Following is a continuation of the July Full Moon post about my first class at the University of the Western Cape in 2004. Special thanks to Leon Mugabe of the Kigali Institute for Education for his assistance with these edits. This was intended to be the December Full Moon post and due to technical difficulties is a bit late…the first part of the Memory & Vision excerpt is at:
July Full Moon
In the class are two men from Rwanda. One is round and jovial, with a prominent scar across his chin where he was gashed by a machete during the 1994 holocaust. For over a year, he has been away from his wife and infant daughter still in Kigali. Like many displaced African people, he manages to maintain an air of optimism despite his extended separation. The other student from Rwanda is thin and quiet, his language and social skills poor. I wonder how he’s made it into a master’s program in English. For their play assignment, both men choose to write about Rwanda’s tragic civil war culminated by the genocide perpetrated against the Tutsis.
At the beginning of the semester, before the play submissions are due, I evaluate my students’ writing proficiencies with a short assignment. My awkward, subdued student hands in an obviously plagiarized paper. After uttering fewer than two sentences in the entire class, he submits a very sophisticated essay about South African theater after the democratic elections. I am in a dilemma. It is my first semester teaching in a foreign country, and I’m faced with what is a difficult situation for any instructor. I defer to my department chair, a deeply caring professor who tutors the student into producing, albeit badly written, an original essay. I appreciate my chair’s compassion. Neither of us wants this young man to fail.
When the student in question presents his script at our final readings, it is poignantly clear how theater allows us to express our deepest selves. His play begins very much like feuding Montagues and Capulets except that we hear Hutus and Tutsis in a raging argument in the village center. This writing is most certainly original. It is his voice we have not heard all semester surfacing though a horrific story. The final moments of the script again take place in the village center. We sit riveted as several characters confess their war crimes in haunting litanies:
“My name is Kamana of the family of Muzindutsi, I am a Hutu from the tribe of Abazigaba and I am guilty of committing these crimes: the rape of Nzamukosha, the young daughter of Mutunzi that I killed a few hours before; the murder of Kalimunda’s entire family, I played a big role in the mutilation of Mushumba and his wife who were our immediate neighbors. For all these innocent persons I killed and mutilated, I ask forgiveness to the survivors of their families; to the Tutsi group members who used to live on this hill; to all Rwandese and to the country as a whole.”
Over and over, as the fictionalized names change, the actors describe atrocities, express guilt, make pleas for forgiveness. The intensity gives us just a glimpse of what this introverted, almost invisible man has experienced. What he has endured is almost too difficult for us to hear.
His compatriot writes a compelling play with a long academic title more suitable for an essay than a drama. In the talkback after his reading, I question one of the most provocative lines.
“In your script you quote a statistic ‘one million people dying violently in a hundred days.’ Is that accurate?”
“That was the death toll in my country.”
“Then that is your title, One Million People in One Hundred Days.”
In teaching Memory & Vision, I practice applying creativity to constructing a new society. I recognize how making theater can support the process of transformation. I realize that people can write insightful, expressive plays if you don’t tell them that playwriting is difficult. I’m eager to share what I know about Art and Theater and Life in this foreign and familiar country. I am grateful that my students are my teachers.