I Went to Court in Rwanda...
The year? 1994.The place? Rwanda.
I was there today [Sunday]. Just a little glimpse, but a glimpse nonetheless.
How, you wonder?
The Gacaca Courts—that’s pronounced Gachacha, by the way.
All these years after the genocide, the trials roll on today, trying to bring the tiniest sense of justice to people whose lives have never been—will never be—the same. People whose loved ones were brutally torn away—and torn apart. Who were themselves torn up. Who perhaps were themselves, even, among those wreaking havoc and spreading death without quite grasping the horror and utter blasphemy of their own actions.
I went to the court today to observe the proceedings. I was there for six hours, listening to the accusations, the testimonies, the evidence, the debate, and finally, the verdict. Sitting there in a room where tension and raw emotion bubbled in the silence, growing steadily until becoming practically tangible.
Plain and small, the room filled up with people dressed in their best. Children played quietly at their mothers’ feet or suckled at their breasts. Men and women and youth crowded hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder on long benches—10 and 11 strong on raw wood planks only comfortably seating eight. In the air hovered the sticky-sweet smell of sweat, alleviated only by the occasional breeze through the open windows.
In the front, a panel of eight judges presided from a long table, sitting behind it and wrapping around on the end to the right, by the windows. They wore a ribbon across their chest, coloured in the three shades of the Rwandan flag, with Gacaca printed across the front. Male and female both, and at their entrance from the back of the room, all those congregated rose and sat down only when the judges had taken their seats. Behind them also draped the colours of the Rwandan flag, artistically swirling across the otherwise bare beige wall.
Five men were tried—four of whom had spent the last ten years in prison. Two of whom were acquitted of the charges brought against them.
I sat there today, listening. Watching.
In the afternoon, one of the defendants stood before the room, dressed in his all pink prison garb. And the room listened in an angry hush. Listened and rose up and testified against him in turn.
He dragged my grandfather out of the house and out into the banana plantation. Then he chopped him to pieces with his machete. He told my sister he was going to rape her…
I watched him strip my father naked, then beat him to death. He was our gate keeper, and in the genocide rounded up our family. I was hiding under the table, hidden by the cloth. But I saw the whole thing. I was six years old.
I saw him coming out of the school, and his sword was red with blood.
He killed my sister and her children…
And so it went. Testimony after agonizing testimony. Do you weep? No, wipe your tears. The eyes of those around you are fierce with holding back the fervor of their own. Now is not the time for weeping.
Tell us the names of those who killed with you.
I don’t know their names, but I can tell you the names of the people I killed…
Should you feel ill at the words colouring the pictures sketched in your mind?
Tell us where those you killed are buried. We want to know where they are buried. We want to know where our family lies…
But these pictures, they are nothing to the actuality you would have seen had you walked those streets then, had you seen the defendant then, when he carried the dripping red sword and seared you with the hate in his eyes. Chased you, and you escaped him…until today. When you face him again. Who will win today?
Who should win today?
If the government allows, I will take them to the pit where the bodies were thrown…
Should today be seen as winning something? Or is it just one more testament to a loss which cannot be measured numerically alone?
…He admits to killing her and her family, and asks for forgiveness…
Please do not clap or make any noise when the sentences are read, the judge in the centre instructs. He has a huge scar tracing an arc across the front half of his skull.
His was not the only scar borne by someone in the room, either. Others. Scars on their arms, their legs… hidden by clothes and scarves. Scars on the heart. Seared onto the soul.
30 years.
25 years.
25 years.
One is acquitted because of insufficient evidence. The other acquitted because he was falsely accused.
And how different are we sitting there, staring up at them? If our hearts were on trial beside theirs, what might that comparison reveal?
May God have mercy on us all.
posted by Lada @ 12:50 AM
2 Comments:
What an amazing story? How have you reacted to the system? As a writer I know you cant make such comment on your posting but will you kind to share your view about this? Do you find this relevant to reconcile a people who have experienced the tragedy?
Regards.
Those are some very interesting questions, Emmanuel--thank you for asking. I was discussing the courts just today with a man here in Kigali. The Gacaca courts are specifically set up for the genocide cases, and within that are intended to try those cases not at all involved in the planning. Those tried in the Gacaca courts were "only" involved in the killings.
I found it a little disturbing at first, to sit there and hear the accusations and defence. No lawyers and no physical evidence; just word against word. All of these years after the fact, can memory remain so intact?
But the fact is, there is no case by case proof in mass killings such as the genocide. It was a genocide. Enormous. Entire destruction. Additionally, the people DO remember. Every word, every detail of the events. They will even remember the particular smells that they did not necessarily even conciously notice at the time--but should they smell that again, their minds will be transported to those moments. To that horror.
All these years later does also seem so long before serving "justice," and indeed, as with the cases I witnessed, most of the defendents have spent that time in jail already. Those sentences which they recieve will subtract the time they have already spent. For the man who received 30 years, he will only have 20 more years, really.
I am told that the most important part of the Gacaca courts is the opportunity it allows people to speak about what they have lived through and lived every day with since that time. It may also be the only time they will ever find to stand face to face with the killer and confront them. Say "You did this to my___ and now justice must be served because I survived and I am here to witness to the life and the death of my ___" Moreover, it also gives them the opportunity to forgive that person. When they seem them again all this time later, and they witness the brokenness of that person--"I knew if I could not forgive when asked, then I somehow would be just as guilty," one person said.
I think, then, that the Gacaca courts are good for the purposes of reconcilliation. They are an important venue and a vital release in a controlled environment. They facillitate the coming together of a people and facing what has happened and moving past it. So yes, from all that I have seen and heard, I do believe in the value of the Gacaca courts.
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