Kigali, the Cleanest city of Afirca
A Ride Through History: A Conversation On Rwandan Identity And Unity
The day was calm, with the sun sinking slowly behind the skyline of a foreign city. Dressed in green, my modest tourist attire mirrored my unspoken curiosity about the country I found myself in. As I stepped out of the embassy and into a waiting taxi, I greeted the driver with a simple nod, shared my destination, and settled into the seat, slipping my headphones back in to continue my audiobook.
But the driver, it seemed, wasn’t content with the silence. The low hum of the engine filled the air, but his eyes—those eyes—spoke of a restlessness. Through the rearview mirror, I felt his gaze linger, sensing that he had something more to say than the usual pleasantries shared by strangers in passing. After a while, the quiet was broken.
“Sir,” he asked, “are you a soldier?”
I blinked in surprise, briefly caught off guard. “No, I’m a tourist,” I replied.
He nodded slowly, as though pondering my answer, then leaned in with a follow-up question. “Are you a Tutsi?”
I hesitated, uncertain how to respond. The question had taken me by surprise, and my initial instinct was to brush it off. I pretended not to hear, hoping the moment would pass. But the calm of the car was deceptive, and the question soon came again, more insistent than before.
“Sir, are you a Tutsi?”
By now, it was clear. The driver’s curiosity ran deeper than the casual inquiries one might expect. Something in my presence, perhaps, provoked him to seek answers, to peel back the layers of my identity. I realised that this wasn’t just about ethnicity—it was about something more profound.
“I am Rwandan,” I said simply, offering him an honest response.
“Ah!” he responded, his voice tinged with a sense of recognition. “You—Tutsi or Hutu? I think you are a Tutsi.”
Though his words seemed innocent enough, there was an underlying implication in his question that struck me. The labels he sought to apply weren’t just about identifying me; they were rooted in a history of division and discrimination. But I couldn’t ignore his curiosity. Despite my reluctance, something told me that silence wouldn’t serve anyone here. So I continued, addressing not just his question but the deeper layers beneath it.
“You see,” I began, “Rwanda is different from many other countries. In most nations, there are languages that define tribes, and cultures that separate people. But in Rwanda, we share one language, one culture. Yes, we have clans, but we do not have ‘tribes’ in the sense that others do. The Hutu, the Twa, and the Tutsi were once social classes, not ethnic groups. These divisions came later—during colonial rule.”
The driver listened intently, his gaze still locked on the road ahead, though his eyes betrayed a growing curiosity. He frowned slightly, trying to process the new information. “But what about M23? The group fighting in the DRC—are they not Tutsis?”
The mention of M23 brought with it a weight of history. The conflict in the Democratic Republic of Congo, particularly the Kivu region, was a sensitive topic. I inhaled deeply, preparing to clarify. I continued, determined to offer a broader perspective. “When the borders of Africa were drawn, Rwanda lost portions of its land—territories that now belong to neighbouring countries,” I explained.
“DRC is one of the countries that inherited parts of Rwanda after the colonial borders were established,” I began. “People in the Kivu region, though Rwandan in origin, have never been fully embraced as citizens of the DRC. The M23 fighters are not invaders. They are Congolese who happen to be Rwandan by descent, fighting for their rights and recognition in the land of their ancestors.”
The silence that followed spoke volumes. There was a palpable shift, as the driver’s understanding began to deepen. Sensing a window for reflection, I pressed on.
“But the question you asked earlier,” I continued, “is one that Rwandans don’t ask each other anymore. We no longer define ourselves by these divisions. When the Belgians colonised Rwanda, they introduced a system of division. They created ethnic labels, and for the first time, families that once lived together found themselves separated by arbitrary lines of identity.”
The driver’s expression softened as the weight of history seemed to settle in. “In the 1950s and 60s, these divisions led to violence—the Hutu uprising, which saw Tutsis either killed or exiled. And then, in 1994, the Genocide against the Tutsi, where over a million people were massacred. Those divisions ran deep,” I said, my voice quiet, but firm.
I paused, allowing the gravity of those words to sink in before I spoke again.
“But since then, we have worked to heal. We’ve made a conscious choice to be Rwandans, not Hutu, Tutsi, or Twa. We’ve rebuilt our country from the ground up, and unity has become our strength.”
The driver, now reflecting deeply, nodded. “President Kagame has really done well,” he said, his voice tinged with respect.
I smiled, a moment of connection forming between us. “Yes, he has. And he continues to do great work. I’m proud of my country,” I replied.
As the car pulled up to my destination, I handed the driver his fare, and he thanked me for the conversation. I smiled, wishing him well, and watched as the rhythm of the city resumed its familiar hum.
What had started as a simple taxi ride had transformed into a meaningful exchange—one that bridged the gap between two strangers and touched on the complexities of history, identity, and healing.
