Everyone back ‘home’ has repeatedly asked me how Rwandans today deal with their cruel recent history in their daily lives. And, to be honest, five months after arriving here, I still have a very confusing view on this subject. Just once I witnessed two colleagues have an open discussion about this horrific topic – and that was more in conjunction with the presidential elections in August and Kagame’s politics following the genocide. Otherwise, very rarely – maybe 3 times in total – have some people alluded to personal loss – but nothing about grieving. Everyone is seemingly fine and happy and certainly not taking any time to over-analyze anything. After all, “the past is the past and we cannot change it,” is the phrase I hear always in conjunction with this would-be discussion. I guess that when you are poor and sick and famished, it makes sense that your daily worries would be placed elsewhere. But still, it is hard for me to believe that issues do not exist, deeply ingrained everywhere. I was actually thinking the other day that if all NYC shrinks came over, they would have their plates full for years to come. Reconciliation and forgiveness on a personal level are still tall orders in this country. Not to mention personal grieving…
On the other hand, it is remarkable indeed how Rwanda has regenerated, on all levels, to the extent that it’s given as an example of “at the fore-front of Africa” in so many ways. At the same time, a new generation has basically taken over – everywhere you go, hordes of kids and teenagers, who have obviously not carried the burden of tragic memories. And then, when you finally assume that this is all you are ever going to experience on this subject, one evening you feel like having a beer and it all explodes.
His name is Jean-Claude, and he is a sweet 23-year-old bar-tender at the hippest bar in town. We often talk, but never touching on anything personal. Until last night, that is, when out of nowhere he felt like telling me about his family: rich father, who lost everything because of reparations he had to pay after killing a woman and two children in a car-crash; mother who died of “illness” (caught apparently in the DRC in the late 90s). And then him and his siblings: they were 9, now they are just 5. It is simply a number – 4 – “who died in the war”. I asked whether he knew how. He didn’t, because when all hell broke loose, they all ran for their lives in different directions. He was one of the lucky ones, who made it to the other end.
This is likely the story of so many families here, told so plainly that it seems almost so normal! What struck me with Jean-Claude was his sweetness when talking about his brothers and sisters. He remembers their faces, and how they all spoiled him, since he was the youngest. And yes, how they would talk about going to visit relatives “in country Belgique and Autriche”. And how, to their memory, he would like to honor their dreams and make it out there some day.
And then a sigh. The first I ever heard here! More compelling than a thousand complaints and feeling-sorry-for-ourselves – that we do so often ‘back home’.
It was definitely the hardest beer to drink, ever. And the coldest one, by far, even if I had ordered it from outside the fridge. Unaware, this young man had just served me the chilliest, most real night in Rwanda.
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