[1] The Gacaca (ga-CHA-cha) trials in Rwanda represent
a radical and necessary alternative to the International Criminal
Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR) and the reconstructed state judicial
system. Attempts to legitimate the establishment of a traditional
community justice approach have focused primarily on three issues:
(1) dislodging an entrenched culture of impunity; (2) responding to
the prison crisis; and (3) providing opportunities for all persons
to participate in the judicial process. A tone of resignation
underscores many of the attempts to justify Gacaca; it is
understood as a measure of last resort, necessitated by what one
observer notes is the "impossibility of justice" in post-genocide
Rwanda. At the same time, there are signs of cautious optimism
among Rwandans who, in general, have expressed support for the
alternative system.
[2] Almost a decade after the most acute period of Rwanda's
genocide, the Gacaca trials represent an attempt to
construct a moral, political, social, and legal framework capable
of overcoming the divisions of the past and the present. The
trials, themselves, are not a panacea; however, by exploring the
contours of the moral universe in which the genocide took place
this article seeks to demonstrate that any hope for a viable,
integrated Rwandan society depends significantly on local
communities' experience of justice as mediated through the
Gacaca trials.
[3] (By focusing on Gacaca first, a claim is being
asserted that local community relationships must be reconciled
before international human rights discourse can be authentically
engaged. That is, the mechanisms of human rights discourse,
including the charters, covenants, treaties, and international law,
cannot find a foothold until the ground of Rwandan society has been
stabilized. Human rights discourse may function as an external
frame of reference, but it will remain external until Rwanda
establishes itself as a political state capable of following
through on its commitments as a signatory to various international
covenants, etc.)
[4] The fundamental task for Rwandans is to establish a sense of
community. The enormity of this task against the background of
genocide, oppression, and dehumanization is paralyzing. What kind
of internal resources can Rwandans draw upon to establish a sense
of community that is resilient to the tremendous external pressures
of the global economy, ecological resource scarcity, and regional
instability? What kind of resources can be planted and grown so
that eventually their root systems cannot simply be excavated by
regional and ethnic animosity?
[5] The Gacaca trials as a community practice may help
Rwandans articulate the necessary pre-requisites for living
together into the future. The potential for full participation in
these trials suggests that the contours of life together will
emerge from moral resources and value systems community members
have direct access to such as traditional spiritual beliefs and
practices as well as Christianity. Therefore, part of the task of
establishing a sense of community will be to deconstruct the
religio-cultural myths that have served to reinforce and legitimate
divisions within Rwandan society. But an equally important part of
the task will be to construct institutions within communities that
allow Rwandans to participate fully in the conversation about their
shared future. Gacaca can be a powerful tool with regards
to both the deconstructive and constructive moments.
II. Historical Background
[6] Though relatively small compared to the scale of the tragedy, a
body of literature has been developed over the past decade
attempting to understand the Rwandan genocide. A significant
portion of this literature is undertaken by outside observers,
perhaps in an exercise of repentance for their prior ignorance of,
and unwillingness to act on, the structural problems that plagued
Rwanda. The scope of this article does not permit a comprehensive
review of the diverse theories employed, which emphasize to varying
degrees the role of development aid, ecological resource scarcity,
colonial legacies, neo-colonial policies, religio-cultural
ideologies, ethnic essentialisms, and structural violence endemic
to Rwanda society. Instead, the analysis below seeks to uncover the
contours of an entrenched socio-ethical framework that has been
legitimated by these diverse theories. This socio-ethical framework
takes as its starting point notions of conflict, subordination, and
brokenness. Gacaca's framework of reconciliation and
restorative justice offers an alternative to these primary
categories of meaning.
-Isms: Ethnic, Regional, and Class?
[7] Genocide has been the "convenient" descriptor applied to the
horrors unleashed between the downing of President Juvenal
Habyarimana's plane on April 6, 1994 and the establishment of a new
government in Kigali on July 19. It is convenient because it draws
on the popular perception of ethnicity as the root of social
conflict in Rwanda. But it is reductionist to claim that the
incomprehensible carnage can be explained merely in terms of one
ethnic group's attempt to systematically exterminate another. There
are several factors, which preclude this reductionist move and may
suggest alternative possibilities for building relationships in the
process of reconciliation.
[8] Genocide breaks down almost immediately as an adequate
descriptor when the events immediately following Habyarimana's
plane crash are analyzed. Within hours of his crash extremist Hutu
political groups known as the "Power faction" began executing
political opposition leaders including Tutsi and moderate Hutu.
(Ironically, this power faction had emerged in the early 1990s as a
result of an externally motivated push towards multi-partyism and
democracy.)[1] Comprised primarily of
Hutu elites (known as the akazu) and associated with Habyarmana's
clan from the northern region, the "Power faction" within the
ruling party Mouvement Revolutionairre National pour le
Developpement (MRND) as well as new extremist Hutu parties such as
the Commite de Defense de la Revolution (CDR) made use of armed
militia groups (interahamwe and impuzamugambi) and Hutu within the
national army (FAR-Forces Armees Rwandaises) to carry out a phased
extermination of all those opposed to their political agenda.
[9] An analysis of genocide as a reductionist descriptor is in no
way meant to trivialize the explicit use of anti-Tutsi rhetoric and
the history of violence against Tutsi, which dominated Rwanda from
independence until 1994. But it is important to understand that it
was genocide AND something more. Indeed that something more, namely
a political agenda protective of a particular Hutu elite, seized on
the entrenched divisions within society.[2] (The importance of this
"something more" will become clearer below when the possibilities
for reconciliation are explored.)
[10] The interim government led by Jean Kambanda, set up within
days of Habyarimana's death, became Rwanda's first ethnically
homogeneous government. It included no Tutsi and in the successive
phases of the genocide it replaced local government officials,
including moderate Hutu, with those sympathetic to its agenda.
Researcher Peter Uvin identifies this massive shift in local
leadership as the primary reason for the decentralization of the
genocidaires:
"The violence started in
Kigali and was largely executed by the presidential guards, the
militia, and the army. Its spread to the rest of the country took
weeks and did not happen spontaneously: the large majority of the
provincial governors, communal burgomasters, and ordinary citizens
did not join in the carnage for weeks. The so-called
interim-government replaced those civil servants by new extremist
ones, and flew in the militia from the capital. It was only then
that the violence spread to the rest of the
country."[3]
[11] Recognition of this calculated, step-by-step process
provides strong support to the argument that the genocide was
pre-meditated, but it also exposes the genocide leaders' fomenting
of ethnic hatred as a political strategy. In the midst of the
genocide this nuanced distinction was not possible, but in
post-genocide Rwanda its recognition is critical to any attempts at
reconciliation. It does not excuse the thousands who participated
in the violence, but it may illumine distinctions between those
explicitly responsible for stirring up ethnic hatred and those who
found themselves participating in the everyday violence of neighbor
against neighbor. Reconciliation may not be possible for the
former, but it may be for the latter.[4]
[12] As has been hinted at above, the genocide did not emerge out
of a vacuum. Attempts to explain the genocide have often emphasized
particular trajectories within Rwandan history, highlighting the
social revolution of the 1960s, which inverted the Tutsi-Hutu
political and ideological power structures. Two explicit
instruments of the ideological inversion, or the rise of a Bahutu
consciousness, were the Hutu Manifesto of 1957 and the CDR's
infamous "Ten Commandments of the Hutu" published in 1990 at the
outset of the civil war.[5]
[13] Political inversions were witnessed not only in the formal
political sphere,[6] but also in the
leadership of the Roman Catholic Church and its influential
educational institutions.
[14] Unfortunately, most analyses fail to distinguish between the
Hutu and Tutsi as ethnic categories and Hutu and Tutsi as social
constructs, which have been exploited for political purposes. The
development of Hutu and Tutsi as distinct ethnic groups involves a
complicated history and includes many extra-Rwandan actors, i.e.,
German and Belgium colonial administrators as well as Roman
Catholic missionaries. Pre-colonial history is ambiguous with
regards to the question of ethnicity, revealing instead the
socio-economic relationship between the Tutsi cattle-herders and
the Hutu agriculturalists. Creation myths describe the three
peoples which constitute Rwanda: Tutsi, Hutu, and Twa, and
legitimate a static social order.[7] But
economic and political analysis of pre-colonial relationships
suggests that there may have been some mobility between the groups,
i.e., a Hutu could become a Tutsi if he attained enough cattle or
prestige, and similarly a Tutsi could become a Hutu if he became
economically dependent, etc. The frequency of this mobility is
debatable, but it cautions one against essentialisms based on
ethnic differences.[8] Anthropological and
linguistic evidence suggest that the Tutsi, Hutu, and Twa come from
distinctive biological and linguistic trajectories. But the
importance of the distinction between the groups cannot be
understood merely in terms of this evidence. Instead, the
distinction becomes important only when understood in its various
manifestations throughout Rwanda's socio-political history. Two
examples serve to illustrate this point, both of which take place
within the context of the colonial encounter, but draw on existing
social class relations as interpreted by outsiders.
[15] The first is the Hamitic myth propagated by early missionaries
and colonizers. Consistent with the prevailing Social Darwinism of
19th century Europe, the German colonizers drew the conclusion from
the success of the existing Tutsi monarchy that Tutsi were a
superior people to the "common African." To support this claim,
they invoked the "Hamitic myth" which identified the Tutsi with
peoples from Egypt and Abyssinia, cultures with a rich (and
"civilized") heritage. The myth served, as one observer notes, to
inflate the Tutsi cultural ego while at the same intensifying a
Hutu inferiority complex.[9] The
social revolution and Hutu consciousness can be understood as an
anecdote for years of denigration by Tutsi "masters."
[16] The second, and perhaps the most directly related to the
procedural success of the genocide, was the establishment of ethnic
identity cards. This process, initiated by the Belgian colonizers
during the census of 1933-34, rigidified sub-national ethnic
identities for all Rwandans. But the primary distinguishing
characteristic of ethnicity was economic: persons with less than
ten cows were classified as Hutu. Furthermore, one's ethnicity as
established during the census became the artificial starting point
for future generation's ethnic identity. Passed patrilineally,
children inherited their ethnicity solely from their
father.[10]
[17] This system adds a dimension to the Hutu-Tutsi relationship
that cannot simply be explained in terms of essentialist ethnic
terms. Functionally, however, this system provided the major
political and legal cornerstone on which twentieth-century
relationships between Tutsi and Hutu developed. In effect the
Tutsi-inspired creation myths and folktales had been given legal
and political legitimacy by an external force.[11]
[18] The identity cards remained a powerful weapon for the ruling
group even after the social revolution and independence. In fact,
it was this system which expedited the compilation of lists of
Tutsi to be exterminated by the genocidaires.[12] The identity cards were
finally abolished after the new government came to power in July,
1994.
[19] As mentioned above, the social revolution and independence
effected an inversion, but they utilized the ideological and
material infrastructure of the previous Tutsi and colonial regimes.
Hutu bishops replaced Tutsi bishops; Hutu officers replaced Tutsi
officers; Hutu cabinet members, etc. replaced Tutsi cabinet
members. This was no small task since in 1959, 43 out of 45 chiefs
and 549 of 559 sub-chiefs were Tutsi.[13] But aided by the
Belgians reversal of their replacement policy in 1960 (a gamble of
political desperation on the part of the colonial administrators
who anticipated the negative consequences of their pro-Tutsi
policies in the impending move towards independence and majority
Hutu rule) and landslide election victories following a revolt
overthrowing the Tutsi king, Hutu held all but 19 of the 229
mayoral positions.[14] Philip Gourevitch
summarized this phenomenon well in his account of the genocide:
"[T]he political struggle in Rwanda was never really a quest for
equality; the issue was only who would dominate the ethnically
bipolar state."[15] Far from tangential to
the events of the 1994 genocide, this historical background set
both the ideological and political stage for the Rwandan civil war
and the genocide that followed.
Social Revolution and Independence
[20] Until 1960, Rwandan history had been written from the
perspective of the Tutsi, even when the Tutsi had become pawns for
colonial powers. What changes would take place when the tables were
turned? How would the socially and politically legitimated myths of
differentiation serve their new masters?
[21] Answers to these questions became immediately apparent. Buoyed
by the new Hutu consciousness-as expressed in the Hutu
Manifesto-Hutu political leaders exploited the Hamitic and creation
myths for their own purposes, identifying the Tutsi as foreigners
who had usurped the Hutu's rightful inheritance of the land. A
quota system, based on the proportion of Tutsi to the total
population, was adopted which limited Tutsi access to higher
education and state jobs; the tide of discrimination was reversed
resulting in a virtual exclusion of Tutsi from the army, diplomatic
corps, and the government.[16]
Though the degree to which these policies was actualized is
debatable, Uvin argues "the quota systems, combined with the ethnic
Ids, served more to keep the distinctions alive (Chretien talks
about maintaining the 'stranger-ness' of Tutsi) and to allow for
social control by the state, than for actual
discrimination."[17]
[22] He further argues that the distinctions were politically
convenient in times of crisis, but that discrimination fell out
largely along regional divisions. To this end, Hutu in the north
were discriminated against during the post-independence regime of
Gregoire Kayibanda (1962-73) and Hutu in the south fell out of
favor when Habyarimana came to power.[18] Indeed, it is a
plausible argument that it was the regional discrimination that
fueled Habyarimana's revolution. While he maintained many of the
policies of discrimination against Tutsi, his efforts to eliminate
political opposition in the early years of his regime support the
argument for a greater emphasis on regionalism. It was during this
period that the MRND-Habyarimana's party-became the sole
constitutionally allowed political party.
[23] The authoritarian nature of Habyarimana's government mirrored
many of the characteristics of the previous Tutsi monarchs, but it
drew its legitimacy from two sources: the social revolution and the
development ideology. The development ideology gave the state
enormous power as the instrument responsible for "developing" the
Hutu masses, which had been "underdeveloped" throughout the Tutsi
monarchies and colonial rule. The state, under Habyarimana, gained
expansive powers in all aspects of life, including the legal
system, which, as Uvin notes, was "independent only in name and
impunity was the norm."[19] This
kind of centralized power could not be realistically challenged
from within, especially given the powerful force of ethnic rhetoric
to demonize any opposition as pro-Tutsi, and thus anti-Hutu.
Organized resistance would have to come from outside Rwanda's
borders. And, not surprisingly, it manifest itself in the very
population that had become refugees during the initial persecutions
of Tutsi in the 1960s.
The Refugee Crisis
[24] The refugee crisis, which has defined the Great Lakes region
of Africa for the past half-century and continues to act as an
obstacle to stability, has its roots in the years immediately
following independence. Determined to eradicate political
opposition, Kayibanda's policies had forced approximately 130,000
Tutsi to flee Rwanda's borders. Armed attempts to regain entrance
were met with violent reprisals against Tutsi civilians still
living in Rwanda and with a closed door policy predicated on
arguments about population density.[20]
According to Prunier, one failed attempt to regain entrance was
used as a pretext by the Hutu government to "launch a massive wave
of repression in which an estimated 10,000 Tutsi were slaughtered
between 1963 and January 1964. All surviving Tutsi politicians
still living in Rwanda were executed."[21] A decade later, a
second wave of refugees would be created as Kayibanda executed
revenge killings and persecution for the deaths of several thousand
Burundi Hutu at the hands of the Tutsi-controlled government of
Burundi.[22]
[25] The continual ebb and flow of refugees across the borders has
not only succeeded in destabilizing relationships with neighboring
states, but it has effected an erosion of the concept of community.
Refugees who succeed in returning home often find their homes
destroyed or occupied by others who had rushed in to fill them in
their absence. Internal displacement further complicates viable
concepts of community. The question of home becomes increasingly
elusive as refugees move from camp to camp, country to country, and
region to region. This presents a tremendous challenge to any
processes of reconciliation, including the Gacaca trials,
which depend largely on community members' willingness to
understand themselves as interdependent. The fracturing of kinship
systems and communal relations engendered by the dynamic flow of
internal and external displacement is further exacerbated by the
ecological and economic crises that make rural living
unsustainable.[23] Reconstructed notions
of community will have to be built upon something other than
traditional kinship systems. It is this conclusion that speaks
directly to the radical erosion of any legitimate moral framework
to which Rwandan's can appeal. Immersed in a socio-ethical
worldview predicated for generations on alienation and
divisiveness, Rwandans encounter each other in local communities
not only as "other," but as stranger, squatter, and alien.
III. Gacaca: Justice on the Grass
[26] The Tutsi-dominated government, which came to power in July
1994, sought immediately-at least rhetorically-to address the
culture of impunity that had driven the cycle of political and
ethnic violence.[24]
[27] With significant material and logistical help from the
international community, Rwanda began to reconstruct its judicial
system. By 1996 the government had adopted legislation that would
be the cornerstone of its approach to post-genocide reconciliation.
Article 2 of the Organic Law on the Organization of
Prosecutions for Offenses Constituting Genocide or Crimes Against
Humanity Committed Since October 1, 1990 established four
categories of genocide suspects: Category I suspects included the
leaders and planners of the genocide, murderers who demonstrated
excessive malice, and sex offenders involved in rape or sexual
torture; Category II consisted of "perpetrators or accomplices in
homicide"; Category III comprised "accomplices in crimes without
intention to kill"; and Category IV concerned crimes against
property.[25] The institution of the
Gacaca jurisdictional system several years later retained
these four categories, but included greater flexibility in the
punitive phase.[26]
[28] The use of Gacaca courts for prosecuting genocide
suspects, though only recently enacted as legislation, has been
part of the conversation from at least mid-1997. Confronted by the
enormity of the judicial task and the limits of the options
available for accomplishing that task, Rwandan officials, scholars,
and others began seriously considering the possibility of
modernizing the traditional form of Rwandan community-based
conflict resolution known as Gacaca. In 2000, after
garnering input from government officials, civil society, and the
international donor community, the National Assembly passed
legislation establishing the "modernized Gacaca"
system.
[29] The system is complex in large part because it is attempting
to calibrate a local practice across multiple localities. The
structure of the system is consistent with the larger political
organization of Rwanda: provinces, districts, sectors, and cells.
The jurisdiction of these four levels roughly corresponds with the
four categories of suspects, with Category I being reserved for the
formal domestic or international judicial instruments. Cells
operate at the local community level and are mainly responsible for
categorizing the accused, listing damages, and judging Category IV
crimes. Sectors represent the next level and are responsible for
judging Category III crimes as well as appeals for Category IV.
Similarly, the district level has appellate jurisdiction for
Category III crimes in addition to its primary duty of prosecuting
Category II suspects. Finally, the province level is exclusively an
appeals court for Category II crimes.[27]
[30] The trial phase involves the entire community in which the
alleged crime took place. Members of the community are elected to
be part of a nineteen-member bench, functioning in a similar
capacity as the traditional inyangamugayo, or community
elders respected for their integrity. Approximately 255,000 modern
inyangamugayo were elected in 2001 and were provided legal
training throughout the following year. Each community elected its
own inyangamugayo. According to the Ministry of Justice,
the community present in the colline[28] during the genocide
function as "witness, judge, and plaintiff."[29]
[31] As noted above, one of the significant departures
Gacaca makes from the formal system has to do with
sentencing. Both systems include reduced sentences for confessions
in all four categories, but Gacaca adds the possibility of
sentencing in the form of community service. Generally applicable
to half of the already reduced sentence, community service is a
viable alternative for those who seek public forgiveness. For
example, under the formal system a person found guilty of a
Category II crime might be sentenced to life in prison. If the
person confesses prior to indictment or in the early phases of the
trial, his/her prison sentence may be reduced to as little as seven
years. Under the Gacaca system the confession/reduction
structure is maintained, but it introduces an intentionally
restorative move by commuting half of the sentence into community
service.
[32] This move underscores two of the primary functions of the
Gacaca initiative: to alleviate the overwhelming strain on
the prison system and to promote reconciliation. The two functions
cannot be conceived independently since one of the obstacles to
reconciliation remains the conditions in the prisons as well as the
conditions that engendered the massive sweep of arrests and
indictments immediately following the genocide (i.e., arbitrary
arrests, lack of procedural justice, involvement of non-authorized
military personnel in incarceration). The conditions in the prison
have resulted in new accusations of human rights violations and
serve to further polarize the victims and the extended community of
the alleged perpetrators.While customary Gacaca does not
address prison sentencing, the modern version can be seen as
upholding the spirit of reconciliation Gacaca is intended
to promote. According to Stef Vandeginste the traditional sentence
had a double objective: "it should be a sanction that allows the
person concerned to understand better the gravity of the damage
caused, but atthe same time it should allow the same person to
reintegrate into the local community."[30] But is this spirit of
reconciliation enough to overcome the seemingly vast abyss which
separates the contexts in which customary and contemporary
Gacaca operate? Is it, in itself, enough to transform a
local, unregulated mechanism of conflict resolution into a codified
framework for national reconciliation?
[33] In the immediate aftermath of the genocide the government's
prioritizing of retributive justice suggested that this kind of
transformation was not possible. The pressure to end the culture of
impunity resulted in grandiose claims about the necessity of
retributive justice for the purpose of national reconciliation.
According to a 1996 sociological inquiry by the Institut de
Recherche Scientifique et Technologique this rhetoric was not
lost on the population. Vandeginste summarizes their findings as
follows:
… people generally
felt that genocide should not be dealt with by the Gacaca
but by the highest political authority, that is, the state (which,
in a system of separation of powers, should be understood as the
judiciary). Once guilt is established, it was felt that the killer
(or one of his family) should also be killed. This would enable
forgetting and forgiveness and lead to a reconciliation of the
families involved.[31]
[34] Drawing on more recent surveys, Uvin suggests that the
Rwandan population-Hutu and Tutsi-prefer the Gacaca
system: "While they do fear its potential excesses or abuses, they
also judge that under current conditions the Gacaca system
is superior to the continuation of the current formal justice
practice."[32] Reasons for this change
in public perception may be numerous, including the shift in
government strategy since 1997 and weariness with the inefficiency
of the formal justice system. The latter can be supported by the
tremendous disconnect many victims experience in relation to both
the national and international instruments of
justice.[33] Though many Rwandans
are unclear as to their precise role in the Gacaca trials,
there is recognition (or, perhaps, cautious optimism) that their
role will be greater in the Gacaca system than in the
current one. This recognition, or optimism, demonstrates that
despite its foibles, the state-mandated Gacaca system
presents justice in a more accessible medium and that accessibility
to structures of justice plays more than a peripheral role in how
individuals and communities evaluate the possibilities for
reconciliation within a given system.
IV. Analysis of Gacaca as a Viable Resource for
Reconciliation
[35] Customary and contemporary Gacaca differ in several
important ways. Critics, both sympathetic and cynical, highlight
the distinctions as a caution against a naïve and nostalgic
appropriation of the past. Citing the artificiality of
Gacaca's contemporary form, particularly the state's role
in its creation and enforcement, reports by groups like Amnesty
International raise questions about whether the differences between
its customary and contemporary forms "negate the anticipated
results: justice, the uncovering of truth and national
reconciliation."[34] Amnesty's critique
hinges on a conception of reconciliation that necessitates a
personal interaction between the perpetrator and the victim. In its
customary form Gacaca was capable of facilitating this
encounter. The community shared a moral framework in which
wholeness was privileged. Violations of another person's property,
body, etc. created a fracture in the community that needed to be
restored. The starting point for reflection was wholeness; the
correlate justice paradigm was restorative. Cooperation was
understood as the primary pattern of relationship not because it
sounded nice, but because it worked.
[36] But what happens when the starting point for reflection is one
of brokeness, alienation, and fracture? Is it possible to speak of
a coherent moral framework, let alone a notion of universal human
rights? Does reconciliation in this context resonate with any
substantive meaning?
[37] Answers to these questions are speculative in the early stages
of this radical experiment. Nonetheless, the various critiques
offered by human rights organizations, legal experts, and other
interested researchers provide a starting point for evaluating the
potential viability of the Gacaca system. A closer
examination of the critiques, which run throughout much of the
discourse, provides insight into the inevitable tension between the
external demands of the international human rights community and
the internal demands of the communities affected by the
genocide.
[38] The most prominent criticism is that Gacaca
compromises minimum fair trial standards as protected by state and
international laws. But much of the initial criticism is directed
at the human rights environment that gave rise to the prison
situation. In particular it emphasizes the role of the state in
fostering "an environment in which human rights violations are
endemic."[35] For instance, the
hyper-correction for the culture of impunity eroded the fundamental
presumption of innocence that underscores many Western and
international articulations of human rights. This, in turn,
resulted in many of the arbitrary arrests that have contributed
significantly to the overcrowded prison conditions. Compounded by
the lack of documentation in many of the cases, it would seem that
assurance of minimum fair trial standards was jeopardized from the
outset. This does not excuse the continued neglect of these
standards, however, it places the criticism within the larger
breakdown of justice.
[39] By functioning as a mandate of the state, Gacaca may
be perceived as yet another extension of the legacy of the state's
pervasive presence in Rwandan society. An inevitable paradox arose
when the state inserted itself into Gacaca. Indeed,
state-mandated Gacaca exists on some levels as an
oxymoron. The paradox is complicated by the continued complicity of
the state in human rights violations, especially its reluctance to
pursue all violators including members of its armed forces. Yet the
state is seen as the check against unfair applications of justice
that result when local communities function as sovereign
jurisdictions. The criticisms, then, reflect a kind of circularity
since any critique must simultaneously affirm the state's role in
upholding codified standards while calling into question its
ability to do so. In both moments the success of the
Gacaca in promoting community reconciliation is dependent
upon the reforms of the state. It is difficult to get around this
dependence upon the state, especially given the authority it has
possessed in the past. Civil society institutions are a relatively
new voice in Rwandan society. It will take time for these
institutions to establish themselves as viable contributors to a
culture of reconciliation in Rwanda. It will not only take time,
but considerable trust-building given the degree to which many of
the civil society institutions have been directly linked to past
regimes (i.e., the Roman Catholic Church).
[40] The paradox may not be immediately resolvable given the
current conditions in Rwanda. But my argument for a modest role for
Gacaca takes seriously the indirect impact of the project
often overlooked in critiques of its formal politico-legal
viability. Though established as a top-down state mandate, the
modern Gacaca system is inherently a grassroots movement.
The more than 9,000 cell-level courts and 255,000 elected judges
reflect a radical decentralization of power that cannot be
completely controlled by the state. This is both cause for concern
and hope. I err on the side of hope for the following reason: this
shift to decentralized power is taking place in an era of increased
access to media as well as in a politico-cultural context that has
explicitly expressed to its own citizens and the international
community its goal of reconciliation. There is a certain synergy of
accountability in that combination that may prove critical for
Rwanda's transition to an integrated society which is both just and
sustainable. Viewed through a particular lens of justice, there are
many holes in the Gacaca system. For example, there does
not exist protection against double jeopardy. Instead, if new
evidence arises an acquitted person can be tried again. But these
criticisms suggest an unfair burden on the Gacaca system.
Gacaca, in and of itself-nor any other judicial
alternative-is not capable of creating and sustaining a
comprehensive and cohesive system of perfect justice. What it may
be capable of is empowering a disenfranchised citizenry and
offering an institutional space in which alienated individuals and
groups can recognize a degree of interdependence. These are, if not
prerequisites, simultaneous demands of any transitional justice
enterprise.
[41] Perhaps this is the key recognition: Gacaca is a part
of a transitional justice enterprise. As such its primary goal
should be understood as establishing a culture committed to
reconciliation, and not necessarily achieving reconciliation.
Despite many of the criticisms, human rights groups and others have
remained cautiously optimistic about Gacaca. Whether out
of desperation or sincere belief that Gacaca represents a
viable building block for reconciliation and the construction of a
society respectful of human rights, significant energy is being
invested in this alternative. Peter Uvin's words poignantly
illumine the challenge: "Gacaca is a worthy gamble, but a
gamble nonetheless. It is simultaneously one of the best and one of
the most dangerous opportunities for justice and reconciliation in
Rwanda. But in a country like Rwanda there are no easy, cheap or
clean solutions."[36]
V. Rooting, Reforming, and Restoring
[42] The complexity of the task facing Rwanda demands a response
that draws on the resources of all spheres of society. Thus far,
attention has been focused on the formal avenues for social change,
in large part because this reflects the critical literature
available. Amnesty International's 51-page critical evaluation of
Gacaca is indicative of this trend. The majority of its
recommendations focus on the role the state can play, while only a
few, vague recommendations are made for the role civil society
might play. Furthermore, the relative silence of the religious
community, especially that of the Vatican, has given the impression
that the state is the primary, or at least a priori, locus
for reform. This kind of reductionism distorts the complex
interaction of spheres in Rwandan society, perpetuating the
abdication of responsibility on the part of religious communities
and other institutions capable of generating social capital.
[43] The conspicuous absence of any in-depth analysis of the
potential contribution of religious communities may be the product
of several factors, two of which are explored below: (1) the
complicated history of church-state relations in Rwanda; (2) a
general perception within the international community, particularly
among political analysts and human rights activists, that religion
generates rather than resolves conflict.
[44] In the hopes of re-casting these two factors as necessary for
the success of Gacaca as well as for the larger project of
national reconciliation, I would like to place them within a
particular methodological framework that emphasizes rooting,
reforming, and restoring.Rooting may be understood as: (1)
empowering local communities to be the primary space in which the
integrity of theories and policies is tested; (2) fostering direct
and meaningful communication between local community members and
various "outsiders" including: researchers, policy makers, and
organizers; (3) investing in the unique strengths of local
communities; and (4) encouraging creative problem-solving based on
an honest assessment of the community's strengths and needs in
relation to the strengths and needs of nearby (regional)
communities. This concept is consistent with attempts to develop
structures of justice which more accurately embody the
religio-cultural values of a community. Gacaca is a
tangible example of this kind of structure.[37]
[45] Juxtaposing the example of Gacaca and the ICTR
suggests a paradigm of complementarity necessitated by the
pervasive nature of the atrocities. The UN tribunals in dealing
with the suspected leaders cannot begin to address the devastating
fragmentation of relationships experienced among and between
community members. Retributive justice understood through the
mechanisms of international justice may only serve to assuage the
remorse of an international community apparently stunned by its
previous complacency. This may be important; it may provoke a
deeper analysis of the narcissism rampant in geo-political
gerrymandering which draws and re-draws lines in the sand according
to the economic and political needs of the powerful. However,
without the complement of Gacaca or another
community-based approach, the process will be stunted as
reactionary rather than reforming. Restoration of viable
relationships will be inconceivable because justice will remain
abstracted for those whose need for it is most urgent, such as Hutu
and Tutsi coexisting tenuously in the same village, each aware of
the other's complicity in the horror.
[46] The most immediate resources available to the Hutu and Tutsi
members of a community are not the United Nations Declaration of
Human Rights. The most immediate resources are the beliefs and
practices to which they turn for meaning even when their fractured
world defies intelligibility. Within the Rwandan context these
beliefs and practices are not monolithic, but the institution of
the Gacaca community trials can be seen on one level as
tacit acknowledgement that Gacaca embodies certain beliefs
integral to Hutu and Tutsi conceptions of the human and the human
relationship to society. In this way, Gacaca has become a
legitimate source despite criticisms of its practical
applicability. As a legitimate source it enters into the
negotiation with claims about universal human rights, and may
function as an agent of reform.[38]
[47] Scholars such as Hilary Charlesworth prioritize human rights
as the reforming agent, while at the same time attempting to
validate some space in which religious traditions can provide a
critical hermeneutic for evaluating human rights laws. Noting an
emphasis on duties and a breadth of concern beyond the civil and
political (e.g., social, economic, cultural), Charlesworth
acquiesces that "religious traditions have something to offer human
rights law."[39] The prevailing tone is
one of acquiescence, not one of mutual respect. And as long as that
tone is detectable, traditions which offer alternative religious or
secular conceptions of the human and of the world will have to
continually defend their right to not only be at the table, but to
offer a constructive voice to the conversation.
[48] A working definition of reforming-the second
component in the framework for authentic justice-can be distilled
from the above discussion: (1) creating space within existing
structures, institutions, relationships, etc. for possibilities
beyond the status quo; (2) linking criticism of current practices
with viable alternatives (coextensive); (3) identifying, and
responding to, the negative and positive impact of self-interest on
all relationships; (4) continually renegotiating relationship
networks to more accurately reflect the injustices being
experienced and the human rights being pursued.
[49] Finally, a commitment to restoring relationships-the
framework's third component-demands imagination, compassion, and
integrity within the negotiation of particular and universal claims
about human rights. Restoration of relationships is not
teleological in an ultimate sense because it is processive, yet it
animates the dialogue with hope for a new matrix of relationships
in which deeper and broader understandings of the complex
interdependence of universal human rights and religio-cultural
identities can germinate. This can never be the by-product solely
of a state-mandated justice system, no matter what form it takes.
The system may be a vehicle for compassion, practices of integrity,
and even imaginative reconstructions or reclamations of
relationships; but it will always be animated by people who embody
these virtues. It will be animated by the dynamic and synergetic
relationship of the various components of communal life which give
individuals identities. In a Rwandan society-defined by
fragmentation, mobility, eroding insularity, and
plurality-individual and communal identities will always be a
matrix of diverse values gleaned from multiple sources: family
traditions, religious commitments, experiences of injustice,
interpretations of the past, dynamic religious practices,
etc.
[50] This may be the greatest hope for a sustainable future in
which Hutu and Tutsi can peacefully co-exist on the same hill. From
this perspective ethnicity becomes a part, and not the whole, of
one's identity. This has always been the case for Rwandans, though
its history often masks this recognition. This side of the
genocide, Rwandans cannot afford not to recognize, affirm, and
assert the multiplicity of factors that distinguish them, one from
another. Gacaca may provide the legal space in which this
recognition can take place. But it will depend heavily on the
ability of a cadre of other social structures to animate the vision
of reconciliation to which Gacaca points. This article is,
in a sense, a call to Rwandans to turn towards the sources in their
midst which are capable of animating and sustaining a vision of
reconciliation.
[51] It is a call to revoke the legitimacy of some of these sources
and to lift up others that have been too-long overlooked. To this
end, I turn to the potential of religion as a constructive source
of value in post-genocide Rwanda.
VI. Religion as Resource[40]
[52] Some scholars have explored the powerful position of religion
in Rwanda's history, though it has tended to focus on Roman
Catholicism and its role as a state church. The seminal text,
Church and Revolution in Rwanda, written in the 1970s attempted to
understand the growth of the Catholic church against the backdrop
of a stratified society.[41] With
a conclusion that now appears tragically ironic given the
disturbing complicity of many Catholic priests, nuns, and lay
persons in the genocide, Linden states: "Its [the Church's] task
was now to transcend the regionalism and ethnic conflict that had
scarred Rwandan history."[42]
Saskia Van Hoyweghen, writing this side of the genocide, offers a
more pessimistic assessment of the Catholic church's potential for
being an agent of change and reconciliation. Van Hoyweghen, drawing
on much of Linden's early research regarding the interdependence of
Church and State in Rwanda, claims that it was the very
interdependence that has rendered it impotent in the modern crisis:
"The church was, like the modern state, introduced in Rwanda during
the colonial period, since when both institutions have been used by
indigenous groups as channels to power, prestige, and
wealth."[43] The interpenetration of
the Church and society has resulted in a Church that mirrors the
fragmentation of society. Van Hoyweghen lambastes scholars who have
"for too long been blinded by the extensive power of the Church,"
ignoring the "patchwork of so many different elements" it has
become.[44] Van Hoyweghen's
conclusion sounds like a death knoll for the Catholic Church in
Rwanda: "It is too discredited to retake the initiative and its
future will depend largely on the outcome of the current political
crisis, which is far from solved."[45]
[53] This assessment is sobering and may cause Rwandans to
reconsider turning towards the sources in their midst to buoy the
vision of reconciliation. But Van Hoyweghen is guilty of the same
narrowness of vision he attributes to other scholars. He is unable
to see that the plurality of "vernacular Christianity" may very
well be its hope. The vision of reconciliation which the Christian
tradition, at its best, expresses may only be accessible when the
church, like the state, is de-centered. The passive stance Van
Hoyweghen recommends acquiesces to the notion that the state is the
primary locus for reform. But, as noted above, this kind of
reductionism is both disingenuous and dangerous-from the
perspective of both human rights discourse and the communities
affected by the genocide.
[54] A true turn towards the sources in one's midst involves a
continual critical re-evaluation of those sources, recognizing the
way in which political realities often distort visions towards
self-interest. My argument here should not be seen as an apologia
for the Catholic Church, Christianity, or any other particularized
manifestation of a moral value system. Instead, it should be
recognized as a step towards reconciliation that must find a
foothold in already extant institutions, including the plurality of
religious practices in Rwanda. This is necessary because these
institutions have already played a role in shaping the identities
of Hutu and Tutsi as moral agents within Rwandan society. A
completely external framework, even one as noble as universal human
rights, cannot exist independent of this foothold. As religion and
human rights scholar, Abdullah An-Na'im correctly points out:
[I]t is reasonable to assume
that the prospects for practical implementation of a given regime
of human rights as a normative system are related to the degree of
its legitimacy in the context of the culture(s) where it is
supposed to be interpreted and implemented in practice. Otherwise,
how can a people be expected to accept and effectively implement a
system that they believe to be inconsistent with their own cultural
values and institutions?[46]
There are many who do not share Van Hoyweghen's nihilist
conclusion. Indeed, there are many church leaders throughout Africa
who recognize in the current moment the vital role the church can
play in effecting social change. These leaders are driven by a
passion for justice they find rooted in their own sacred texts and
traditions. There is hope in this. Though it is a cautious hope,
continually aware of how quickly value systems can be co-opted by
those in power. The words of Peter Lwaminda, Secretary-General of
the Association of Member Episcopal Conferences in Eastern Africa
(AMECEA) seem a fitting conclusion:
Today, all of Africa is in
flux. Change is all around us, some of it for the good and much of
it, unfortunately, for the worse. Caught up in this fresh wind of
change, Africa in the 1990s is experiencing a "second
independence." This move towards multiparty competition, respect
for a free press and the hope of protection and promotion of human
rights, calls for "a new moral culture of responsibility and a new
political and economic culture of accountability and transparency."
… the churches have now, in spite of an initial timidity and
hesitation, powerfully and courageously involved themselves in the
political and social interactions of the continent.[47]
This kind of commitment challenges the international human
rights community to take seriously the constructive role religious
communities and institutions can play in restoring justice in
transitional societies. With respect for the morally formative
tradition of proverbial speech in many African societies, I echo
Lwaminda's assessment: "The pangs of childbirth are much better
than the stability of the graveyard."[48]
© March 2004
Journal of Lutheran Ethics (JLE)
Volume 4, Issue 3
[1] The rise of moderate opposition
parties within Rwanda comprised a significant threat to the
Habyarimana regime, particularly when they joined together to
promote a power-sharing government which included the
Tutsi-dominated Rwandan Patriotic Front. Habyarimana's signing of
the Arusha Peace Accords in 1993, designed to effectively end the
civil war between the RPF and the FAR and initiate a power-sharing
government, though never fully realized, was seen as a betrayal by
many Hutu power brokers who had the most to lose as a result of the
accords. Against this background, the rallying cry of Hutu power
raised in the aftermath of Habyarimana's plane crash reflects
opportunism on the part of Hutu extremists rather than a genuine
solidarity with a Habyarimana regime increasingly seen as
acquiescing to external and internal pressures for an integrated
government.
[2] It is important to set the
seemingly moderate moves of Habyarimana in his final two years
against the background of his regime, which for years had fomented
violence against Tutsi. The civil war with the RPF, which began in
1990, was construed in almost exclusively ethnic language. The
arrest and violation of Tutsi civilians was justified throughout
the civil war as protection against the return of the Tutsi
monarchy: "From the beginning, frequent massacres of Tutsi were
committed by the army, the presidential guards, and the new militia
(Reijntjens 1994:117). Thousands of Tutsi were killed between 1990
and 1993, often by 'mobs' directed by local authorities, national
politicians, and the police. … They successfully sought to
spread ethnic fear throughout society; to organize, legitimize, and
routinize the forces of violence and genocide; and to desensitize
people to violence. Through actions and words, these processes
contributed to the dehumanization of the Tutsi, and authorized and
routinized the use of violence against them." Peter Uvin,
Development, Aid and Conflict: Reflections from the Case of Rwanda
(Helsinki: UNU/WIDER, 1996), 32.
[3] Ibid., 32.
[4] The current legal instruments
designed to deal with perpetrators of the genocide already reflect
this distinction. The ICTR and the state judicial system are
responsible for prosecuting Category I suspects as defined by the
Organic Law. The Gacaca, on the other hand, are equipped to deal
with perpetrators of homicide, theft, assault, property damage, and
other crimes not categorized as a "crime against humanity." See the
discussion below for a more detailed analysis of the four
categories. Given the marginalized status of women in Rwandan
society, it is remarkable to note that rape has been classified as
a crime against humanity and thus subject to Category I
jurisdiction.
[5] The "Ten Commandments of the Hutu"
was published by CDR member, Hasan Ngeze in Kangura, his monthly
publication and included phrases such as: "a traitor is any Hutu
who marries a Tutsi woman, (1)"; "the Hutu must stop feeling pity
for the Tutsi, (8)"; "Every Hutu must know that a every Tutsi is
dishonest in business. He aims only at the supremacy of his
ethnicity, (4)"; and "The Hutu must be firm and vigilant in their
enmity against their common Tutsi enemy, (9)." Paul J. Magnarella,
"Comprehending Genocide: The Case of Rwanda," Global Bioethics,
v.13, no. 1-2 (March-June 2000), 34-35.
[6] Magnarella, 30.
[7] See Magnarella, 28 for two examples
of Rwanda creation myths.
[8] J.J. Maquet, an anthropologist
writing in the 1950s suggests that creation myths and folktales
emphasized the essential differences between the three peoples,
identifying the Tutsi as "intelligent (in the sense of political
intrigues), apt to command, refined, courageous, and cruel," the
Hutu as "hard-working, not very clever, extrovert, irascible,
unmannerly, obedient, physically strong," and the Twa as
"gluttonous, loyal to their Batutsi masters, lazy, courageous when
hunting, lacking in restraint." J.J. Maquet, "The Kingdom of God in
Ruanda," in African Worlds, ed. D. Forde (London: Oxford University
Press, 1954), 185. asserts that all Banyarwanda peoples believed
these qualities and the consequent social order to be innate,
however he rightly recognizes that these myths and folktales
conveniently reflect the Tutsi (ruling class at the time) point of
view: "[I]t appears that the superior caste has been able to make
other people see themselves in important respects as Batutsi see
them." Ibid., 185.
[9] Gerard Prunier, The Rwanda Crisis
(London: Hurst and Co., 1997), 9.
[10] For a fuller history of the
identity card system see Magnarella, 31.
[11] Legal and political dimensions of
the ideological social ordering existed prior to colonization,
particularly in laws dealing with crimes committed across groups,
i.e., it was illegal for a Hutu to steal cattle from a Tutsi, but a
Tutsi could expropriate cattle from a Hutu at will. Magnarella, 27
-8. Legitimation by a party external to the Rwandan social order
reinforced and further entrenched collective conceptions of
inferiority. As Gerard Prunier states: "In 1959 the red seal of
blood put a final label of historical unavoidability on this
mythological construction, which from then on became a real
historical framework." Gerard Prunier, The Rwanda Crisis: History
of a Genocide (New York: Columbia Press, 1995), xiii.
[12] Uvin, Development, Aid and
Conflict, 10.
[13] Magnarella, 30. This was in large
part due to the Belgians initial replacement policy that
intentionally substituted Tutsi leaders into positions previously
occupied by Hutu.
[14] Ibid., 32.
[15] Philip Gourevitch, We Wish to
Inform You that Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families (New
York: Farrar Straus and Giroux, 1998), 58.
[16] Uvin, Development, Aid and
Conflict, 10.
[17] Ibid.
[18] "Fell out of favor" is an
unfortunate euphemism given the consequences many suffered as a
result of this change in power. Members of Kayibanda's regime,
including Kayibanda himself, were killed by Habyarimana's security
forces.
[19] Uvin, Development, Aid and
Conflict, 8.
[20] Magnarella, 32.
[21] Prunier, The Rwanda Crisis,
56
[22] Magnarella, 33.
[23] The scope of the paper does not
allow for a critical analysis of the causes of these problems, but
only to highlight the role of drought, soil-erosion, and the crash
of the global coffee market as factors contributing to the mobility
between regions as well as towards urban centers.
[24] Despite this rhetoric violence
and impunity continued to predominate in the aftermath of the
genocide. Human rights violations by the RPF/RPA have been a
persistent target for human rights criticism and threaten to
undermine the integrity of all levels of the post-genocide judicial
response.
[25] Official Gazette of the Republic
of Rwanda 40, no. 6, March 15, 2001.
[26] The ICTR exists, in many ways
independent of the formal domestic and Gacaca systems, particularly
with regards to fiscal agent and monitoring. Its domain is limited
to Category I suspects, though its work does not exhaust this
category. Rwanda's formal judicial system as well as various other
international mechanisms has been employed to prosecute other
Category I suspects. The latter, though not frequently activated,
includes the rights of other nations to employ a direct exercise of
universal jurisdiction. Rwanda is a signatory to the 1948 Genocide
Convention, but until recently had failed to attend to Article 5:
"The Contracting Parties undertake to enact, in accordance with
their respective Constitutions, the necessary legislation to give
effect to the provisions of the present Convention, and, in
particular to provide effective penalties for persons guilty of
genocide or any of the other acts enumerated in Article 3." qtd. in
Stef Vandeginste, "Rwanda: Dealing with Genocide and Crimes against
Humanity in the Context of Armed Conflict and Failed Political
Transition," Burying the Past: Making Peace and Doing Justice after
Civil Conflict, ed. Nigel Biggar (Washington, D.C.: Georgetown
University Press, 2001), 249; footnote 30.
[27] According to Uvin, Category II
crimes constituted 80% of the cases in the traditional gacaca
system. However, indications within the Amnesty report, "Gacaca: A
Question of Justice," suggest that gacaca was primarily concerned
with things such as: land rights, property damage, marital
disputes, inheritance rights, and other non-capital offenses. This
discrepancy may illumine the differing degrees of optimism various
interpreters express regarding the viability of gacaca to address
the seriousness of genocide crimes.
[28] A colline is the local community
as defined by its shared geographic spaces, often cases a distinct
hill in Rwanda, "land of a thousand hills."
[29] qtd. in "Gacaca courts in
Rwanda," Penal Reform International, 1 December 2003.
[30] Vandeginste, 239.
[31] Ibid., 239.
[32] Peter Uvin, Case Study: The
Gacaca Tribunals in Rwanda,
http://www.idea.int/publications/reconciliation/upload/reconciliation_chap07cs-rwanda.pdf,
1 December 2003 p. 119.
[33] A U.S.-funded NGO, Internews,
which has been one of the few media covering the ICTR in Arusha,
has begun travelling around Rwanda to bring news of the ICTR
hearings into local communities. Equipped with a video-smart van,
Internews has shown footage of the hearings to informal groups of
Rwandans. Internews then facilitates a follow-up discussion with
those gathered around the van about issues related to the trials
and national reconciliation. For most Rwandans this represents
their first encounter with the workings of the ICTR.
[34] "Gacaca: A Question of Justice,"
Rwanda, Amnesty International: December 2002 (AI Index: AFR
47/007/2002), 21.
[35] "Gacaca: A Question of Justice,"
44.
[36] Uvin, Case Study, 121.
[37] It is important to note that
those working at the intersection of law and religion, such as
Harold Berman, have established the historical roots of Western law
in a specific trajectory of Christian tradition. Understanding the
development of Western legal systems, and consequently human rights
discourse, in terms of their relationship to a specific religious
worldview--including the social and political theories predicated
on, and mutually reinforcing of, Western religio-philosophical
values and shared historical experiences-- provokes a legitimate
demand that the necessity of this relationship be acknowledged in
non-Western societies. That is to say, as attempts are made to
globalize human rights discourse, societies which do not privilege
Western religious and legal narratives demand equal (perhaps even
reparative) time and space in which to articulate their own history
of the relationship between religiously-informed worldviews and the
legal structures which have emerged from them. Without this part of
the conversation, human rights discourse will continue to function
as colonizing.
[38] This seemingly one-sided
appraisal of Gacaca as a reforming agent for universal human rights
claims does not suggest that Gacaca is not simultaneously reformed
by its interaction with universal human rights claims. The process
in its ideal form is one of mutuality. However, the mechanisms for
articulating human rights critiques of community-based initiatives
or other culturally-specific conceptions of justice are already in
place and have established reputations which afford them a
privileged position in the conversation. For example, Amnesty
International and other human rights watchdogs maintain a powerbase
and resources capable of exerting tremendous influence through
reports critical of alternative initiatives such as Gacaca. Again,
the value of these mechanisms is not being called into question,
rather the necessary role that alternative articulations of human
rights and the structures in which these alternatives are manifest
is being emphasized as counter-balance.
[39] Hilary Charlesworth, "The
Challenge of Human Rights Law for Religious Traditions," Religion
and International Law, eds., Mark Janis and Carolyn Evans (Martinus
Nijhoff: Boston, N/A), 410.
[40] Due to the limited availability
of sources dealing with other religious traditions and the
predominance of Catholicism in the past century of Rwanda's
history, this section will focus primarily on the Roman Catholic
Church. It should be noted, however, that my knowledge of the Roman
Catholic Church is inadequate to the task of a full exploration of
its potential as a source of social capital in Rwanda. In
particular, the following analysis treats reconciliation only
superficially as a theme common to many Christian traditions. It
does not explore the many ways this has been interpreted throughout
Christian tradition. If time and space permitted I would have liked
to engage a fuller analysis of this tradition, especially its
relation to the conceptual framework of forgiveness which was taken
up in the Gacaca legislation.
[41] Ian Linden, Church and Revolution
in Rwanda (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1977), 8.
[42] Ibid., 286.
[43] Saskia Van Hoyweghen, "The
Disintegration of the Catholic Church of Rwanda: A Study of the
Fragmentation of Political and Religious Authority," African
Affairs vol. 95 (1996), 400.
[44] Ibid., 401.
[45] Ibid.
[46] Abdullahi Ahmed An-Na'im, "State
Responsibility Under International Human Rights Law to Change
Religious and Customary Laws." in Human Rights of Women: National
and International Perspectives. Rebecca J. Cook, ed. Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 1994, 171.
[47] Ibid., xiv.
[48] Ibid., xiv.