When resting we kibitzed and talked. They had many questions.
Maurice almost always began. With a twinkle in his eye, he probed for the amazing differences he reckoned inherent between whites and blacks. He questioned me incessantly about why I had come to Kenya. I’m not sure he ever really understood my response. Maybe, presuming that I myself knew the answer, I couldn’t articulate it well. Altruism was beyond Maurice’s comprehension, but a thirst for adventure seemed to be a satisfactory motive. Another exchange went like this.
“Robert,” Maurice asked, “Is it true that Mzungus (Europeans) eat frogs?”
I pondered. “Yes,” I replied. “Some Mzungus eat frogs, but only the legs. When fried up they taste a bit like chicken.”
Maurice looked skeptical. “Really,” he frowned. “Frogs.” He concluded, “Mzungus are very weird.”
Inspired, I noted, “You know, Europeans think that eating termites is very strange.”
Maurice absorbed this information, then shot back with a surprised query. “Why?” he asked, “termites are good.”
A more telling exchange occurred in July 1969. Americans had just landed on the moon. The guys were very interested in this news - more intently than I would have expected.
“So Robert,” Maurice began, “Is it true that Americans have landed on the moon?”
“Yes,” I responded pointing to the wisp of a moon still visible in the morning sky. “They are up there now.”
This confirmation engendered discussion of rocket ships and airplanes, which demonstrated these poorly schooled rural men’s lack of appreciation for the science and the technological accomplishment of the moon trip. Francis who was more cynical than his colleagues observed, “If Americans can build airplanes then certainly they can build a rocket.” He was puzzled however, by the fact that it had taken so long to get to the moon. “After all,” he noted pointing again to the moon, “You can see it right there!” This again raised the question as to whether the landing had really happened.
Ligolo, older, taller and stronger with his front teeth knocked out in the traditional Luo style, and who rarely participated in these exchanges, cleared his throat. The men craned anxiously in his direction when he asked the crucial question. “So Robert,” he paused, “What color is God?”
I was stunned. I had no context for the question. Yet obviously it lay at the heart of their concern. James, the most worldly of the crew who sported sunglasses and who shed his family name Oyier in favor of Bondi in honor of agent 007, saw my consternation and came to my aid.
“Robert,” he said, “We Luo people believe that God takes several forms and that he lives, at times at least, on the moon. The issue goes to the nature of God. If God is good, he is black like Africans. However, if he is evil, he is red.” James continued, “Ligolo’s question is fair. If Americans have gone to the moon like you say, they must have seen God. So, what color is he?”
I admitted it was a good question, and with further discussion I learned more about Luo beliefs, but I had no answer. However, we agreed to look for the answer. I brought international editions of Time and Newsweek back from Kisumu the next week and we scrutinized the stories and pictures for evidence, but – of course – found none.
I realized afterwards that this was one of those quintessential moments when each of my friends took one more step into the modern world and away from tribal traditions. The trappings of old beliefs diminished against the onslaught of new reality.
Before too long the issue of God on the moon faded away. Soon Luo owned and operated sugar trucks and buses, perhaps subconsciously reflecting this religious heritage, soon started bearing names like “Moon Rocket” or “Apollo 12.”
In the years since, I have subsequently reflected with some sadness how man’s crowning technological achievement of the 20th Century unintentionally undermined beliefs that had sustained Luo people for generations.
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