Stomach rumblings tore Nyamuragi straight out of his soliloquy. He is trying to find some way to relieve them, right now. To tell the truth, he doesn’t like it when it is shouting down there, deep down inside of him… that promises some hard hygienic work. And hunger, of course.
Nyamurangi the Mute admits that he had drunk too much water this morning, that’s why it was churning away under his jacket, furiously and chaotically.
Impossible to relax beside the stream; it’s a public place. But his intestines are seething. He has to do it quickly! Where should he go to do it? To relieve himself? If only he was on the other side of the hill, near his own place.
The call of his stomach made itself felt more insistently. His look became more imploring: some place! Just a little one! The urgency of his need deforms his facial features. In a single bound, he flings himself at young Kigeme, just as she was putting the 10 litre can onto her head to carry it home – Kigeme, who sees this constantly silent and solitary man smash into her.
Into the young girl’s memory, images of her friend raped a few weeks ago instantly surge. She had spoken to her about this fixed, flaming look, this furrowed forehead, these hands which are laid onto you without warning, with violence and envy… Her friend had told her her to scream if she was assaulted.
As for her, she is fourteen, twelve years fewer than Nyamuragi. She drops the can from her head, so she can struggle, compulsively pressing her dress to herself, a huddling, fearful, frightened little girl, lost. She struggles, while this is all surging through her head. She resists this imperious grasp pulling her away from the stream to impel her who knows where…
“Ni ibiki?” “What is it?” she asks. She sees the mute holding his crutch, hears the rumbling with gusto…
And suddenly, in the silence of this morning stained by the struggle, the cry goes out, strident, high and stamped with such fright: “Mfasha!” “Help me!”
Not long we had an incident of mob violence in Greece, now here is another lynching in Burundi.
Burundi is in some ways almost a twin of Rwanda, whose situation is much better known. Both were Belgian colonies, had a population divided into Hutu and Tutsi, and Burundi’s language Kirundi is very close to Rwanda’s Kinyarwanda. In fact, the 1994 plane crash that killed Rwanda’s president, marking the start of the genocide there, also killed Burundi’s president and led to similar strife there.
Baho! itself is a ‘Greek tragedy’. A mute shepherd, Nyamuragi, suddenly needs to go to the toilet. He signs (rather graphically) to a young girl, Kigeme, to lead him to the nearest place for him to go. But the society has been so traumatised by violence, both against women (there has been a series of rapes) and in general, that any innocent act risks being misunderstood. The girl cries out for help, and Nyamuragi runs away, which ‘proves’ his guilt in the eyes of the community. A lynch mob follows and captures him. Hauled before a kangaroo court, Nyamuragi ends up condemning himself, or being condemned by language – he wanted to say ‘ego’ (’yes’) but could only pronounce ‘ejo’ (’tomorrow/yesterday’ – interesting that Kirundi uses the same word for both, like Hindi for example, and the Burundians apparently have a similar concept of the circularity of time to the Hindus). He is so traumatised and alienated that he doesn’t care enough to explain himself to others, even if he could, or even to save himself.
The novel well captures the fright of ‘the other’ that can lead to genocide, racism, or at least injustice from misunderstanding or just distancing. Nyamuragi himself has had both his parents massacred when he was 14, and he finally becomes mute (although he never really wanted to speak), having lost all faith in humanity.
It would be nice to be able to say that the men ‘defending’ Kigeme were trying to protect her, but they seem to see the issue as more of a property crime – women being the property. It is actually not a fair world for women – those who speak up are abused by the men.
If there is a glimmer of hope, it is that those in the silent majority may act against the preachers of hate.
The book is sprinkled with bits of Kirundi, which looks like a lovely language – I just wish they were translated! – and some great proverbs.
This is a short but powerful and thought-provoking novel from a small country that has itself gone through so much violence and vitriol. Although the writing is sometimes a bit unpolished, on the whole it is very thought-provoking. At the time I was reading this novel, the ‘Me Too’ movement was big in the news. Since I read it, it has been translated into English. It deserves a much wider readership!
RUGERO, Roland (1986 – ): Baho!, La Roque d’Anthéron, Vents d’ailleurs, 2012, ISBN 978-2-911412-99-8
Is murder unforgivable because the only person from whom rightful forgiveness could come is no longer there?
In 1994 I went on holiday in South America. I was totally shocked that in the short time I was away, up to a million people were massacred in an intentional genocide in faraway Rwanda. I still suffer a strange feeling of guilt over that.
This novel is the story of two characters struggling to deal with the trauma from that time. The young woman, Isaro, had to flee the country for France after her parents were murdered. She comes up with the ‘modest’ research project of interviewing all the survivors and putting their stories into one book. What she does come up with is a novel, which centres on the other main character, Niko – we don’t find out that he is only her creation until right at the end. Niko is a sociopath and a mute, who has banished himself to a nose-shaped island in a lake, populated by monkeys. While he was not popular, he was a peaceful blacksmith until the day the genocidal army came and he is forced to club to death another man who may – or may not- be his own father, or else both of them will be shot; and he must decide whether to die or become a murderer in a split second. He chooses to kill and to live, and becomes the enthusiastic leader of a band of thugs.
I would have loved to have had the inexplicable explained – that is, why the genocide happened and how apparently normal decent human beings could carry out such heartless brutality on those they had lived with peacefully. I didn’t feel that I did get it. Maybe it’s some disease of collective madness that infects a group. Before we look down on the Rwandans – or Germans – or Turks – or anyone else collectively, we need to remember that few of our countries or peoples haven’t committed injustices to others (certainly my country has); and if as individuals we are sure that we would never commit such atrocities – well, can anyone who hasn’t been guilty of cruelty to a cockroach, for example, ever be certain of that? All of us are guilty if we knew what was happening in a ‘faraway African country’ and didn’t care.
Nowadays, Rwanda is doing quite well economically, and is even very progressive in some respects (banning plastic bags and percentage of women in parliament). An astonishing number of victims have even forgiven their tormentors. It has come at the price of putting a blanket over much of what happened. Nowadays, officially, people can’t call themselves Tutsi or Hutu.
I can’t imagine what it must be like every day to see someone who murdered the whole rest of your family walking the streets. I can’t blame any country for deciding that, when a choice has to be made, reconciliation or at least peace is preferable to justice, but I wish we could have both – not only due process for those who ordered the crimes, but also for the torturers, the people with the machetes, and the bureaucrats.
GATORE, Gilbert (1981 – ),The Past Ahead, translated from French by Marjolijn de Jager, Global African Voices, Bloomington & Indianapolis, Indiana University Press, 2012, ISBN 9780253006660
(Originally published as Le passé devant soi, Paris, Editions Phébus, 2008)