“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.”—Mahatma Ghandi
On Tuesday morning, we attend a live Gacaca court trial a half-hour drive from Kigali. Pronounced “ga-cha-cha,” this community-based court system translates loosely into English as “justice on the grass.” Before the trial, we attend a briefing session on the Gacaca system by Dennis Bikesha, the Director for Gacaca Training and Coordination in Kigali. Dennis tells us that the purpose of the Gacaca court is to try the category two and three offenses of murder, bodily injury, and property damage that occurred during the 1994 genocide. Those accused of category one crimes, which include planning and organizing the genocide and rape, or ordering rape, are tried elsewhere.
Prior to the genocide, the Gacaca system of justice was used only for family disputes. It has been modified due to the need to bring to justice the more than 100,000 prisoners that, as of 2000, clogged the traditional courts and prisons. Our interpreter notes, “Without Gacaca courts, it would take over one hundred years to try all of our prisoners.”
To expedite justice, there are now 12,103 Gacaca courts and close to 170,000 judges, all elected by their community. For prisoners to be released or mandated to community service plus prison time, they must admit guilt, show remorse, ask for forgiveness, and demonstrate that they regret their actions. Asking for forgiveness and showing genuine remorse are the foundations of the Gacaca system.
The trial we witness is category two. The prisoner is accused of killing at the roadblocks and ordering the removal of dead bodies during the genocide. The trial begins with a moment of silence. We are outdoors observing grass roots justice that is literally on the grass. Our courthouse has no walls, just low wooden benches for witnesses from the community, a table in the front where the judges sit, and plastic chairs lined up in a row and off to the side that afford our group a bird’s eye view of the proceedings. We are less than fifteen feet away from the accused. Presiding over the court, as judges, are four women. Each wears a blue, yellow, and green sash on which is written the word “Inyangamugayo,” which means “those who hate evil.”
One of the ironies of post-genocidal Rwanda is that many more women now hold positions of power and authority. In part, necessity as the mother of invention gets the credit. With many men dead or relocated, women had little choice but to get on with things and do what was previously considered man’s work. This might be supporting the family, roofing the house, becoming a judge, or entering parliament. Both the head of the Rwandan Supreme Court and the Minister of Justice are women, and women make up 49 percent of parliament here. This is the highest percentage of female parliamentarians in any country today.
After our moment of silence, a judge reads the rules of the court: No interruptions, no verbal abuse, no one person is allowed to dominate the discussion, and witnesses must raise their hands and be called upon before speaking. To my surprise, these rules are followed to the letter. At no time does anyone on the judging panel need to bang a gavel or call order. Some witnesses are so soft-spoken, our interpreter strains to hear them.
The accused is six feet tall, bald, and wearing a shiny watch and hiking boots. He is also wearing the pale pink uniform of a Rwandan prisoner. Our interpreter says that the color pink has no meaning here, but its softness clashes with the prisoner’s demeanor. A witness from the community bench requests that the prisoner “stop glaring at us” as the questioning begins.
The prisoner is accused of being a policeman who participated in killing at the roadblocks, killed a family, and ordered those under him to pile dead bodies on to a truck for removal. He denies all charges.
