Fighting is a strange thing in Rwanda. Countless times I have seen conflict grow, expand, inflate to the point of explosion, only to suddenly fizzle anti-climatically at the moment that fisticuffs seemed inevitable. One person’s mood might change from anger and frustration to playfulness as an awkward smile breaks across their face and he gives a lighthearted kick to his foe and it looks like noogies are to follow. Or maybe just before one person realizes he is about to get punched, he will back down and walk away. I constantly overhear hear empty threats of “I’m gonna beat you” between all sorts of people. In the other African countries I’ve been to I saw a lot of fighting. Ghanaians seemed to love to fight and a friendly atmosphere could become a brawl at a moment’s notice, only to return to friendliness after a few punches had been thrown. In just a couple weeks in Senegal, a country with a remarkably friendly and peaceful atmosphere, I saw at least a couple serious fights. I even got punched in the face in Mali, a place that has a special place in my heart as one of the most hospitable countries on earth.
I don’t know if I can explain exactly why casual street
violence seems suspiciously absent from Rwanda. It may seem strange in a country
that has such a violent history, but then again, when living here, the violent
history seems almost impossible to comprehend. We can hypothesize, for example,
that people are tired of violence and reject it now out of principle. Or maybe
it’s something completely different, I don’t know.
***
The bus station in Gisenyi is probably the most aggressive
in Rwanda. The station in Kigali is a little bit chaotic, but mostly because it
is the central transit point in the country. Nothing about it feels too
intimidating. The station in Gisenyi, a town that borders the DRC, is not too busy.
There are at least 3 or 4 bus companies, but all busses go to the same place.
This creates fierce competition. Tourists and Rwandans alike get eaten alive by
the occasionally drunk ticket hawkers if they are not firm about what bus they
want to get on. I assume that the ticket sellers are Congolese since they only
speak to me in English or French (as opposed to Kinyarwanda). The prices are all the same, so it’s best to get on the
bus with the most people waiting, as it means you will leave sooner. The ticket
sellers will lie about when the buses are leaving, but it’s best to just get on
the fullest bus.
When Harley and I arrived at the station people fought over us
a little. Arms were grabbed, little shoves and lies were dispensed freely and
we eventually chose our bus. As we were starting to leave a large, middle-aged
woman arrived. Our bus stopped to let her on. Then an argument ensued between
two ticket sellers over her. Someone tried to grab her arm and lead her away.
The dueling touts started to shove each other as the woman scurried onto our bus.
As the fight started to get going, a man wearing a donated Foot Locker uniform
came in to break it up. Considering his black and white striped shirt, I
wondered if he was the designated referee of the bus lot.
***
My bus home had left far later than expected and by the time
we arrived at the scene of the accident it was dark. I couldn’t really tell
what was going on, but another bus was parked 50 meters in front of us near a
taxi and behind us was parked private car. A small crowd of people had gathered
in the middle of the road. It seemed that there had been a fender bender
involving at least two of the present vehicles. I watched the unruliness in the
middle of the road grow until there was shouting, wagging fingers and eventually
shoving. Some of the people from my bus had gotten out and joined the fray. I
was counting down the seconds until the mob devolved into an all-out brawl.
Then, like an impending thunderhead that dissipates before cataclysm, the crowd
and conflict just evaporated. People started to walk away and it got quieter. I
assumed the cops had just shown up, but this wasn’t the case. I have no idea
what happened.
Five minutes later, a smaller scuffle was developing between
two men. The shorter, squat man was pushing his opponent and yelling. It was
clear that the taller man didn’t want to fight, but he wasn’t going to just
back down yet. They were yelling, and the one-sided shoving continued. Finally,
the shorter man reached his hand back, swung toward the tall man’s face and struck
him with a loud slap across his cheek. The slap shocked him, but did not
provoke him to violence. He just turned around and walked away. I couldn’t
believe it. Somehow that was the end of it. The police did indeed show up a
little later, but order was somehow restored long before they arrived.
***
A lazy morning in Kamembe, I left Lise’s house to scavenge
some food for breakfast. Chapatti if I was lucky, bread if not, maybe some
avocado or eggs. As I reached the area where the women sell their vegetables on
the side of the road, I noticed a small crowd of mostly women standing on a big
dirt mound. Hunger and heat curbed my curiosity. I found a shop that had two
dry and cracking chapattis from the day before. I bought them, an avocado,
onions and garlic. Having finished my work for the day, I snooped around the
crowd on the mound. I realized that they were all gathered to watch something
else. We were on the edge of the dirt yard in front of a small shack with the
door open. Two men in ragged red uniforms were in a standoff with a couple of
young me. Things were clearly heated between the two parties. The men in red
were part of the most local of police, which are really like local volunteer
security with basic training and an even more basic uniform.
I don’t know how it happened but suddenly the two pairs were
locked in battle. The taller man in red was waving his nightstick around as the
wrestling ensued. The market women were whooping and screaming. He connected on
one of the young men’s head a couple times before the man getting beaten
managed to grab the club. The security officers were not poor fighters
initially and now that they had lost their club they were in worse shape. As
the club was waved around on the other end, the officers started to retreat a
little. One of the civilians had a bloody wound on his head from the club.
As the two sides separated and the shouting and
finger-pointed started again, some of the women grabbed rocks. This already
was, by far, the most aggression and violence I’d seen displayed in my year in
Rwanda. Now I was about to see the most impressive display of Rwandan women
being assertive and forceful I’d ever seen. As the four men went at each other
again, the women hurled their rocks at the security officers. These weren’t
pebbles either. They ranged in size from baseball to seedless watermelon. A couple
of smaller rocks connected, but not hard enough to inflict serious damage.
I asked people what was going on, but people simply told me
they were fighting. I was never able to find out what was going on. It was
fascinating, though. I’d never seen anyone in this country stand up so forcefully
to any sort of authority figure.
The brawl went on and off again for another 15 minutes. I
kept waiting for military or police to arrive. Military and police have a huge
presence all over Rwanda and their absence here was shocking. In fact, just 50
feet away there was almost always a soldier posted at the intersection.
Eventually the officers managed to subdue one of the young
men. He struggled for a few moments, but then submitted. One of the market
mamas ran up and started screaming at the officer and grabbing the boys arm,
telling him not to go with him. There was a moment of confusion, and the young
man broke free, kicked one of the officers and scampered off. Some more rocks
were thrown and the officers started to leave.
Then it all started again, and within a few minutes the
officers finally had the man with the bloody head under control and they led
him down the road. The mob followed them. The women yelled at the officers as
they marched away.
I couldn’t
explain what I had seen. Nothing like that had ever happened before. I was
happy, though. It was the most passionate and emotional I had seen Rwandans. It
was the most confidence I had seen the women show. It was the most rebellious
I’d seen in Rwanda. I’m not saying I think people should be violent or unruly,
but I was glad to see people stand up to an authority figure that was clearly
in the wrong.
***
During the pickup games of basketball I often play in the
village, I am always shocked at the lack of emotion when playing. When someone
stuffs someone, or scores an acrobatic point, seemingly embarrassing the
defender, I never see any taunting or showboating. In fact, I think I was the
only one who I know of who has discussed taking someone to school, or kindly
informing them that their shot will not be welcome in my house. It’s certainly not
like street ball in America. Arguments occasionally break out over
disagreements of fouls, but they never get too serious. This is not a fight
story. This is a story about how I’ve seen countless fights break out in
basketball games, especially at three-on-three tournaments, in America, but
have never seen one here. I think I’m the only one who has ever come close to
hitting someone out of emotion competitive spirit.
***
I was with my parents on a bus to my village. Twenty minutes
outside of the main town a tall man got on. He was being a little loud and
friendly with everyone. I thought I caught a whiff of alcohol on him from a few
feet away, but thought nothing else of the man until it was time for him to get
off.
As he tried to depart the bus, the ticket-taker asked for
his fare. He just ignored him and tried to walk past him out the door. The
ticket-taker stood his ground and refused to let him out. They began to argue
as the man tried to push his way out. The ticket-taker started to reach for something
under a seat. It was a long piece of rebar. The man started to relent, then
suddenly pushed his way out the door. The ticket-taker grabbed the rebar and
rushed out of the bus amidst a few shouts from other passengers. What happened
next was unclear to me. I could not really see what happened, but it seemed a
minor scuffle ensued as the ticket-taker raised the piece of rebar
threateningly. It seemed that nothing really happened in the end. The
ticket-taker went into the nearby bar, and I don’t know what happened to the
man. When my mom asked what they were doing, I said that the bar was going to
pay the fare and the man would have to work there to pay it off. I was joking,
because I really had no idea what was going on. Ten minutes later, the ticket-taker
returned with a small bandage under his left eye and another small bleeding cut
on his cheek. He seemed surprisingly calm. And that’s all that I know about
that.
***
I was on a local minibus in Kigali heading into the
Nyamirambo neighborhood. As usual I was sitting in the least desirable seat in
the far back left corner. This meant that when I got off, about 6 other people
would have to get out to let me off. I was getting off at the first stop so I
was not looking forward to the minor annoyance I would cause everyone. When we
stopped, I saw that something was going on. Kids and a few adults were rushing
across the street and there was some yelling. I assumed something interesting
and unexpected was going on nearby, and the looky-loo that I am, I wanted to
see. I started to climb out the back window, which I thought would be a move
appreciated by my fellow passengers. I was stopped, however, by the uptight,
rule-following young men next to me. Also, as it turned out, everyone in my way
was also getting out at that stop.
I hustled across the street and up the side street next to
the mosque to where the crowd was forming. In the center of the crowd, right in
the middle of the street was a very distressed-looking naked man. He was
completely naked. It quickly became clear that this man, who had started
crying, was an “umusazi”, as it’s known in Rwanda, or a “madman” as he would be
known as in Anglophone Africa. Basically someone with some sort of unclassified
mental condition which leaves him as something of an outcast, left to walk the
streets and usually fend for himself. There was another umusazi or two that
seemed like they were trying to provoke him and pick a fight with him. That he
was naked made me originally think that he was a thief, and had been disrobed
to find his loot and to shame him. It was clear that this was not the case as
the Muslim men tried desperately to wrap him up with cloth and then a filthy
jacket. The umusazi refused them outright. He ripped the jacket from around his
waste and tossed it aside. All the spectators were laughing at the man. I was
curious, of course, but felt seriously bad for this man who just wanted to be
naked.
After shaking himself loose from the other umusazi, and the
would-be dressers, he pushed his way through the crowd and walked down the
street. I thought this was the end of it, but before I knew, he had gotten
himself into a scrap with shoe vendor, (a shoemucuruzi, if you will). I don’t
know what provoked it. It could have simply been the shoe vendor not wanting to
be around a naked umusazi, but it seems that the umusazi had done something to
initiate it, perhaps by messing with the guy’s shoes. They were shoving and punching for a few moments as the
crowd ran toward them to watch. A gasp went up in the crowd as the umusazi
picked up a volleyball sized rock. He lifted it over his head as the shoe
vendor started to back up. The umusazi jumped and threw the rock in mid-air. It
landed about two feet in front of him. So he picked it up again and threw it
pitifully again. By this point, some of the young guys who seemed to have
social authority in this neighborhood had grabbed him and forced him to the
ground. They quickly got some cloth and bungee cords from somewhere and someone
and tied his arms and feet. The man started to cry again, while the crowd
laughed. I don’t want to judge too hard for the Rwandans’ laughter, but I’m not
the only one who has noticed the people here laughing most heartily at other
people’s misfortunes, although it is technically illegal (yes.).
The Muslim men returned to drape clothing over the man. It
was a kind gesture, but it clearly upset the man even more. Maybe it was not
for the sake of the umusazi, anyway, but to protect the gawking crowd from the
indecency. As he tried to struggle out of his makeshift shackles, some of the
men subdued him, forcing him to sit or lay down, as the shoved their feet into
his chest and face. He seemed to understand and accept that he was being
detained after a while, but he really wanted to stand up. The others did not
want him to and it caused a continuous struggle. The umusazi continued to cry.
After a few minutes I walked across the street to get to my
hotel room. I just needed to go there to charge my phone. So a few minutes
later I returned to the crowd. All of a sudden the man broke free of his wrist
straps. Surprisingly nobody tried to re-tie his hands together. I had been
hearing murmurs about whether the police were coming. This was another
situation that I was surprised not to see the police. Frequently I would see
soldiers marching around the neighborhood, but maybe they are just for show.
Nyamirambo is not like any other place in Kigali, and they seem to play by
their own rules, and it seems that the police do not matter as much there. I had
told Harley to visit the neighborhood because I like it so much. When he
returned he said, “I didn’t see what was so special about it. It jut seems like
any other African neighborhood.” Exactly. It is the kind of neighborhood where
these chaotic events still seem to happen. Plus, it is in a city that has more
order and cleanliness than almost any other I’ve seen in the world.
After the umusazi broke his hands free, he tore off the
lashing from around his ankle. Again, nobody did anything. He stood up and just
confidently walked through the crowd to the middle of the street and started to
walk. He continued down the middle of the street, buses and cars calmly going
around him. A column of spectators followed him, laughing and wondering what
would happen next. He was marching with confidence; leading a parade, really. I
followed for a short way, and was happy that people were leaving him alone. I
stopped following after a few minutes, but continued to watch him strut down
Nyamirambo’s main artery for a few hundred meters. I couldn’t help but wonder
where he was going, and what adventures he would get into. Unfortunately I knew
that wherever his day ended, it probably wouldn’t be a very good place.
***
So what do all these stories say about Rwanda? I don’t really
know. I started by writing about how rarely I see people fight, and then
proceeded to right several anecdotes about people fighting here. I hope,
though, that it’s clear how rare these instances are and that they are mostly
mild incidents for what I know of Africa. To me, it is most interesting to
think about what this culture of mild manners says about its violent past. Has
everything changed, or was it always like this? I can’t really know, but I hope
that by the time I leave I have a better understanding of this and many other
things that I find so confusing about Rwanda.
