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demands for reconciliation. [My official] knows that I lost all of my people

[immediate family members] during the events. He knows I am weakened and

therefore pushes me to tell my truth. But my people are dead. What is there to

tell? Because I am a former Hutu, all I can do is try to get recognition as a

survivor of the genocide so I can get some [financial] support. Of course that is

Tutsi business, but still, it is a matter of survival. It is hard to ask for help when I

prefer not to speak with my local official because I fear his demands. (Interview

2006)


Vianney, a poor ethnic Tutsi man, also seeks to stay on the sidelines:


Because of the hardships, I lost my whole family. What is the point of





forgiveness anyway? The Hutu who killed, they know who they are, but are they

able to tell their truth? No, and I understand why not. If they say anything, they

go straight to prison. I understand their problems; I blame this government for

its lack of fairness. If we could all just get along, I know we could find some

way to coexist. Reconciliation is never going to happen. At least not for me; I

am alone because of genocide. It is better to remain distant than to get mixed up

with the ideas and plans of this [postgenocide] government. (Interview 2006)


Avoiding interaction with local officials is a constant preoccupation and is a tactic that some

ordinary Rwandans employ to avoid participation in elements of the policy of national unity and

reconciliation that they deem unfair or disrespectful of their lived experiences of violence before,

during, and after the 1994 genocide. Several women told me how they do laundry in creeks and

rivulets side by side for extended periods, often very early in the morning, to avoid having to meet

their local authorities or even other women. Florence beamed with pride when she shared her everyday

tactic of choice: “Getting up early is a very good defense. It only becomes a problem when too many

of us decide to miss gacaca or to be absent when the ingando graduates come back to our hill. When

that happens, I act like I have malaria or explain to the official that I have ‘women’s problems.’ He

never asks. Instead he runs the other way. Indeed, I am too old for those [women’s] problems, but he

leaves me alone every time!” (interview with Florence, a poor Hutu widow, 2006).

Ordinary men, particularly released prisoners, shared how they used the marketplace as a domain

where they could whisper news of political developments. They shared information about who had

been arrested, denounced, or put in prison since the previous market day and news of how gacaca

trials were progressing in different communities and of how ingando graduates were coping with the

return home following extended prison stays. Secretive ingenuity facilitates the flow of political

information among ordinary Hutu men. Gaston, a poor released prisoner, explained it best:


We [Hutu] have few options. Going to the bars is no longer an option. We are

viewed with suspicion; few of us do that anymore. If the authorities see a group

of former Hutu at a bar, then we can all get interrogated. They think we are

plotting genocide or something. Instead of facing charges of genocide ideology,

we communicate when we go to market to sell. The authorities are right there,

even the LDF soldiers, and sometimes military men come to shop. We pass

information by scribbling on gourds [yellow squash]. When we pass vegetables,

the officials think we are just sharing our produce. But with a pencil, we can

share information so our brothers know what is happening and when. This helps

us avoid contact with the authorities who need us to participate at gacaca

because we know what each other is experiencing. It is also empowering

because, while they try to get our produce for as little money as possible, we are

disrespecting them! (Interview 2006)


In addition to staying on the sidelines of the various practices of national unity and reconciliation

for political reasons, most ordinary Rwandans struggle in their daily lives to ensure their economic

survival. It is the struggle to eat and to find ways to send their children to school that shapes their

everyday acts of resistance and drives them to stay on the sidelines. Avoiding contact with local

officials and other agents of the state is more than just a tactic of protecting themselves from the





demands of the policy of national unity and reconciliation. It is the daily struggle for economic

survival that in part shapes the politics of ordinary Rwandans. Indeed, the level of political acumen

that they exhibit when determining how and when to engage their local officials so that they can

appear to be “cooperative, interested in peace and reconciliation, and ready to tell our truth” belies

elite perceptions that ordinary folk are, in the words of one NURC official, “just mere peasants who

need us to tell them what to do. Really, they are like infants. We need to parent them so they know

about peace and reconciliation” (field notes 2006). Many ordinary Rwandans actually rely on the

condescension of elites to maneuver, as they understand that their efforts to survive are political:

“Everything in the country is political. I am hungry. I have seen people die during war and starve

during so-called times of peace. If you can’t feed your family, then your thoughts are about survival,

not about much else. Of course we need peace. But peace as this government explains it is actually a

form of violence against us [survivors]. Avoiding local officials who want us to reconcile is politics.

There can be no peace in the heart if there is no peace in the stomach” (interview with Jeanne, a poor

Tutsi widow, 2006).

Economic survival is a necessity for many ordinary Rwandans, particularly those at the bottom of

the socioeconomic hierarchy. This is especially the case for mandatory activities that ordinary

Rwandans must attend in the name of national unity and reconciliation (e.g., government speeches,

umuganda community work days, gacaca trials) instead of tending to their fields, as the postgenocide

government does not provide basic social services, despite almost a decade of economic growth. Any

economic gains in the country have accrued to elites in Kigali as the government seeks to streamline

and modernize the Rwandan economy. Several individuals shared with me the difficulties of meeting

their basic needs and those of their families, for example when bridges and roads that link rural

communities to the market centers are washed away. Joseph M., a destitute Hutu released prisoner,

told me,

for us to be successful. How can I earn to care for my kids if I cannot get to

market? The bridge [to town] went out last year, and there is no sign that they

[the government] will repair it. What are we to do but do it ourselves? We are

not going to ask [the local authorities] to help us with rebuilding it. It is best to

keep distant. Instead of standing up to tell them we need a bridge, some of us

work hard to repair it.

This is not an official means of reconciliation, but I have worked side by side

with men who also want to provide for their families. We understand that the

bridge is important to us all, and we try to work together. It is risky, particularly

for men like me, because when they see us working together, they think we are

plotting genocide. Some might be doing that; I don’t know what is in the hearts

of others. What I know is that this government won’t help us, so we have to help

ourselves. We don’t ask for permission; we just do it and hope that our efforts

won’t be noticed until the work is done. Of course if there is any backlash, some

or all of us go to cachot [detention]. If there is praise for our efforts from the

central authorities, it is the local official who benefits. (Interview 2006)


The everyday acts of resistance of ordinary Rwandans who “stay on the sidelines” are subtle,

indirect, and nonconfrontational. Implicit acts of everyday resistance, like washing laundry or

resistance reveal is that some ordinary Rwandans not only understand that the policy of national unity

and reconciliation is an oppressive form of power but also believe that it makes their daily struggle to

provide for their basic needs more complicated. Rather than blindly or willingly accept state-led

directives to reconcile with one another, ordinary Rwandans recognize that the policy is yet another

form of social control that they strategically avoid so that they can get on with more pressing matters

—the daily realities of economic survival.


IRREVERENT COMPLIANCE


A second form of everyday resistance that many ordinary Rwandans exhibit is the practice of

irreverent compliance, meaning that they follow the rules and regulations of the policy of national

unity and reconciliation in ways that respect their position of inferiority to the authority of local

officials. Irreverent compliance is a response of ordinary peasants to the various assaults on their

dignity, notably the expectation that they will participate earnestly and readily in prescribed activities

of national unity and reconciliation. Some ordinary Rwandans have devised a number of ways to

subvert the expectations of some aspects of the policy of national unity and reconciliation, particularly

around the return ceremonies for ingando graduates following their release from prison and the

pressures of forced participation in national mourning activities every April. For instance, Tutsi

survivors who are forced to attend the return ceremony of a Hutu individual who they believe should

not have been released from prison will laugh outlandishly at the remarks of local authorities during

their “welcome home” speeches. In this way, they practice irreverent compliance; individuals attend

the mandatory meetings but let the official know in subtle ways of their contempt or disrespect. For

example, Esther told me about how she is able to “disrespect the system” while avoiding punishment

for expressing her discontent with government policy at the frequent sensitization speeches that local

officials make on all aspects of the policy of national unity and reconciliation:

reeducated through ingando training, I laugh out loud, or, if that is not possible, I

glare at him, to let him know that I do not believe for even one minute that

ingando is a good idea for peace and unity. Because we gather [in groups of

thirty or more people] at the [local government] offices, it is hard for the official

to know it is me who laughed. Sometimes, he stops and stares into the crowd. In

those moments, there is a risk that a neighbor will point me out as the one who

disrespected the official. When he doesn’t, I sometimes move to the other side

of the crowd so he can’t find [and punish] me. (Interview with Esther, a poor

Tutsi widow, 2006)

examination it is clear that her tactics exploit one of the most vexing insecurities faced by appointed

and volunteer local government officials in postgenocide Rwanda (and other authoritarian settings).

As individuals who exercise their authority through fear, local officials expect a certain measure of

deference and compliance with their demands. Indeed, the power and authority of local officials are

reinforced through a strong central government, which makes acts of vocal disrespect like Esther’s all

“welcome home” ceremony would constitute an affront, if not a challenge, to the authority of the local

official. Esther’s action of laughing or glaring at an event in which she is forced to participate

provides the official with little more than evidence that someone in the crowd is expressing disrespect.

In giving the appearance of consent and approval by attending the ingandoceremony, Esther has found

a way to express her contempt while at the same time maintaining her subordinate position.

Inconsequential acts such as laughing at the words of a local official during a perfunctory speech

can provide a foundation for more effective action, as evidenced in the irreverent compliance of Tutsi

survivors like Esther, as well as of those individuals—Hutu and Twa—who are not officially

recognized as survivors of the 1994 genocide. For these individuals, mourning week represents a

sphere of defiance in which individuals seek to protect their dignity as well as that of their loved ones

whose lives were lost during the 1994 genocide, as well as during, before, and after the violence.

Janvier, a poor Tutsi survivor, explained to me how he resists mourning week despite the requirement

that he attend and “show solidarity for Tutsi lives lost” (interview with NURC official 2006):

survivors are? We [Tutsi] talk about the ways this government disrespects our

lives. I mean, we were targeted because we were Tutsi; now we have to forget

about that in the name of national unity and reconciliation. Me, I cannot. Tutsi is

what I am. So the officials make speeches, and we have to mourn in “official”

ways. This means nothing. Many of my people are really dead; many around me

are alive, but they act like they are dead. Seriously, this idea that I am survivor is

too much to bear. This government says they saved us and saved Rwanda. This is

just not true. So when they [government officials] make speeches on radio, I just

turn it off, which can get me in trouble [with the authorities] if a neighbor who is

an enemy passes by and learns that I am not listening. Of course, I am a former

Tutsi, so maybe that wouldn’t happen, but anything is possible these days.

Local authorities make public speeches we must attend. Now, I have benefits

as a [cooperative] member. There is no way I am going to risk losing those

funds. I need them to live. So it was first in 1999, once I had some strength and

could think about regaining some balance in my head, I made a big decision to

reject my local official. We were standing in the crowd after the speech. A very

disappointing speech, which is what shaped my decision. So I was standing quite

close to him [the speechmaker], and I stuck my tongue out at him. He did not see

me, but other [Tutsi survivors] did. Some of them squirmed, and others covered

their mouths to stop their laughter. One woman, she gasped, which made the

official look around to understand why our mood had changed. He saw me with a

stone face and did nothing. After that, some of us stand up to officials who force

us to mourn our dead and our lives in ways that are offensive to us. One was

caught mocking [the official], and she spent the night in cachot [detention]. She

still mocks when she can, and so do I. If I can’t mourn in my own way, at least I