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Ask the Old Ladies ofBurundiShamil IdrissPublished online: 19 Aug 2010.

To cite this article: Shamil Idriss (2000) Ask the Old Ladies of Burundi,Peace Review: A Journal of Social Justice, 12:4, 595-599, DOI:10.1080/10402650020014690

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Peace Review 12:4 (2000), 595–599

Ask the Old Ladies of Burundi

Shamil I driss

The Hutu women of Busoro and the Tutsi women of Musaga can look into eachother’s burned out neighborhoods without having to leave their homes. Whenthe shooting starts across the road, they can hear the singing of the attackers, thescreaming of the victims and the intense automatic weapons � re. They gathertheir children, lie on their � oors and pray, for reprisals are sure to follow. All thatseparates their pock-marked shacks is a dirt road and a few bushes; yet amountain of suspicion and distrust stands between them rooted in years ofmutual terror and suffering.

In the ethnically polarized prism of Burundian politics an armed struggle forpolitical power and economic opportunity mutates into vicious cycles of mas-sacres and recriminations between Hutu rebels, Tutsi military soldiers, and anincreasingly well-armed and traumatized population. In this, one of the poorestcountries in Africa, the Hutus and Tutsis have lived together, inter-married andco-existed for years, but when a cycle of attacks begins, as it did during the latterhalf of 1999, each retreats into their own community and into their own fears.Contact between former neighbors and friends ends abruptly and news about thequickly escalating violence circulates via rumor and propaganda within increas-ingly isolated ethnic circles.

How do opportunists and bandits manipulate people to condone and evenparticipate in the killing? In such an atmosphere it’s easy. Pay traumatized youngmen with little education, and even less hope, the equivalent of 10 dollars toattack a bus and kill the passengers, then blame it on the other ethnic group; gooutside your house, shoot in the air for 10 minutes and spark an evening ofmayhem and panic as neighbors begin shooting their own weapons to warn offthe supposed attackers; distribute a pamphlet predicting massive attacks on yourown neighborhood and watch your neighbors organize themselves against theirformer friends; in short, just convince them that they will be next if they don’tact now. In this setting, negative solidarity, that which sets one ethnic groupagainst the other, takes hold and “ethnic traitors” who dare to cross theboundary—to lend a helping hand or share in the suffering of the other—risktheir lives.

In late September 1999 ethnic tensions were once again reaching criticalproportions. So it was hard to believe when the women of predominantly

Tutsi Musaga and predominantly Hutu Busoro (bordering neighborhoods in oneof the most violent districts of the capital of Bujumbura) announced theirintention to organize an exchange of humanitarian aid as a gesture of solidarity

ISSN 1040-2659 print; ISSN 1469-9982 online/00/040595-05 Ó 2000 Taylor & Francis LtdDOI: 10.1080/1040265002001469 0

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between ethnic groups. What followed during the course of that day was evenmore so.

As we pulled up to the Musaga district administrator’s small two-buildingcompound in the late morning, the � rst shots cracked and echoed in thesurrounding hills. The shooting was unsettling this early in the day, but certainlynot out of place. What was out of place were the 250 women, elderly, young,frail, strong, Hutu, Tutsi, all poor, squeezed into a room to demonstrate theirsolidarity. In a room that over� owed with people, there was likely not one whohadn’t lost a close family member or friend to the violence and most had lostmore than one. Many must have felt what one expressed: “I never believed Iwould sit in the same room with the mothers, wives, and sisters of those whokilled my sons.”

Alternating speeches in their native language of Kirundi, they explained toeach other in formal reserved tones that now was the time to support oneanother and to maintain the contact between their communities. Now, whentheir bordering neighborhoods were beginning to withdraw from one another,was the time to stand together and to say enough is enough.

The shooting outside continued, breaking through the speech of one of themost de� ant of the women, a tall elderly Tutsi dressed in a pink � owing wrapand black headscarf, a woman known for her willingness to cross the dirt pathto support her Hutu neighbors in Busoro immediately after they had beenattacked. She continued her speech, and when the shots outlasted her words, shestarted a chant that overtook the entire room, rising in intensity until itovershadowed even the shots being � red outside. “What are they saying?” Iurgently asked my interpreter, a well-educated Tutsi who has worked forcross-ethnic understanding most of her life. She stared at the women in disbelief,“They’re shouting, ‘Give us peace.”’

When the singing ended, the heavy rains came, and the shooting stopped. Thewomen packed even closer together in the one-room building. The rainspounded the corrugated metal roof and the packed dirt driveway until it turnedto mud. As the truck full of aid arrived, so did the soldiers. No one knew whetherthey were there to protect the women or to steal the aid, or whether they werereally soldiers or rather rebels disguised, as usual, in military uniforms. For themoment, no one cared, for the armed men seemed content to glare as the bagsof peas, rice, corn, blankets and soap were unloaded from the truck-bed.

The rain � nally retreated and the � rst convoy of two cars and a pick-up truckfull of aid drove the Hutu women of Busoro through Musaga to the borderlinedividing the two neighborhoods. Pulling onto a patch of dirt and dried grass,with Musaga behind and Busoro coming up less than 100 yards ahead, webraked as the women called out for us not to go any closer. They could carrythe aid through back trails and neighbors’ homes they explained, but a truckloadmoving any closer to the bushes lying ahead would be a sure target. So westopped and watched as 60-year-old women balanced 100 lb sacks of rice ontheir heads, turned toward Busoro and walked into the bushes.

The next convoy was accompanied by a Tutsi man more used to the comfortof his home in a privileged part of Bujumbura than to what he was seeing

that day. He was perhaps the most frightened member of the group, both for

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Ask the Old Ladies of Burundi 597

himself and for the women, but he refused to drop the women off where the � rstgroup had disembarked and insisted on seeing that they reached their homessafely, with their food. So moved was he by their gratitude to him and thecourage he had found in himself that he returned with us to the localadministrator’s compound close to tears. At the compound the women who hadremained behind to collect their goods later greeted us. They gathered again inthe small room to give speeches thanking each other, the local administrator, andthe aid donors. Before long, they began to sing again, and within minutes, therewas not a person left sitting in the room. As soldiers continued to peer into theroom, the women of Musaga and Busoro danced—not a dance reserved forformal affairs or proper occasions—but an urgent, thrusting, desperate danceaccompanied by a rising Kirundi chant, “We are the women of Busoro, we arethe women of Musaga, give us peace, give us peace, give us peace now!” Theroom lost all barriers as the women danced wildly and embraced each other. Myjournalist friend leaned over to me in mid-dance blurting out in astonishmentand glee, “I’ve never seen anything like this!” before she whirled away again withthe dancers.

As the demonstration reached a fevered pitch, a worried look came over thelocal administrator’s face, and he quickly left the room explaining hurriedly thathe really needed to return to work. The chanting grew even louder, carrying wellbeyond the compound deep into the surrounding hills, until my friend said, “Thekillers will come—this is too much, this is too loud—they can’t ignore this,” and,as if everyone in the room had heard and agreed, the dancing stopped abruptlyand the room emptied within minutes, but every one of the women leftsmiling—their message had been sent.

With a population comprising 15% Tutsis, 84% Hutus, and 1% Twa, Burundishares the same ethnic demography as neighboring Rwanda, where inter-ethnicviolence resulted in the genocide of 1994. Nearly one million people were killedin 100 days, many with machetes and clubs, and the international communitydeclared, “never again.” But Burundi is different from pre-1994 Rwanda. It isBurundi’s minority Tutsis, not the majority Hutus, who have increasinglycontrolled the government and the military, and enjoyed access to education andeconomic opportunity since independence was gained from Belgium in 1962.The latest round of widespread ethnic violence in Burundi, known here simplyas “the crisis,” began in 1993 with the assassination of Burundi’s � rst popularlyelected (Hutu) president only four months after he took of� ce, and ended in1996, with a coup that placed a Tutsi military of� cer back in charge.

Since 1996, Burundi has taken strides toward reconciliation and co-existence,with multi-party negotiations ongoing in Tanzania, an internal partnershipbetween the main Tutsi and Hutu political parties governing the country, and amore open atmosphere for discussing the con� ict and its roots than exists inRwanda, all supported from a distance by an international community that isencouraging “African solutions to African problems” and refusing to provide aidto Burundi’s economy until a peace accord is signed.

Despite all this, in late 1999 the atmosphere in Burundi began changingdramatically for the worse. As the economic situation became critical, the rebel–versus army � ghting transformed into tit-for-tat attacks of escalating intensity onHutu and Tutsi districts. Communities began retreating once again into increas-

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ingly mono-ethnic zones, and many armed themselves to prepare for the worst.The one thing that Burundians of all ethnicities shared was fear, and one could� nd Hutus and Tutsis everywhere who likened the situation to that whichprevailed before chaos struck in 1993.

It was in this atmosphere that a young Hutu man—who had killed one of hisbest Tutsi friends during the crisis and who is now doing everything he can to

prevent the same chaos from returning—con� ded, “The way things are goingnow … it is our last chance—if we don’t do something now, then it will only beGod who can save us.”

The women of Musaga and Busoro know this. They may be separated by fear,but they have chosen unity, and there are women and men like them, young andold, Hutu and Tutsi, throughout Burundi. They have been referred to asBurundi’s silent majority, but anyone within shouting distance of the smallbuilding in Musaga on that last Thursday in September 1999 would beg todiffer.

The situation since 1999 has deteriorated. Just two weeks following the eventin Musaga and Busoro, several Burundian aid workers, civilians, and escortswere killed, along with the expatriate Director of UNICEF/Burundi and DeputyDirector of the World Food Program in one of the largest attacks on a U.N.humanitarian mission on record. The ambush near Burundi’s volatile borderwith Tanzania was reportedly carried out by nearly 40 rebels posing as soldiers.The U.N. evacuated much of its personnel and terminated many of its projects,just as the deterioration of Burundi’s security situation was being stemmed by thegovernment’s drastic measure of regrouping a large percentage of the country’s(mostly Hutu) population. The sudden regroupment combined with the U.N.’sdecision to evacuate many of its workers, created a humanitarian crisis, whichhas been partially managed only through the concerted efforts of humanitarianNGOs.

To date, the year 2000 has seen Burundians take a collective breath and await-and-see attitude as Nelson Mandela assumed facilitation of the of� cialnegotiations, bringing with him increased international, diplomatic, press, anddonor attention to Burundi. Nonetheless, the U.N. retains its “Phase Four”security status for the country, ensuring that its programs will continue in aninconsistent and severely limited manner at best, and donors continue towithhold international aid, awaiting a peace accord.

At best, Burundi is on the threshold of a long and dif� cult process of peacebuilding, reconstruction, and reconciliation. At worst, it is one or two missedopportunities away from descending once again into widespread ethnic violence.Either way, the end game of the current negotiations is only the beginning forBurundi. International support for Burundi’s efforts at peacemaking must beserious and sustained in order to allow Burundi’s peacemakers to bring theircountry and their people safely beyond the point of no return.

Supporting African solutions to African problems is � ne, and when we say inthe West that we don’t have the power to stop the killing alone, we are right. Wedon’t, but the women of Busoro and Musaga, together with thousands ofBurundians like them, do. What they need is our attention and our support. Ifwe don’t start listening soon, we will likely be shaking our heads again in a few

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years, looking back on another man-made disaster and wondering how we let ithappen and how many generations the Burundian people will need to get backto where the women of Musaga and Busoro were only a few months ago—danc-ing and singing in a show of cross-ethnic solidarity.

Shamil Idriss is the Country Director for Search for Common Ground in Burundi. Correspondence: c/oHavva Idriss, 268 Briscoe Road, New Canaan, CT 06840, U.S.A. E-mail: shamil@cbinf.com

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