Rwanda Genocide Stories: Fiction after 1994 by Nicki Hitchcott (review)

Can the Rwandan genocide be fictionalized and, if so, how, by whom, and at what price? These are some of the questions posed by this fascinating book. The genocide was first ignored, then misrepresented by the media, and, finally, simplified by the post-1994 Rwandan government, determined as it was to maintain a monolithic version of the facts. In this context, fiction has a role to play and, although it cannot claim absolute truth, it can contribute to a more ethically responsible understanding of the Rwandan tragedy. What we know about this event depends, ultimately, on the geographical, cultural, ethnic, and linguistic factors underpinning authors' relation to the genocide. Nicki Hitchcott reviews an impressive body of sources but she deplores that our knowledge of the genocide has been predominantly shaped by 'outsiders'. If she recognizes the important input of the Fest'Africa authors, and that of some other French- and English-language writers, she is keen to privilege narratives by Rwandan 'insiders'. However, she insists that the outsider–insider dichotomy be treated with caution as some Rwandan writers—for example, Scholastique Mukazonga and John Rusimbi—did not experience the 1994 genocide at first hand. By means of four subject positions generated by the genocide—witness, survivor, victim, and perpetrator—Hitchcott proceeds to reveal how the 'multi-directional' complexity of the genocide is played out in her corpus. These subject positions are heuristic tools to challenge the tendency to define Rwandan society along ethnic lines and question 'preconceived notions of innocence and guilt' (p. 46). If the book avoids taxonomic generalizations, it nevertheless identifies some recurring differences between Rwandan and international genocide fiction authors. Fest'Africa writers cannot always eschew the tropes of dark tourism even though their writing reflects by and large their drive to adhere to the testimonial pact passed with primary witnesses, be they Tutsi, Hutu, or even 'Hutsi' (p. 117), survivors, or perpetrators. Rwandan 'insiders'—for instance, Camille Karangwa, Anicet Karege, and Vénuste Kayimahe—embrace historical realism and portray the genocide in graphic terms. For those 'who saw the horror with their own eyes' (p. 104), this literary posture represents the most truthful and ethical way of commemorating what they experienced. They also regard it as a strategy to implicate their readers as 'potential collaborators' (p. 197) away from Eurocentric explanations. Outsiders such as Koulsy Lamko and Boubacar Boris Diop, on the other hand, can, in some cases, indulge in trauma aesthetic and formal experimentations, and transform their readers into vicarious victims at the expense of a more Rwanda-centred and critical approach. It is argued here that the Holocaust, as a template for all genocides, is of limited use. Trauma theory, and the underlying assumption that its findings can be applied universally, is challenged for the same reason. Although it would have been interesting to know how some specifically Rwandan concepts—that of ibitero (p. 167), for example—can account for notions of individual and collective responsibility, this book provides a most compelling examination of the link between fictional writing and the memories of a tragedy that 'cannot be encapsulated in a single narrative' (p. 158).