Fighting

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.