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affordable and proximate health services was a constant lament. Many of the women who participated

in my research had the additional burden of child care, including the care of orphaned relatives whose

parents had died before, during, or after the genocide. Most Rwandans also live with untreated

posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Psychosocial trauma is prevalent; some studies suggest that as

many as 95 percent of Rwandans witnessed or participated in “extreme acts of violence” (Ndayambaje

2001, 46). Three-quarters of my participants told me that they had symptoms suggestive of

psychological trauma. Only a third of these individuals were in treatment for their PTSD. Those who

were not in treatment cited the lack of counselors as a barrier to treatment; a bigger issue was their

concern for privacy. One woman said it best: “Of course I have trauma. Why do you think I agreed to

speak with you? I can talk to you and feel safe that my secrets will not be shared with other Rwandese.

I don’t have this feeling with the counselors [who live] here [in my community]” (interview with

Béatha, a destitute Hutu widow, 2006).

The division of labor in rural areas runs rigidly along gender lines. Peasant women work from

before the sun rises until after it has set every day of the year. In the home, they cook all meals, wash

dishes, clean, do laundry, sew and mend clothing, and ferry water. Most try to earn a productive

income, which many do through petty trade of surplus produce that they grow themselves. Peasant

men engage in animal husbandry and may also work in the fields, although among the men who

participated in my research, tending to crops (as well as children) is seen as a task for women. Men

told me of the shame they felt at having to work in the fields alongside their women relatives, as well

as of the additional burden of not having access to income-generating work, such as carpentry or

driving a taxi-moto. Hutu men who have completed their ingando reeducation feel this most acutely,

as they expected to find gainful employment following their return to their home community (field

notes 2006). In the communities where I interviewed ordinary peasant Rwandans, I rarely saw men in

the fields. When they did work the fields, it was before the full heat of the day. By 11:00 a.m. or so,

men could be seen lounging in the tall grass or near the banana groves, chatting with other men, while

women, many of them with infants strapped to their backs, continued to tend to their fields. Ephrem, a

poor Hutu man, explained their absence: “We do the very heavy work, like preparing the beds and

preparing the irrigation. We also help if necessary with the planting and the harvesting. But tending to

weeds? That is work for women” (interview 2006).

Compounding the challenges faced by ordinary Rwandan men and women is the perception on the

part of government officials, both at the local level and in Kigali, that peasants are but a homogeneous

mass to be governed. The words of one local official working in a location near Gitarama town are

emblematic: ordinary Rwandans are “a mass of poor peasants that we are responsible to reeducate and

then govern. Tutsi are survivors, and we urge them to forgive. Hutu are suspects, and we urge them to

tell their truth” (interview with Ministry of Community Development official 2006). Within this

“mass” of poor ordinary Rwandans are the socioeconomic categories and the inequalities they

engender, which in turn shape individual life chances as well as opportunities for moving up or falling





down the social ladder. All of the ordinary Rwandans who participated in my research understand that

only elites can hold political power (i.e., it is both acknowledged and accepted that politics is the

domain of the elite, whether political, business, or religious). Social mobility, moving up to the ranks

of the powerful, or, as one of my research participants put it, “becoming an important person,” is rare

and is not something that the ordinary Rwandans who participated in my research expect to happen.

Instead, their efforts are aimed at maintaining their meager socioeconomic location.

This lack of opportunity for social mobility exists where hierarchy is the societal standard,

inequality is anticipated, less powerful people expect to be dependent on more powerful people,

centralization of state institutions is popular and unquestioned, subordinates envision being told what

to do, and privileges and social status are expected for elite members of society (Archer 2003, 136–

37). In resource-scarce environments like postgenocide Rwanda, where the social structure is firmly

entrenched and individual options and opportunities are structured by one’s location in the social

hierarchy, it is important to understand where individuals are situated economically. This matters

because one’s socioeconomic class shapes one’s life chances. It also determines how and when other

Rwandans, notably elites, engage and interact with the destitute, poor, and salaried poor individuals

like those who participated in my research, as well as how they interact with others in their

socioeconomic class. An appreciation of the socioeconomic categories that stratify Rwandan society is

also important because this stratification shapes individuals’ options to practice everyday resistance.

Knowing one’s place in the social hierarchy ensures that the resister is aware of the risks inherent in

choosing which strategy of everyday resistance is most appropriate and when to deploy it.

The boundaries of the six socioeconomic categories that stratify Rwandan society are relatively

fixed (MINECOFIN 2001; see table 1 in the introduction). There are differences between Rwandans

who occupy the three lowest categories—the most vulnerable, the destitute, and the poor—but these

are muted by the fact that many of these peasants have little to no access to cash, leaving them most

susceptible to climatic shock. Members of these socioeconomic categories also have little formal

education, which means that individuals in higher social categories write them off as “needing us to

decide what to do for them” since they have no “ideas of their own and so can’t move up in life”

(interview with MINALOC official 2006). The lowest category are the abatindi nyakujya (the most

vulnerable or those living in abject poverty; sing. umutindi nyakujya), individuals who have no social

standing whatsoever. Most beg to survive; some resort to prostitution or theft, which in turn isolates

them from other categories of peasants. They are considered by many, including other most vulnerable

individuals, to be “without hope” (field notes 2006). They have “poor personal hygiene and live in

garbage cans or in barns,” which means “they cannot be taught, so there is no use in trying” (interview

with Ministry of Culture official 2006). For ordinary Rwandans, reaching out to help a most

vulnerable person often elicits scorn from other peasants, which “makes it hard to help them. Even

when it is clear that they are suffering, few reach out to them because it can cause problems with

family and friends who ask, ‘Why do you help that goat [lost soul]?’ ” (interview with Espérance, a

poor Tutsi widow, 2006).

The individuals who participated in my research come from the next three categories on the social

ladder—abatindi (destitute), abakene (poor), and abakene bifashije (salaried poor). Composing the

second lowest category in the social strata are the abatindi (destitute; sing. umutindi), who sometimes

own land but who are unable to work it successfully, either through personal inability or because the

field is fallow. They eat only when they are able to share in the harvest of others. They often have

some form of makeshift shelter. Any economic gains that a destitute umutindi peasant might make

come through the forging of alliances with other destitute Rwandans, usually to buy a goat or a sheep





or to share in each other’s harvest to ensure that all members of the family get enough to eat on a

regular basis. Joseph N., a destitute Tutsi widower, told me, “We eat when we can, and we share,

knowing it is good insurance if our own crops fail. Those we share with share with us, and we all eat a

little instead of nothing” (interview 2006).

The next highest socioeconomic category is the abakene (poor; sing. umukene), all of whom hold

land, which, however, is rarely sufficiently productive. They own small livestock such as chickens,

goats, or sheep. As a group, abakene are most likely to be called on by members of higher

socioeconomic classes to work their fields in exchange for cash. Some have excess harvest, which

they take to market to sell. Access to microcredit is also a possibility, but this comes through alliances

within their social network of relatives and friends, not through formal credit facilities. The abakene

bifashije (the salaried poor; sing. umukene wifashije) constitute the last, and highest, category of the

peasantry. These individuals have both a one-room house and some land. They often own more than

one cow, along with several goats, sheep, and chickens. Some own motorcycles. Most own no-speed

bicycles. They rarely work for others, as their production makes them self-sufficient. It “can be a great

shame” if a salaried poor individual has to work for others, as he can usually sell some livestock to

weather climatic or economic downturns (interview with Didier, a salaried poor Tutsi man, 2006).

If the individual is educated beyond the eighth grade, he might have access to formal credit

facilities and might even qualify for a credit card, although for many salaried poor cash flow is a

concern. These families usually live off the means of production, which can include ownership of a

kiosk shop. The salaried poor often act as appointed local officials within communities, even though

they receive no salary for their work. Many are also elected gacaca judges. The prestige of being

asked to serve can open up opportunities to become an umukungu (rich without money; pl. abakungu),

the socioeconomic category of many appointed local officials (field notes 2006). Abakungu have more

than one plot of land and often own several heads of cattle. They often have development-related jobs

and earn salaries as appointed local officials or as project officers or managers of a civil society

organization. Many have house staff (servants) from among the poor and vulnerable categories. These

servants rarely receive a wage, working instead in exchange for room and board. The rich without

money are so called because there is little left over for productive means once school fees and health

costs have been paid. They often have access to a vehicle and housing through formal employment.3

The highest socioeconomic category is that of the abakire (the rich; sing. umukire), which is the

category of most urban elites. They have land, excess production, several heads of cattle, and other

livestock, as well as paid employment, either as civil servants or in private business. Peasant

Rwandans told me that the rich are easy to identify “because they are always dressed up, they have

cell phones, and they never walk anywhere” (field notes 2006). They own at least one car and always

have servants to prepare their meals and keep their homes presentable for entertaining and other social

activities, notably weddings and funerals.

It is within this structured socioeconomic hierarchy that ordinary Rwandans battle daily to ensure

their own and their family’s survival; to do so they must continually protect themselves against the

apparatus of the state—the RPF and its agents, who vigorously promote the policy of national unity

and reconciliation. A recurrent theme in my conversations with ordinary Rwandans was the

omnipresence of local officials, notably those who “came after the genocide to find themselves in a

position of authority even though they have never even lived in the community before” (field notes

2006). As noted in chapter 4, the implementation of the requirements of the policy of national unity

and reconciliation is the top priority for appointed and elected local officials alike. At the lower levels

of Rwanda’s administrative structure—the sector and the cell—there is a distinction between the





power and prestige of the appointed and salaried executive secretary and those of elected, nonsalaried

officials. The executive secretary is the most important person at the local level and is usually an

individual who comes from outside the sector (and, in many cases, grew up outside Rwanda). Of the

forty-six elected and returnee local officials I met during my fieldwork, all but three were known

members of the RPF. One said, “You must be a member of the RPF if you are to gain a good

[government] position. I joined to provide for my family and have not regretted my decision” (field

notes 2006).

The National Unity and Reconciliation Commission (NURC) is responsible for providing training

to local officials to ensure that their actions accord with national policy. This puts undue stress on the

ordinary people, as executive secretaries at both the cell and the sector levels are personally

accountable to President Kagame, not to local populations. It can also be taxing for local officials,

many of whom are young and inexperienced managers who have little sense of how best to interpret

their responsibilities to both the central authorities and the local population. For local officials who

grew up abroad and whose life experiences have been shaped by conditions of exile rather than by

having lived through violence before and during the 1994 genocide, responding to the needs of

ordinary Rwandans at the bottom of the social hierarchy is a challenge. In addition to having a

different cultural worldview, many returnees see ordinary Rwandans solely in terms of their ethnicity.

For most ordinary Rwandans, economic survival is their main priority; ethnicity is only a minor factor

in everyday life and matters most when one encounters state power, most notably the various practices

and mechanisms of the policy of national unity and reconciliation.

The thirty-seven ordinary Rwandans who participated in my research occupy the lower levels of the

social hierarchy and struggle to meet their basic needs and those of their families under the watchful

eye of local officials, who have little sense of how the violence of the genocide has shaped their

poverty. For example, Tutsi survivors living in southern Rwanda told me that they were financially

poorer since the genocide because they had lost so many of their family members, particularly

children, who could husband livestock or tend fields. Hutu men living in southwest Rwanda who fled

to the refugee camps in Zaïre also reported increased poverty, combined with loss of social status as

probable génocidaires, as their land holdings were reduced or eliminated on their return home.

Of the forty-six local officials on whom I relied to conduct my research in southwest Rwanda,

thirty-three were Anglophone returnees who held salaried positions at the sector level, while another

seven Anglophone returnees held salaried posts at the cell level, meaning that only six officials (fewer

than 10 percent) were potentially resident in their bailiwick before the genocide. That so many local

officials come from outside the community raised concerns among the many ordinary peasant

Rwandans I consulted, who were worried about officials’ ability to understand and appreciate their

everyday needs. Under Habyarimana, local officials were residents of the communities they served

and maintained network ties and social alliances with the rural community of their childhood (de

Lame 2005a, 62–63). Since 2000 local officials have been appointed by President Kagame directly,

and since 2006 they have been contractually obligated to develop the area under their supervision in

line with national policy objectives (i.e., through imihigo contracts). Ordinary peasants I consulted

spoke of the disdain that local officials had for them, as well as of the difficulties they faced in trying

to “modernize” in accordance with new measures of “progress and development” introduced since

2000 (field notes 2006, corroborated by Purdeková 2012a).

A good example of the drive to modernize without due regard to the needs of peasant Rwandans is

the national land policy, which the RPF introduced in 2000. It has increased the vulnerability of

peasant families as it seeks to “modernize agriculture” and encourage the “rational use of land”





(MINITERRE 2004, 9). Rwanda’s mountainous terrain, combined with variations in soil quality,

means that few ordinary Rwandans have sufficient arable land to provide for the basic nutritional

needs of their families. The average land holding is just 0.65 hectares (Huggins 2012). Dispersed

plots, often shared in alliances with other families, serve as a form of insurance for peasant families to

ensure that enough crops are harvested to provide sufficient food for basic survival. The RFP’s land

policy considers usage for basic survival irrational and makes it illegal for peasants to work together

to tend their fields as local growing and climatic conditions allow (field notes 2006). The RPF ordered

local officials to appropriate irrationally used land and gave large plots to “senior government and

military officials and important businessmen” who now use the land for commercial purposes (Burnet

2007, 19; Huggins 2012). Displaced ordinary Rwandans experienced the double insult of not being

compensated for their expropriated land and not being hired to work for a daily wage for the new rich

abakire landowners. Many complained that individuals were brought in from outside their

communities to work the fields. Joseph B., a destitute Hutu man, said, “We don’t even benefit from

their employment. How are we supposed to eat without land?” (interview 2006). Janvier, a poor Tutsi

man, said, “The new landowners have brought their own people to work their land; they live here now

and have changed everything. First they take our land, then they bring their own people to cultivate it?

How can we eat? How can we exist? We cannot afford most things; it is very hard” (interview 2006).

Academic studies verify these hardships, arguing that the top-down and state-led implementation of

the land law could result in growing inequality, increased landlessness, and socioeconomic tensions

(Ansoms 2008, 2009, 2011; Des Forges 2006; Huggins 2011, 2012; Pottier 2006).

The efforts of many ordinary Rwandans to accommodate the additional burden imposed on their

already strained lives through postgenocide policies like the new land policy have resulted in subtle

changes in the ways that they interact with their local officials, as agents of the state, in their everyday

lives. Rwandan culture has strict codes about who can speak out against such injustices and when.

Indeed, there is no strong historical record of individuals speaking out against the oppressive actions

of others who are more socially or economically powerful than they are. Individual facility in the art

of disguising and concealing one’s real feelings or opinions on a given matter is self-taught and

culturally sanctioned; dissimulation and acquiescence are both common. This leads outsiders, as well

as RPF elites, to conclude that ordinary Rwandans are obedient and comply without any reflection to

their demands.

of Ordinary Rwandans