You Cannot Run From Demons, They Know Just Where You Are.

I was going to write this post about clinical, but it’s just been too much, so I will try another time when I am less, everything.  Now that I am sitting here in blog mode, I want to write about something else.   Prisoners.

I’ve been told that 99% of the people in prison in this country are genocidières, and would not question that statistic for one second.  I first saw prisoners in March in my earliest days at the hospital in Butare.  They filled the tuberculosis ward, as is so often the case around the world.  Prisoners here can be identified by matching shirt and short of pink or orange.  The difference in colour has meaning, with those in pink currently serving their time, and those in orange boasting beginning privileges, soon (that is relative, by the way) to be reintegrated into society.  I recently found out that those convicted are forced to enter the prison not of their hometown, but of the region where they committed the crime.  Interesting. 

Post genocide, the new government was overloaded with rightful cries demanding justice for killers.  Accused and accusers were everywhere, filling the tiny country as well as those bordering.  I can’t even imagine the magnitude of the problem facing the justice system.  So, the resourceful country that it is, Rwanda implemented Gacaca (pronounced Ga-ka-cha) courts.  They were originally used prior to independence, and these courts allow locals to be the judge and jury of the accused.  A person would be outed as a killer, and given the opportunity to stand trial before their community.  Community members were voted into jury-like positions, and cases were made.  Those who confessed their murders were often given a lesser sentence, and sometimes even forgiven by the people they wronged, whereas those who made excuses or denied the claims were sent to jail if proven guilty.   This amazes me.  Mostly because I can’t fathom a people strong enough to be able to look their family’s, friend’s, and lover’s killers in the eyes, hear him or her detail their horrific deed, and then forgive them, or even consider giving them a lesser sentence.  Every time I think about it I get a swell of something like pride and awe.  The people of Rwanda could have damned them all to a life of lockdown and misery, but they chose to allow them to return and live in the villages and cities where they destroyed so much. This system is exactly what the country needed, allowing the genocidières to have to answer to the people they terrorized.  And what’s more, is that the grace of forgiveness given to those who admitted their crimes is more powerful than any prison sentence.  For those that were given the freedom to return to their villages, they are now forced to look into the eyes of the people they haunt, and live with that everyday.  Which of course is the point of sending prisoners to the places where they were involved in massacre, along with the satisfaction of families being able to see that their nightmare is in jail.  I am stunned by the brilliance of the Gacaca system.

There is great debate about what I am going to say next.  In my heart, I have no hate for the men and women of Rwanda that killed during the genocide.  I don’t believe that the genocide was their fault.  I believe that any other people in the same circumstances would have acted in much the same way.  And I believe that upon asking forgiveness, they deserve it.

There have been countless studies done related to the Rwandan genocide and the psychology related to the frenzied killing that took place and the mass-murder mindset.  The people who committed genocide spent their entire lives in a country filled with propaganda, constantly told to hate, constantly divided.  There is so much more at play than we understand when discussing the genocide than just Rwandan people becoming savages overnight. And yet, it’s hard to know where to draw the line.  I asked my friend about what he thought – having lived through the experience – and this is what he said: “People high up pushed ideologies for their own interests, and they are to blame.  But, there has to be a limit, where people’s own conscious comes. That’s why we are human, we know something is good, or something is bad. So they are also to blame."

If I am being honest, after having read many of these studies and books, and talking to prisoners, I feel bad for those who committed genocide.  There is the voice in my head that tells me that I can’t sympathize with the killers too much, or I risk losing sympathy for the killed.  But I guess I see both sides. Yes, these men and women did evil things, acts that the most terrible corner of my mind can’t even understand, and I probably wouldn’t be saying this had I been there.  But from where I am standing, the everyday men and women of Rwanda that participated in the genocide were also victims, and they will suffer the memory of their sins until their dying day.  Their lives were not taken, but their hearts, spirits, and souls are forever guilty, and that might just be worse.

Long story short, I have nothing but love for the prisoners that we treat in the hospital, and look at them with respect – like every other person, rather than the hostility and hate they are so accustomed to.

This week in clinical, I was at the Rwamagana hospital, which is home to one of the largest prisons in the country. Consequently, the hospital had a unit (tent form, they do not warrant their own building) devoted to male prisoner patients.  I spent most of my time here, much to the dismay of my touring clinical instructor.  The students went around the 20-or-so-bed room and presented each patient, their name, age, and medical diagnosis.  Following that I was expected to either ask the students questions about their care, or leave promptly.  Clearly, I did neither.

I chose the bed of the sickest man in the room, dying of advanced COPD (respiratory disease), sat down with him and held his hand.  I asked him if it was okay if I assess him and look at his charts.  He said yes.  I began to ask him questions – how is he feeling, how he finds the treatment approach is working, what he thinks we might be able to do to make him more comfortable.  He answered, and we listened (we being myself and the student who translated).  The student informed me that he was given what can only be described as completely irrelevant IV drugs, and when he was in acute and severe respiratory distress, he was taken to emergency.  All of this rather than treating him properly to begin with.  This grew into a lengthily conversation with the entire room about the conditions of the prison.  I wanted to know how many men were there, how many men in one room, where they slept, ate, and bathed, what food and water they received, what health care treatment they were entitled to, as well as what prison life is like – what they do on a day to day basis, how they buy things, what privileges they have, and whether or not they get to see their families.  All of the men in the room had something to say. 

I asked them how long they have been in prison, how long they will be in prison, and if they still have family to go home to.  I asked them if they feel their sentences are fair, and if they feel they are being treated fairly now that they are here.  I asked them how it feels to be living in the villages where they were apart of the slaughter.  I asked them how they feel, wearing those isolating colours.  I asked them every question that they probably have never been asked before.  The only question I didn’t raise was the one that they have been asked.

As I left the tent, I held my right forearm as I shook each of their hands.  When you do this in Rwanda, it means that you respect the person whose hand you are shaking.  The tent went totally silent.  Most people would say that I should not respect these men, and they might be right.  But I couldn’t help but feel so privileged to have been able to talk to them, to be accepted among these men as a complete outsider, one who admittedly had no idea what their life was like, how they got there or where they were going.  They talked to me.  We both knew what we were talking about – genocide – and we both knew they were guilty. And they still talked to me.  A young, white, privileged female foreigner who doesn’t know shit from shinola. For them to allow me into the parts of their lives where they are the most vulnerable, most ashamed, and most hated for, well, I just, I am so thankful.  Letting someone in like that – what they did – that deserves respect.