genocidaires in my midst

i have, living with me, in my ‘staff quarters’, a man in his 60s and works in the garden. he is blessed with enormous hands, and bears the hallmark sign of a life of poverty – wide, flat and calloused feet. his presence is the by-product of the rental agreement that i share with the owners of the house, self-exiled Rwandans living in Belgium. he is to act as their eyes and ears, while i am to pay his monthly salary.

i was told that “he will cause no problems. he is quiet and respectful and will take care of you!” being “taken care of!” is a cultural imperative in Rwanda, where women alone are a source of concern. so he is my keeper, and when Rwandan men figure out i am here alone, i tell them that “actually, i have someone.”

i speak a little bit of Kinyarwanda, and he speaks no French or English. every morning, when i come into the kitchen for coffee, he is watering the rose bed in the back garden. he says. “bonne nuit madamu” (he says this to me whether it is morning or evening; every exchange we have includes his wishing me “bonne nuit”). there is always a lot of laughing, smiling and holding of hands. he jabbers in Kinyarwanda, and i jibber in English. holding hands is a cultural display of friendship in Rwanda. there is none of the clicking of the tongue or sucking of the teeth that i have come to understand as a sound of worry or concern about a topic of conversation. in conversation with other Rwandans, there is always much sucking and clicking when the health of president Paul Kagame is under discussion, or when we talk about the genocide. but not with him; he talks and laughs openly.

because of the rapport we share, i thought it would be wise to ask him to participate in my research. he readily agreed and we have spent about 15 hours together in formal interview in addition to the time we share together as ‘housemates’ or ‘employer/employee’. but my feelings have changed. he told me last week that he committed acts of genocide, and that he has passed through the gacaca process.

from a research point of view, he is a gem of a participant. but he lives in my home, i share my private space with him. why does his participation in genocide concern me so? what does it mean that i can recoil like this? i mean, i’m a Canadian who is sheltered in every possible way from the horrors of genocide. i experience genocide and its aftermath by choice. but knowing now the intimate details of how and who he killed, i feel differently. if i can’t cope, as far removed as i am from the actual nitty-gritty of the 1994 genocide, where is the objectivity, or it that my research is nothing but subjective and i’d be better off engaging it as such?