participants live together in close barrack-style

capitals across the country. Since then, RPF-satellite parties are able to operate at the sector and cell

levels. This image is of an RPF provincial office building in Butare (now Huye) town, May 2006.

(photo by author)

officials was clear, with each appointed official having the power to make decisions about the national

unity and development of his constituency in line with the national vision. There is little room for

creativity or problem-solving as local leaders are expected to unify and develop those in their

bailiwick quickly and in accordance with their imihigo (performance) contract. Many executive





secretaries receive military training before taking up their appointed posts (field notes 2006,

corroborated by Ingelaere 2011, 75n2). In addition, the majority of appointed local officials I met

were members of the RPF, highlighting the overlap between the apparatus of the state and the political

party. Only RPF members are government administrators throughout the seven layers of the

bureaucracy, and indeed the RPF is the only political party in Rwanda with a defined presence at the

village, cell, and sector levels (field notes 2006, corroborated by Purdeková 2011, 480–82) (see fig. 7).

All of the officials at the cell level that I met also looked to Kigali for their policy instructions. The

unpaid but elected coordinator is responsible for the daily administration of the people in his or her

jurisdiction, working as the head of (also volunteer and unpaid) cell committees. Taken together, the

sector and the cell represent the immediate source of state power at the level of the individual. It is at

these levels that the control and authority of government play out in daily life. Reports on individual

behavior, as well as requests for government assistance, start at the local level. As a member of one

my local research partner organizations said, “There is no one level [of bureaucracy] that is more

important than the other. Each has its purpose and a specific task and that is something Rwandans

know how to respect. But at the lowest levels, it can really feel heavy. If you are having an affair, they

[local administrators] know. If you are drunk or if your house is in disrepair, they know. If you fail to

attend sensitization meetings, they know. If you want to join a cooperative, you must get a signature

from the [cell] coordinator who might ask for the signature of your village coordinator who might also

ask for the signature of your nyumbakumi. So there are a lot of people watching you, checking on your

actions and the people you are with. Without signatures, nothing happens. If you are not a good citizen

who supports national unity and reconciliation, you will rot [at home]” (field notes 2006).

Eleveth, social surveillance: the policy of national unity and reconciliation provides incentives to

local security and administrative personnel to remain vigilant against criminal elements, those who

hold genocidal ideologies, or anyone who fails to promote unity in accordance with the dictates of the

policy. The government provides livestock (cattle, goats, sheep, and rabbits), as well as radios and

refrigerators, to local security forces as incentives to control the population. Local political and

military authorities who fail to control those within their jurisdiction are subject to a variety of

sanctions, including dismissal, imprisonment, and naming and shaming for “poor work ethic,”

“corruption,” “sexual immorality,” or “having HIV/AIDS” (interviews 2006).

Dense networks of spies are known to exist throughout Rwanda (and abroad), and the Department

of Military Intelligence is rumored to pay for valid information (field notes 2006). The low-level

bureaucrats report the activities of individuals in their bailiwick to the immediate superior at the next

level of government, who then decides whether the information warrants transmission to the next level

up, and so on. Ordinary Rwandans all know of state surveillance; most shrug their shoulders,

acknowledging prosaically that “we are monitored to make sure we do what we are told; we did it

before the genocide [under Habyarimana] in the name of national development and now we do it in the

name of national unity and reconciliation” (interviews 2006, corroborated by Verwimp 2003;

Desrosiers and Thomson 2011).

Twelfth, government cooptation of associational life: the RPF maintains tight control of civil

society organizations and other forms of associational life. In 2001 the RPF passed the Law on Non-

Profit Associations, which provided it with the power to control projects, budgets, and the hiring of

new staff; it also required all organizations to obtain a renewable certificate of registration from

MINALOC. The certificate is granted on the basis of the organization’s mission statement and annual

report and must be renewed biannually. The registration process allows government authorities to

monitor the activities of civil society and to control its publications.





In 2001, and again in 2004, LIPRODHOR, one of the few remaining local independent human rights

organizations in Rwanda, was summoned by the National Unity and Reconciliation Commission and

MINALOC to respond to allegations that its representatives were acting against national unity and

reconciliation (Amnesty International 2004). Nine LIPRODHOR employees fled into exile, and the

organization was shut down in December 2004 on unsubstantiated charges that the policies and

practices of the organization were “divisionist” and that its representatives were promoting “genocide

ideology” among ordinary Rwandans (Amnesty International 2005). The “new” LIPRODHOR, which

is managed by individuals who are “closely connected with the authorities,” was reopened after an

internal investigation to root out those individuals “having the genocide ideology” (Maina and

Kabilama 2006, 47).

Between July 2004 and January 2005, several domestic human rights NGOs that openly criticized

the RPF and documented human rights abuses by government authorities were closed (field notes

2006). As a result, many civil society organizations practice self-censorship (HRW 2007); at the time

of writing, civil society organizations in Rwanda are not free of government oversight (Gready 2011).

Most such organizations play an important role in filling the social void in the lives of many

Rwandans in the aftermath of the genocide. In particular, women’s organizations work to meet the

basic needs of their members while providing much-needed social support to individuals who lost

their families and social support networks during the genocide (Newbury and Baldwin 2001, 23). As a

result of their social role, the RPF sees women’s organizations “as the real civil society” (interview

with Ministry of Culture official 2006).

Women-focused organizations in civil society have been instrumental in creating legal mechanisms

designed to protect Rwandan women, such as the inheritance law of 1998. Burnet notes that there are

other “unifying issues” for government and women’s organizations to rally around, notably land

tenure and land use, since women “are most vulnerable to losing access to land,” but “women’s NGOs

and MIGEPROF [the Ministry of Gender and Women in Development] have refused to define land as

a women’s issue” given its political “volatility” (Burnet 2008a, 379–80). In addition, the RPF advises

civil society organizations on what development issues they may work on, who is allowed to join, and

how the rules and conditions of participation are set (field notes 2006). Most organizations,

particularly those in Kigali, are dedicated to servicing so-called survivor issues, including

psychosocial trauma counseling, HIV/AIDS support, and the provision of micro-credit. Membership

in civil society organizations is officially open to both Tutsi and Hutu survivors. Many Hutu

“survivors” do marginally benefit from their membership in organizations that support survivors,

although specific privileges such as access to subsidized health care and the waiver of school fees for

children are available only to Tutsi women in their recognized status as “real survivors” (field notes

2006). Tutsi and Hutu women who remarry sometimes lose access to these privileges, not on the basis

of their ethnicity but rather because they have been able to reconstitute their families (field notes

2006).


Conclusion


This chapter analyzed the mechanisms of the policy of national unity and reconciliation to illustrate

the extent to which it structures the daily lives of ordinary Rwandans. Identification of the myriad

practices of power that the RPF uses to promote its policy of national unity and reconciliation

demonstrates the extent of RPF control of the political and social landscape through the policy of

for analysis of the social and political differences that the policy masks. In particular, the chapter

described the structural bedrock of the policy of national unity and reconciliation to illustrate its

myriad forms at all levels of society, notably at the local level, where “the state” is most acutely

experienced. Such an approach is necessary to set the stage for the next two chapters so that we may

understand the everyday acts of resistance of some ordinary Rwandans to the dictates of the policy of

national unity and reconciliation as purposeful responses.

5

Everyday Resistance to National Unity and Reconciliation


J


olie and I used to meet almost every Tuesday afternoon. We would bump into one another at the

kiosk near my residence. She sometimes stopped to buy cooking oil or matches there on her way home

from the market. Sometimes I would walk home with her so we could spend some private time

together, sharing stories about our children in particular and family lineages more broadly. She was

fascinated that someone like me would choose to live in Rwanda, given its “problems” and my

“freedom to live anywhere.” My explanation that I was in Rwanda as a long-term visitor because of

my interest in reconciliation processes in the country was met with some confusion. Jolie was one of

the few Rwandans I met who did not lose any immediate family members during the genocide, and

she often shared stories with me about how her “good luck” translated into social shunning and

economic hardship afterward. Her Tutsi husband joined in the killing in May 1994 as a “way to stay

alive. They thought he was one of them and so he survived. He killed at least three people, but we

never talk about it because we can’t.” She is unable to join any of the associations set up for

“survivors” of the genocide since she does not “qualify as a Hutu woman. I mean they say ‘good luck,’

but they just use that as an excuse to keep me out of their association.”

When I asked whom she meant when she spoke of “they,” Jolie explained:


“They” are Tutsi survivors. We [survivors] are many, but only a few get

benefits. It is hardest for me because some of them know that my husband killed

to stay alive. They seemed to understand just after the genocide, but then the

government brought gacaca and some of them participate fully. What if they

speak against him and I have to raise these kids alone? People like me stay on

the sidelines to avoid too much trouble. My husband once wanted to admit to his

crimes [to the authorities], but I begged him not to. I am a former Hutu married

to a former Tutsi. Am I not a survivor? Did I live through the genocide? Did I

lose relatives? Is my husband half crazed because of what he did? I survived the

events, and even I could say that my husband is lost to me now. He feels a lot of

guilt and shame for his actions [during the genocide]. We have not discussed his

actions since a long time. It is not really possible now. There are too many

people that could denounce him [to the authorities] and make our lives very

hard.

the genocide because of what happened. Everyone killing everyone and others

stealing; some just hid. Many died, many killed, many lost their belongings. Just

coping is what I think about most. Really. It is just getting to the next day. What

those survivors who won’t let me join their group fail to understand is that I am

suffering as well. Coping is a task; it takes a lot of my energy. My family has

many needs. I have two other kids [orphans] that live with us now that need

feeding. One has malaria, and I have no money for his medicine. When I give to

that kid, I take away from my own kids. My husband is only of little comfort. He

hardly works at all. He has no ideas of his own since gacaca started. He works

only to avoid contact with other people. He is isolating me as well. What else

can I do but just keep going? My problems are many, and the solutions are few. I

continue to try to get support from the survivors association, even though they

say I am not a survivor. What other solution is there? How can you seriously ask

me who “they” are when you know full well the answer? (Interview 2006)

she had just told me was difficult for her to say; I apologized for my insensitivity. I knew quite well

how hard her life was since the genocide. She had shared some of her “inner secrets” with me before

but always reminded me to say nothing to anyone lest “it attract the attention of the authorities.” The

need to avoid the attention of the authorities, particularly appointed local government officials and

members of the local security forces, is an everyday lament for many ordinary Rwandans. Ordinary

Rwandans like Jolie live under close surveillance from the government (as well as each other), as

analyzed in chapter 4. The threat of retaliation is constant and runs the gamut of sanctions—from

losing access to social benefits, to social shunning and outcasting, to imprisonment and, in extreme

cases, disappearance and even death. This chapter examines the everyday acts of resistance of

ordinary Rwandans to the policy of national unity and reconciliation, the precise forms of which

depend on the unique combination of dangers and opportunities that exist in any given situation. By

necessity, Rwandans’ everyday acts of resistance are tactical since government officials and other

agents of the state suppress any perceived challenge to the requirements of the policy, sometimes with

a ferocity that dramatically exceeds the original violation.

About a week after Jolie’s outburst, we found each other at our regular meeting point, the kiosk; she

greeted me warmly and said, “Did you tell anyone about what I told you last time? You know, about

how I would continue to fight to get [membership in] the survivors’ organization?” I reassured her

that I had not uttered a word to anyone about our private conversations. She sparkled with delight as

she pulled a government-issued health card out of her handkerchief, which she kept carefully folded

and tucked underneath the head wrap she usually wore. “Do you see this? Do you know what this is?” I

nodded yes. She continued,

needed from the FARG official, and here is proof that I am now a full member. 1

Even my husband did not believe what I accomplished. But I did. I really did it. I

got some protection from this government for my children. She said “no” many

times before now, but finally, I am a member! This is my first step to getting

more support and to getting it as a survivor. Maybe next they will accept me as

one of them!


Jolie’s experience exemplifies a number of qualities of everyday resistance, which are subtle,

indirect, and nonconfrontational acts that those subject to power enact to show their anger, opposition,

or indignation vis-à-vis what they perceive as unfair or unjust actions against them. Many ordinary

Rwandans understand that the policy of national unity and reconciliation represents wrongs against