Why Jeannette employs her family's killers
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In the spring of 1994, it was as if the government had promised Anastaz a kind of lottery jackpot in return for killing people.
If this poor farmer - and millions of other Hutus - would help kill all the Tutsis in Rwanda, the genocide-era government pledged that they would have riches, land, and security. And they wouldn't have to work again.
"During the genocide, everyone was planning to take properties and kill - but not have to work," Anastaz says, remembering when then-President Juvenal Habyarimana came to a nearby town and told Hutus they wouldn't be prosecuted for killing Tutsis.
It clearly didn't work out that way.
Sitting on a crude wooden bench in a two-room house with a dirt floor, Anastaz begins quietly shaking and sweating as he talks about the genocide. A trio of baby white rabbits hops around his feet. He's raising them for food. A machete sits within arm's reach.
Anastaz has publicly admitted to killing two people during the genocide - and has spent seven years in prison for the murders. In many cases, Hutus who resisted killing Tutsis were harassed, hurt, or killed for not pitching in. Asked if he was involved in killing Jeannette's husband, his eyes widen, he blanches, and stays quiet. Yet later, he hints he did more than he has admitted to, saying, "The punishment is not big enough for the crimes I committed."
Yet he also blames the previous government for his terrible acts. "We were just implementing," he says. "There was a policy" that every Tutsi "found in his or her home would be killed." It was a perversion of traditional Rwandan culture, which has long thrived on communal labor. Indeed, for centuries, groups of villagers have tackled projects that one person alone couldn't do. During the genocide, the "project" was killing. "It was like we were doing a community activity," says Karori Murwanaskyaka, a Hutu sitting with Anastaz.
But now, "We are feeling guilty and very bad for what happened," says a clearly repentant Anastaz.
These days, unlike before the genocide, there are no promises of easy riches. And Anastaz says it's better that way. "The economy is different," he says, "We don't have war. And we're getting money." During the two-month harvest, he and others make about 80 cents a day picking coffee. Now, "someone can work and save, and everyone has the right to own properties."
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A simple handshake says volumes.
Jeannette is standing outside Anastaz's house on a rutted dirt road. Before leaving, she walks over to say goodbye, extending her hand. But she doesn't face him directly - or look him in the eyes. He, however, faces her and carefully takes her hand in both of his. Expressions of regret and pain flash across his face. After an awkward moment, she manages a smile and steps away.
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SHAKE:
Jeannette Nyirabaganwa shakes hands with confessed killer Anastaz Turimubakunzi.
MELANIE STETSON FREEMAN - STAFF
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Because of what he did, she says later, "I feel so bad to shake hands with that man." Yet, even she says his murderous acts weren't entirely his fault.
"I have to shake hands with this man, because such people were innocent. It wasn't their will," she says. "It was an ideology raised by the government."
Despite the government's promises of wealth, she observes, he's still mired in poverty: "He looted many properties, but he's still poor." With a tone of indignation, she adds, "I mean, can you imagine? He lives with rabbits." Jeannette, meanwhile, has become increasingly prosperous. She lives in a tidy three-room house in a wealthier area.
In the end, the proximity of victims and killers in this crowded country - along with the strong hand of government preventing further mass violence - has forced a grudging, practical reconciliation. On certain hillsides, coffee has become an enabler for this fragile unity.
And, for Jeannette, the initial economic pragmatism has evolved into a budding empathy she might have once thought impossible. Still referring to his poverty, she says simply, "I have to employ him. I know how he lives."
| Rwanda's 'gacaca' courts |
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Across Rwanda, a traditional form of justice is being meted out every day. The country's 12,000 "gacaca" - or "under the tree"- courts tackle smaller genocide-related crimes, such as looting and indirect involvement in killing. National and international tribunals prosecute those responsible for organizing the 1994 genocide. For instance, the UN's International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda - holding court in nearby Tanzania - is slowly trying those accused of masterminding the genocide.
Back in Rwanda, locally elected "gacaca" judges collect testimony from victims and encourage perpetrators to confess and apologize. Their task is enormous: An estimated 600,000 people had some role in the genocide. "Gacaca" courts are expected to hear about 100,000 cases - although that could mushroom to 500,000 as early testimony implicates new suspects. Although empowered to sentence wrongdoers to prison, the courts will reportedly soon be sentencing at least 55,000 to community service instead.
Supporters say it's an ideal forum for dialogue about the horrors of 1994. But critics say it only reprimands Hutus while ignoring the misdeeds carried out by Tutsis.
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Next part: Burundi's own Romeo and Juliet story
Full Coverage:
Africa After War: Paths to Forgiveness
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