McCoy - Memory, Trauma, and The Politics of Repatriating Bikindi's Music - 2019 PDF

Memory, Trauma, and the Politics of Repatriating Bikindi’s Music in the Af
termath of the Rwandan Genocide
Memory, Trauma, and the Politics of Repatriating

Bikindi’s Music in the Aftermath of the Rwandan Geno
cide
Jason McCoy
The Oxford Handbook of Musical Repatriation
Edited by Frank Gunderson, Robert C. Lancefield, and Bret Woods
Print Publication Date: Oct 2019 Subject: Music, Ethnomusicology

Online Publication Date: Mar 2019 DOI: 10.1093/oxfordhb/9780190659806.013.24
Abstract and Keywords
The ethics of musical repatriation become especially murky when representative mem
bers of the originating culture disagree over whether certain musical artifacts should be
repatriated at all. This may be due to linkages between the artifacts and violent histories,
such that the artifacts carry the risk of inducing traumatic memories and contributing to
ongoing political conflict. Centering on postgenocide Rwanda, this chapter employs a se
ries of ethnographic vignettes to illustrate these ethical tensions. In 2007, the author
came into possession of songs by Simon Bikindi, which were used by government-affiliat
ed propagandists to incite the 1994 genocide. The songs are presently de facto censored
by the current regime. In carefully reintroducing the songs to genocide survivors and wit
nesses, the author found that many did indeed support measures to suppress them, while
others expressed an earnest desire to own and listen to them again, primarily as a facili
tator for therapeutically remembering and narrativizing their own experiences of terror,
loss, and recovery. In conclusion, this chapter does not aim to resolve this conflict, but to
present it for the purposes of reflection and dialogue.
Keywords: Rwanda, genocide, violence, music censorship, musical repatriation, trauma, memory, self-narrativity
MUSICAL repatriation may follow along official, institutional procedures, but it can also
result from informal social exchanges that inevitably occur throughout the course of
ethnographic field research. In such situations, the one providing reaccess to musical ar
tifacts may not even be aware that they are involved in a process of repatriation, or if
they are, repatriation may be a byproduct of more primary research goals. Nevertheless,
musical repatriation is ineluctably a political act, bringing to the social foreground the
postcolonial disparities of privilege between the provider and recipient, a disparity reflec
tive of larger imbalances of global power between the geopolitical entities that the two
represent. The politics are all the more highly charged when musical repatriation pro
ceeds within the contextual aftermath of mass political violence, and the musical artifacts
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are directly linked to that conflict and its concomitant emotional turmoil. In such cases,
the provider may find themselves in an ethical morass.
Such was the case when I began providing recordings of songs composed by the contro
versial songwriter Simon Bikindi—songs that are now de facto censored in Rwanda—to
survivors and witnesses of the 1994 genocide. What follows is a personal account of my
experiences, beginning with a brief introduction to the topic, followed by a discussion of
the laws related to the censorship of Bikindi’s music, the lyrical content of the songs, and
the context in which they were composed, pointing out why many Rwandans find them so
detestable while others do not. Finally, I will conclude with several ethnographic vi
gnettes that I hope will impress on the reader the ethical conundrum I created for myself
in choosing to provide access to Bikindi’s music.
“So what do you think of Bikindi’s music?” inquired the high-level university offi
(p. 420)
1
cial in an imperious manner. It was early June 2008. A couple of weeks prior I had ar
rived in Rwanda for the first time and taken up residency in the southern town of Butare2
to conduct research on Bikindi’s songs and the role they potentially played in inciting
genocide. With the help of a friend who was a music instructor at the National University,
located just down the road from the guesthouse where I stayed, I set up a meeting with
this official so that I could inform him of my research activities and request the school’s
support should I need it.
“Uh, I’m not really sure,” I replied. “That’s why I’m here—to talk to people and find out
what they think so that I can better understand.” I then returned the volley. “Why? What
might be the problem?”
The official leveled his gaze at me across the conference table and said in no uncertain
terms, “Well, if you were to say his music was okay, then that would be a problem.”
I had researched the political dynamics in Rwanda enough to know that Bikindi’s songs
were frowned on by the nation’s sole ruling party, the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF), and
by extension its affiliate public institutions, including the National University. Not only
were his songs composed in part to protest the RPF’s reinvasion of Rwanda in February
1993, but also they were soon thereafter incorporated by politicians and radio broadcast
ers into the propaganda campaign used to incite the genocide of the Tutsi minority that
was carried out the following year. This was the first time, though, that I had been
warned, implicitly or otherwise, by a public official that it would be troublesome if I were
to voice or somehow signify approval of Bikindi’s music.
Fortunately (I suppose), I did not think Bikindi’s music was “okay.” I believed his songs
were a crucial factor in inciting genocide. Aired numerous times per day on the pro-geno
cide radio station, RTLM,3 they provided much of the soundtrack to the massive killing
spree that took place from April 6 to mid-July 1994 and that resulted in the murders of an
estimated 800,000 Rwandans (Carlsson, Han, et al. 1999). After génocidaires finished
their day’s “work” of hunting down Tutsi and Hutu sympathizers (the genocide was com
monly framed as a form of civic labor by the leaders who orchestrated it), they would reg
Page 2 of 18

ularly congregate at local bars, where they would listen to Bikindi’s songs on the radio or
request the bartender to play a cassette. The songs clearly resonated with them ideologi
cally and provided further rational and emotional thrust to their motives.
It is just that I suspected then, as I do now, that there was good reason to question
whether or not inciting anti-Tutsi fear, hatred, and violence was Bikindi’s intent. These
suspicions were affirmed over the course of seven years of research throughout which I
shared the songs with Rwandans who experienced the genocide firsthand, including
Bikindi, and listened to their responses. Replete with metaphorical and allusive language,
his lyrics provoke an interpretive process that can go in a number of ways. Indeed, I
found that Tutsi who were targeted during the genocide and are now supportive of the
RPF were certain of Bikindi’s malign intentions. Hutu who were neither targeted nor par
ticipated in the genocide, yet felt that they were being unfairly and collectively blamed,
and thus politically and socially disenfranchised, tended to (p. 421) defend Bikindi or at
least have a more neutral view. The four ex-members of his professional troupe, Irindiro
Ballet, whom I talked to—one a Twa, one a Hutu, and the other two Tutsi—all defended
him, though the two Tutsi did so with some qualifications—namely, that Bikindi was an
opportunist who composed partisan songs in order to enrich himself and elevate his sta
tus, though he himself had no ill will toward Tutsi.4 Bikindi, for his part, attested that he
tried to use his talents to help restore peace and encourage mutual respect between Hutu
and Tutsi. He blamed RTLM’s broadcasters for rhetorically contextualizing the songs in a
way that caused listeners to interpret a pro-genocide message.
Whatever the case may be, on December 2, 2008, Bikindi was convicted of incitement to
genocide and sentenced to fifteen years in prison by the International Criminal Tribunal
for Rwanda (ICTR), a court mandated by the United Nations to bring to justice those
deemed most responsible for the genocide. The prosecution charged him with composing
and performing music with the intent of incitement. The judges agreed, but they could
not convict him specifically for musical incitement, because Bikindi composed the songs
in 1993, and the court’s statutes only cover crimes committed in 1994. Bikindi was in
stead convicted for allegedly making a couple of statements from a moving car equipped
with a PA system in which he urged Hutu bystanders to continue killing Tutsi. The judges
ruled, however, that it was Bikindi’s stature as a popular celebrity musician that enabled
him to influence people to kill.5
Bikindi now bears the distinction of being the only professional musician in the history of
modern international law to be convicted of crimes related to mass atrocity. His reputa
tion is that of a heinous war criminal. He is vilified in much of the scholarly and journalis
tic literature on the genocide, and his music is now de facto censored in Rwanda. There is
no law that explicitly prohibits Rwandans from owning and listening to Bikindi’s music,
rather its censorship is subsumed under several broadly written laws against harboring
divisionist, sectarian, or genocidal ideology or disseminating genocide propaganda. Some
of these laws carry steep fines and lengthy prison sentences, and the RPF has used them
Page 3 of 18

to stamp out political dissent, demanding ideological conformity for fear of another geno
cide.
Because of the law’s ambiguities, Rwandan citizens must determine for themselves what
expressive activities might get them into trouble (Buckley-Zistel 2006; Amnesty Interna
tional 2010). Owning or otherwise demonstrating an appreciation of Bikindi’s music, for
instance, might lead to accusations of harboring genocide ideology, particularly for Hutu.
Even if they are not formally charged, they may still be suspected of such. Therefore,
most Rwandans choose to be safe rather than sorry, a censorial referred to here as co
erced self-censorship.
Bikindi’s music is never played on the radio or television, and it is all but impossible to
find his recordings sold in music shops. Of the approximately sixty Rwandans who partici
pated in my research on the reception of Bikindi’s music, almost none had heard the
songs since the genocide. The only participants who owned such a recording were, of
course, Bikindi, and a refugee couple living near my home in the United States, where
they were safe from harm. According to them, they received the recording from friends
(p. 422) in Canada, who received it from friends in Paris, who happened to find it there in
an African music shop.
I then brought the recording back to Rwanda.
When I began sharing the songs with Rwandans fifteen years after the genocide, there
were some who found the lyrical content too infuriating and the associated memories too
painful, and so they wanted nothing more to do with them. One man whose wife and chil
dren had been murdered during the genocide said simply, “Perhaps it is better to let some
things die.” But others exhibited an eagerness to listen to and engage with the songs
again, and several requested recordings. This desire cut across lines of ethnic identity,
partisan affiliation, and experiences of the genocide and its aftermath.
Because Rwandan law does not explicitly forbid Bikindi’s music, I believed that I had the
legal cover not only to share Bikindi’s music with willing listeners but to provide record
ings to those who requested them. Still, legal justification does not equal ethical justifica
tion, and this is the issue I continue to wrestle with: Was I, as a foreigner and a represen
tative of a Western neocolonial power, ethically justified in distributing Bikindi’s songs un
der the nose of a government and a sizable portion of the population that desired their
erasure from the nation’s collective memory? On the other hand, would I have been ethi
cally justified in refusing to return the songs to people for whom the songs still held pro
found, personal meaning?
Page 4 of 18

Censorship and Laws against Divisionism, Sec

tarianism, and Genocide Ideology
Laws against genocide ideology and propaganda are articulated by two sets of legal
statutes. The first is Law No. 47/2001: On the Prevention, Suppression and Punishment of
the Crime of Discrimination and Sectarianism, enacted on December 18, 2001. The sec
ond is Law No. 18/2008: Relating to the Punishment of the Crime of Genocide Ideology,
enacted on July 23, 2008. Beginning with the first of these laws, Article 1 defines discrim
ination and sectarianism as follows:
1° Discrimination is any speech, writing, or actions based on ethnicity, region or

country of origin, the colour of the skin, physical features, sex, language, religion
or ideas aimed at depriving a person or group of persons of their rights as provid
ed by Rwandan law and by International Conventions to which Rwanda is party.
2° Sectarianism means the use of any speech, written statement or action that di
vides people, that is likely to spark conflicts among people, or that causes an up
rising which might degenerate into strife among people based on discrimination
mentioned in 1°.
The French version of Article 1(2) is more broadly worded in comparison to the
(p. 423)
English.6 It reads, “La pratique du sectarisme est un crime commis au moyen de

l’expression orale, écrite ou tout acte de division pouvant générer des conflits au sein de
la population, ou susciter des querelles” (“The practice of sectarianism is a crime commit
ted by means of any oral or written expression or act of divisionism that could generate
conflict among the population or cause quarrels”). Article 3 of the law attempts to clarify
further what constitutes the crimes of discrimination and sectarianism:
The crime of discrimination occurs when the author makes use of any speech,
written statement or action based on ethnicity, region or country of origin, colour
of the skin, physical features, sex, language, religion or ideas with the aim of
denying one or a group of persons their human rights provided by Rwandan law
and International Conventions to which Rwanda is party.
The crime of sectarianism occurs when the author makes use of any speech, writ
ten statement or action that causes conflict or that causes an uprising that may
degenerate into strife among people.
According to these laws, anything that a person says or does that is somehow related to
categories of social differentiation to the extent that it may potentially provoke “conflict,”
“strife among people,” or, according to the French, “quarrels,” may result in that person
being prosecuted. Article 3, however, makes it a crime to deny an individual or group of
persons “their human rights provided by Rwandan law and International Conventions to
which Rwanda is party.” This is self-contradictory in that “international conventions” re
garding human rights generally uphold freedom of expression, even if such expression
Page 5 of 18

denigrates other groups of people, though this is far from uniform; varying exceptions to
this right have been made according to different international conventions and declara
tions throughout the twentieth century. The question then arises: to what international
convention(s) does Rwandan law adhere?
It would seem then that merely possessing and listening to a recording of Bikindi’s songs
would not constitute a crime. The more likely problem would be when someone plays the
songs for others. Article 8 establishes the following as a crime:
[making] public any speech, writing, pictures or images or any symbols over radio
airwaves, television, in a meeting or public place, with the aim of discriminating
[against] people or sowing sectarianism among them . . .
Because the RPF considers Bikindi’s songs to be an expression of divisionism and sectari
anism, playing them for others in public could be legally interpreted as an attempt to
spread these ideas, though there must be proof of intent. If a person is convicted of inten
tionally sowing divisionism and sectarianism, then punishment runs from a fine of 30,000
Rwanda francs (RWF; as of this writing, about $45) to 300,000 RWF (about $450), in addi
tion to a possible prison sentence of between one and five years. If a (p. 424) person’s ac
tions are deemed especially egregious, or that person is a prominent public figure, a max
imum sentence of life imprisonment may be imposed.
The 2008 Law Relating to the Punishment of the Crime of Genocide Ideology is more se
vere. Article 2 defines genocide ideology as follows:
an aggregate of thoughts characterized by conduct, speeches, documents and oth

er acts aimed at exterminating or inciting others to exterminate people based on
ethnic group, origin, nationality, region, color, physical appearance, sex, language,
religion or political opinion, committed in normal periods or during war.
While this definition could be critiqued, the more troubling issue is found in Article 3,
which states:
The crime of genocide ideology is characterized in any behaviour manifested by

facts aimed at dehumanizing a person or a group of persons with the same charac
teristics in the following manner:
1° threatening, intimidating, degrading through defamatory speeches, docu

ments or actions which aim at propounding wickedness or inciting hatred;
2° marginalizing, laughing at one’s misfortunes, defaming, mocking, boast
ing, despising, degrading, creating confusion aimed at negating the genocide
which occurred, stirring up ill feelings, taking revenge, altering testimony or
evidence for the genocide which occurred;
3° killing, planning to kill or attempting to kill someone for purposes of fur
thering genocide ideology.
Page 6 of 18

Penalties for breaking the law on genocide ideology range from a prison sentence of be
tween ten and twenty-five years and a fine of between two hundred thousand and one mil
lion Rwandan francs (RWF, roughly $300 to $1,500). The penalties are harsher for “a
leader in public administrative organs, political organisations, private administrative or
gans, or nongovernment organs, a religious leader, or a former leader in such organs.”
Young children, defined as those under the age of twelve, are not exempt. If found guilty,
they are taken to a special learning center for up to twelve months to be re-educated.
Older children between the ages of twelve and eighteen are given a sentence equal to
half the time as adults.
Article 8 regarding the dissemination of genocide ideology is especially concerning:
Any person who disseminates genocide ideology in public through documents,

speeches, pictures, media, or any other means shall be sentenced to an imprison
ment from twenty years to twenty-five years and a fine of two million to five mil
lion RWF.
Note here that the law says nothing about intent. Out of ignorance or carelessness, peo
ple might share news articles, web links, or for that matter, Bikindi’s songs with others,
and if authorities determine that those actions constitute a means of (p. 425) spreading
genocide ideology, then they could be imprisoned for a minimum of two decades.
The Context of the Songs

The two songs that were broadcast the most and were at the center of Bikindi’s trial were
“Akabyutso” (“The Awakening”) and “Intabaza” (“The Alert”). They were produced in
March and April 1993, over a year before the genocide and a month after the RPF’s rein
vasion. This was a time marked by economic ruin, political upheaval, war, and societal
collapse—a time that Rwandans refer to as “Igihirahiro,” roughly translated as “the time
of uncertainty/chaos.”7 The global price of coffee, Rwanda’s main cash crop, had been
plummeting since the late 1980s, sapping the nation’s treasury. As a result, the Rwandan
economy grew largely dependent on foreign monetary aid. President Juvénal Habyari
mana thus relented to international pressure and allowed for the organization of opposi
tional parties, though he floundered in his commitment to holding national elections that
would threaten to topple his dictatorship and unseat his party, the MRND.8 Rather than
placate Habyarimana’s many political foes, the weakly enacted advent of multipartyism
resulted in widespread resentment and a wave of mass violence as partisan loyalists took
to the streets in order to terrorize the citizenry into supporting their preferred party.
Meanwhile, the Rwandan military (Forces Armées Rwandaises, or FAR) was at war with
the RPF. At that time, the RPF was a militarized political operation based in southern
Uganda whose members were mostly Tutsi exiles. When the Tutsi-dominated monarchy,
under which Hutu were severely oppressed, was overthrown in 1959 and an exclusively
Hutu government was installed, hundreds of thousands of Tutsi fled in order to escape
reprisal killings and persecution. The largest and most active contingent settled in south
Page 7 of 18

ern Uganda, where they eventually founded the RPF. The exiles were never fully em
braced by their Ugandan neighbors. Rwanda was still their home, and they desired to re
turn. The RPF also sought to end the discriminatory practices against Tutsi that had
forced them to flee in the first place. Habyarimana refused them, however, citing over
population and poor economic conditions, and so on October 1, 1990, the RPF invaded.
The RPF’s attack was initially repelled by the FAR. Delegates from the RPF soon then be
gan meeting with Habyarimana and other MRND officials in Arusha, Tanzania, to negoti
ate a series of accords that would put an end to armed conflict, enable the return of
Rwandan exiles, and reform the government in a way that would allow for RPF represen
tation. Both sides, though, were resistant to compromises, and the accords were never
fully implemented by Habyarimana. On February 7, 1993, the RPF broke a ceasefire
agreement and attacked again, this time with much more success. They overran much of
northern Rwanda and came within twenty kilometers of capturing the capital city of Ki
gali. Thousands of Rwandan civilians were killed, and hundreds of thousands were dis
placed from their homes before the RPF and MRND agreed to another ceasefire. (p. 426)
From the perspective of many Rwandans, it appeared that the RPF desired not only to re
turn and share power but ultimately to take over.
The RPF heralded itself as a liberator of Tutsi. Rumors, some of which were likely true,
circulated in the press and in political speeches that Tutsi in Rwanda were secretly con
spiring with the RPF to restore the monarchy, or something akin to it.9 A cadre of influen
tial MRND members attempted to exploit the RPF invasion and the rumors of a Tutsi con
spiracy as a means to resolve the partisan discord in Rwanda and reinforce their political
superiority. They formed a new party, the extremist CDR.10 Using the press, radio, and po
litical speeches and rallies, they sought to deflect hostility away from themselves and to
ward a common enemy, one that not only dwelled in plain sight but was politically
neutered and offered little resistance. Tutsi made for an easy target.
Bikindi’s songs became the anthems of Igihirahiro. During our visit, Bikindi recalled two
experiences in particular as his inspiration.11 The first was a visit to a hospital to see the
son of a good friend and journalist. The young man was not politically active, but as he
was walking to the market, he was accosted by a group of partisan fanatics and had his
eyes gouged out. To Bikindi, this senseless and horrific act committed against an innocent
person was indicative of a broader insanity gripping society to which he, as a famous mu
sician, felt compelled to respond. The second experience, occurring soon after this inci
dent, was a grenade attack in Kigali’s main bus park, again carried out by partisan fanat
ics. Bikindi’s office was located on an upper floor of a nearby building where he worked
for the Ministry of Culture and Youth as a talent scout and festival organizer. When he
heard and felt the explosions, he looked out his window to see the carnage below. He then
rushed to the scene, where he offered his car to help transport the injured to a hospital.
Page 8 of 18

The Content of the Songs

Nowhere in his lyrics did Bikindi denigrate Tutsi or advocate violence against them. On
the surface, the lyrics called for national unity, transparent elections free of corruption
and violence, respect and generosity across the social strata, and support for the FAR in
their war with the RPF. However, this was far from the sentimental pablum typical of
much patriotic music. His lyrics were lengthy and poetically dense. Bikindi was regarded
by his audiences as a genius who could masterfully harness a deep knowledge of history,
culture, and language, and underscore it with a sophisticated musical vitality. When I lis
tened to the songs with a linguist at the National University who helped me translate the
lyrics, he shook his head and sighed, lamenting, “There will never be another like him.”
“Intabaza” unfolds as a mythic narrative in which the protagonist, Mutabazi,12 travels

throughout the whole of Rwanda, and as he does so, he sees that the entire nation is en
gulfed in misery, animosity, and destruction. The lyrics mention nearly every clan and re
gion, the latter often referred to by older, precolonial names that are no longer (p. 427)
commonly used. Rwandan political hierarchies have long been contested along the lines
of clanship and region, and so this was a clever rhetorical ploy through which Bikindi
hoped to instill in listeners a sense that all were suffering from the consequences of war,
poverty, political corruption, and partisan terrorism, and should therefore let go of their
parochial concerns in favor of national unity.
Eventually, Mutabazi arrives at the abode of the powerful diviner, Biryaobayoboke, where
he is welcomed as an earnest seeker of peace and justice. A divination ritual is performed
during which Biryaobayoboke recalls the history of Rwanda, emphasizing especially the
harsh treatment of bene sebahinzi—“fellow descendants of the father of farmers”13—un
der the monarchy and colonial administration. Bene sebahinzi is a common euphemism
for Hutu, but Bikindi would remind his audience that almost all Rwandans—Hutu, Tutsi,
and Twa—belong to agrarian communities that have been historically marginalized and
exploited by central political authorities. In fact, the song specifies that bene sebahinzi
include all three ethnic groups, culminating in the following dialogue between Biryaobay
oboke [B] and Mutabazi [M]:
B: Bene sebahinzi bagomba kumenya kandi ko abo banyarwanda batuye u Rwan

dabarimo amoko atatu: Gahutu, Gatwa na Gatutsi.Fellow descendants of the fa
ther of farmers must know also that the Rwandans who inhabit Rwanda are com
posed of three ethnic groups (amoko14): Hutu, Twa, and Tutsi.Ibyo ntibihinduka
rwose.All those things cannot be changed.
M: Ibyo ntibihinduka.Those things cannot be changed.
B: Twese tugomba kwemera ko nta wasabye kuvuka ari umuhutu, umutwa cyang
waumututsi.All of us must realize that no one asked to be born a Hutu, Twa, or
Tutsi.
M: None se?And so?
Page 9 of 18

B: Bityo tukemera ko nta wusumba undi.Therefore, we must accept that no one is
superior to another.Tukemera ko nta wugomba kuryamira undi kandi ko inyungu
za rubanda-nyamwinshi arizo zigomba gushyirwa imbere!We must accept that no
one may oppress another and that priority must be given to the benefits of the ma
jority people!
M: Rwose!Indeed!
B: Ayiii . . . ! Ayiii . . . ! Bahamagare rwose bene sebahinzi baze mbahe

intsinzi.[Cheering] Call all the descendants of the father of farmers together, for I
shall give them the solution.
The “solution” that Biryaobayoboke proposes is for Rwandans to stop fighting among
themselves, hold fair and peaceful elections, and respect the results, no matter if it is
Hutu, Tutsi, or Twa who are chosen. Naïvely idealistic, perhaps, but hard to (p. 428) criti
cize—except that other themes woven throughout the work are disturbing in that they
could easily be construed as a call for Hutu solidarity in the face of Tutsi adversaries. The
trope of bene sebahinzi is a deeply culturally embedded euphemism for Hutu. It may not
be disingenuous of Bikindi to claim that he intended this to refer to all who farm, but no
doubt he was aware of the term’s cultural and historical associations to the extent that
most audiences would have understood it as an exclusive moniker for Hutu. Moreover,
the song attributes Rwanda’s problems to “a spirit that attacks from abroad” (“muzimu
utera aturutse ishyanga”). This could refer to the RPF who were attacking from Uganda,
but many listeners understood it as a reference to all Tutsi. It was widely taught and be
lieved that Tutsi were the descendants of cattle-herding ancestors who arrived in the re
gion of Rwanda and subjugated Hutu farmers who had settled there long before.
Whereas “Intabaza,” despite its foreboding imagery, is ultimately a song of triumph and
hope, “Akabyutso” is marked by a darker tone. It is commonly known as “Nanga
abahutu” (“I despise Hutu”), as this line is often repeated throughout the song. The lyrics
chastise Hutu who are foolish and forget Rwanda’s history of oppression under the
monarchy, who are greedy and selfish, who use flattery, bribery, and corruption to manip
ulate the political process, who involve themselves in partisan violence, and who do not
respect others. Tutsi are never mentioned in the song, but even so critics contend that
Bikindi intended to unify Hutu and shame those who were sympathetic to Tutsi or who co
operated with the RPF. Perhaps the most disturbing line states: “Me, I despise a Hutu, a
Hutu who receives a coin to kill a person and then kills a Hutu!” (“Njyewe nanga
umuhutu, umuhutu uhabwa igiceri akica umuntu kandi akica umuhutu!”) Critics charge
that Bikindi was instructing Hutu audiences that they should lay aside their political and
economic differences and instead come together to kill Tutsi. Bikindi’s defense is to point
out that Hutu did dominate the political sphere and were therefore ultimately responsible
for Rwanda’s woes. While key political and media figures at the time were demonizing
Tutsi and trumpeting Hutu Power, Bikindi turned the tables around, charging that it was
actually Hutu who were the problem. As for the line concerning the killing of a Hutu,
Bikindi claims that, indeed, some Hutu were so consumed with money that for even a
Page 10 of 18

small amount they would go and kill their own kind. In his trial and in our conversation,
he stressed that he believed that the RPF was still the main enemy, which he likened
specifically to the abusive monarchy from which it emerged, not to Tutsi in general. In
the midst of war with the RPF, he feared that the partisan violence and selfish motives of
many politicians and their lackeys would ensure his nation’s defeat.
Sharing the Songs with Survivors and Witness

es
In late May 2008, about a week or so after my initial arrival in Rwanda, I met and be
friended a Tutsi man named Julius who was a pastor and teacher at a Bible school near
(p. 429) Kigali. He had come to Butare for a week to lead a theological seminar and was
staying at the same guesthouse where I lived. The first morning after his arrival, as we
were eating breakfast and getting to know one another, I told him of my research. Julius’s
eyes lit up, and he told me that he would “very much like to hear Bikindi’s music.” I cued
up “Intabaza” on my iPod, handed it to him, and showed him how to use it.
As soon as he hit the play button, he burst into uncontrollable laughter. When he eventu
ally calmed down some, I asked him why he was laughing so. He replied:
“Ahhh . . . because this music—it takes me back to 1994!”
“You mean . . . back to the war? The genocide?”
“Yes, back to 1994!”
“But Pastor, that was a nightmare. How can you be laughing like this?”
“Yes, it’s true, but I was, you know, a young man then. I had just been married. I
was in love. This music reminds me of that time, the time of my youth.” He then
continued listening.
Over the following week, whenever he was not teaching or sleeping, Julius listened to
Bikindi’s music—even during meals. I asked him several times why he seemed so pos
sessed by it. Here are some of the reasons he provided:
“This is the music of my youth. We all loved to listen to Bikindi’s music back then,
to dance to it.”
“This is the great music of Rwanda. The older people, we like this kind of music.
Younger people don’t listen to this anymore.”
“It is my history.” (He repeated this one a lot.)
“It is like this, you see. Earlier today I was having some trouble finding Bikindi’s
songs on this device. I was searching through the songs on it, and I saw that you
had a song by Donna Summer [the 1975 hit disco single, “Love to Love You, Ba
Page 11 of 18

by”]. When I was in secondary school, we listened to this song all the time and
danced to it. We really liked it. When I listen to Bikindi, it’s the same kind of feel
ing.”
One afternoon, Julius told me some of what he went through during the genocide. He and
his wife had sent their children to hide with friends while the couple hid at another
friend’s house. After three days, a group of génocidaires came to the house. They did not
find Julius but spotted his wife and abducted her. They took her to a nearby mountain
side, where they were going to kill her. As it turned out, some of the génocidaires were
friends of Julius’s father, and when they discovered that the woman they had in hand was
the daughter-in-law of this man, they convinced the others to let her go.
Julius admitted to being “traumatized” during the ordeal—his words, not mine. He was so
numb from despair that he says he fell asleep after his wife was taken, not an uncommon
occurrence for people helplessly overwhelmed by terror and grief. He then (p. 430) told
me that, in light of his experiences, listening to Bikindi’s songs made him “praise God for
surviving” the genocide.
When Julius was set to return to Kigali, he asked for a recording of the songs. He said,
half-jokingly, that he could play the songs for his neighbors and charge them money to
come and listen. I was wary at first of giving in to his request. I wanted to be considerate
of Bikindi’s intellectual property rights, but more so, I thought that the distribution of
Bikindi’s music might be an affront to the RPF, under whose authority I was a guest and
in whose good graces I wished to remain. As an excuse, I tried to explain to Julius the pro
prietary nature of Apple products and how this made it difficult to reproduce recordings
off an iPod. It was a flimsy excuse—I had the means to get the song files off the iPod and
onto a CD—and Julius seemed none too convinced; in fact, he seemed downright crestfall
en. And so I relented.
I asked him, “Are you sure it’s okay? I would not want you to get in trouble.”
“No, no, it’s no problem,” he reassured me. “I am Tutsi, I am a survivor. No one is going
to accuse me of anything.”
We visited again the following year. I asked if he was still listening to the songs on a regu
lar basis. He informed me sadly that a cousin of his had stolen the CD and took it back
with her to Uganda. So I gave him another one.
It was a somewhat similar experience with Pierre, a Tutsi, and former politician. Géno
cidaires sliced apart his Achilles tendons and beat him to within a sliver of his life. They
then murdered his fiancée as he feebly looked on, crippled and pinned to the ground.
Pierre endured the rest of the genocide in a nearly abandoned hospital where, at one
point, he says he crawled along the floor through the wards begging the few remaining
patients to end his life. When we listened to Bikindi’s songs together, a sort of placid calm
seemed to come over him. Several times he said, simply, “It is good to remember.” Near
the end of our visit, he asked for a recording. I was glad to oblige. How could I refuse?
Page 12 of 18

Innocent was twelve years old during the genocide. His mother died when he was an in
fant, and his father was killed during the genocide. When we met, he worked as a custodi
an and groundskeeper for a small motel, but earlier in life he had been a street boy who
survived through begging, low-level thievery, and the mercy of others. Soon after genoci
dal killing commenced in Butare, génocidaires found him along the road and forced him
into a car. They then drove him to a clearing at the base of a hill, where he was to be
killed along with numerous other Tutsi. Just as he was about to be killed, a United Na
tions vehicle appeared at the crest of the hill. The génocidaires did not want to be seen
murdering children, so they took Innocent and the others into the nearby woods. The oth
er children were stabbed to death. Innocent was severely beaten and was also about to be
killed when the génocidaires noticed seven thousand Rwandan francs (roughly equivalent
to $14) protruding from his back pocket, and so, strangely, took the money and set him
free. He eventually found sanctuary with an elderly wealthy woman who paid off the
génocidaires to leave them alone. Other children also hid in the woman’s house. When the
RPF arrived in Butare to flush out and capture the génocidaires, several of the children
ran out of the house, thinking that they had been liberated, and were (p. 431) killed in the
crossfire. Innocent cites this as perhaps the most agonizing memory of his ordeal.
For some reason, Innocent insisted that he tell me of his experiences of the genocide be
fore he listened and responded to Bikindi’s songs. It took two evenings for him to relay
his story to his satisfaction. When he finished, I cued up “Intabaza” on my iPod and hand
ed it to him. Innocent did not recognize it. I then switched over to “Akabyutso.” At this,
Innocent’s eyes opened wide and his body stiffened. He began jabbing at my iPod with his
finger, exclaiming in English, “This is it! This is the music of genocide!” It was the first
time throughout his testimonial that he outwardly displayed much emotion. He explained
that in the months leading up to and during the genocide, he would sometimes hang
around outside the town’s bars, eavesdropping in on the conversation and collecting
whatever information might be useful. He told me that he often heard the patrons listen
ing to “Akabyutso” and singing along with it. Innocent continued listening to the song,
and like Pierre, he seemed to enter a more tranquil state, his eyes half-closed and his
body softly swaying, and like those patrons at the bar, he too began singing along: “Mb
wirabumvaaa . . . yeee.”15
After listening and reflecting for a while, he stated, “Now, as I hear this song, I go back—
the memories of that day come back. It makes me really hate Bikindi—someone like Bikin
di, who has been created by God, who has been given the knowledge to save the people,
to give them a good message. However, later, he changed, and he gave them a message
like this. It hurts me so much.” Innocent then continued listening and singing along.
When he finished, we spent some time discussing possible interpretations of the song,
and Innocent’s anger seemed to wane as he became more engrossed in his analysis. As
the conversation came to a close late in the evening, Innocent said that he wished he
could to listen to Bikindi’s music again whenever he wanted but didn’t have the means.
We agreed to give a CD to our mutual friend and interpreter, Paul, who owned a CD play
er. Innocent then grew silent. After a moment, he looked at me and said, “Ahhh . . . Jason,
Page 13 of 18

I am going to sleep so well tonight, like I have not slept in a long time. I feel such peace
now.”
“So it’s good to tell your story then?” I asked him. “Why is it good? Why does it feel good
to tell your story?”
Innocent thought for a moment, and then replied, “Because we just keep some things,
many things in our hearts. Sometimes you cannot find someone who will believe you
when I tell my story. So if you meet someone who you feel you are now capable of telling
your story to, it means that you ‘move,’ you ‘move’ those things away. It was just hurting
me somewhere. So if you find someone to tell about. . . .” He trailed off into silence.
We rose from the table and said our goodbyes. Innocent then wrapped his arms tightly
around me. “Thank you, thank you, my brother,” he said over and over. He then strolled
off down the dirt road toward the motel where he worked and lived, and as he disap
peared into the darkness, I heard him humming to himself. Paul then turned to me and
said, “It’s amazing. He told me that he has never told anyone of his story before, not even
me. Here in Rwanda, we don’t talk about these things very often.”
Before going further, let me clarify that I am in no position to diagnose Innocent,

(p. 432)
Pierre, Julius, or anyone else as having post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) or any psy
chopathological condition. People who endure traumatic events will deal with them in
their individual ways, and just because someone endured a traumatic event does not in
variably mean that they will continue to be traumatized, certainly not in the modern clini
cal understanding of that term. To conclude that these men suffered from PTSD would re
quire far more time, a more personal relationship, and a more controlled environment
than I was afforded, as well as formal training and experience. The only claim I make
here is that they did endure a traumatic experience and that it continued to affect them.
In narrativizing those experiences and listening to and engaging with music associated
with them, they seemed to benefit in some therapeutic way. It brought them a small mea
sure of peace and relief. In light of this, I believe it would have been almost cruel of me to
deny their request to own Bikindi’s songs.
It was often a different case with my Hutu friends. Take Jean-Baptiste, for example. Three
of his brothers were imprisoned on suspicion of genocide-related crimes, though charges
were never formally filed. They were eventually released when a lawyer friend who was a
Tutsi argued their case. A fourth brother was later given a life sentence. I attended his
trial with Jean-Baptiste. The year prior, Jean-Baptiste had traveled four hours over
cratered, mountainous roads to acquire a recording of Bikindi’s songs from me. When we
met at the guesthouse, he appeared uncharacteristically nervous; his shoulders were
hunched up, and his face was downcast as he furtively glanced about. He took the record
ing from me and quickly turned around to travel the four hours back home.
When I visited him again the following year to attend his brother’s trial, we had dinner
one evening with a group of local priests. I was curious to hear what they thought of
Bikindi. As we were enjoying our food and beer, I was about to break out my iPod, which I
Page 14 of 18

had in my jeans pocket. Jean-Baptiste noticed what I was about to do, stayed my hand un
der the table, and gave me a quick warning glance. I apologized to him the next day, and
he explained that because his brother was on trial, he, his family, and friends were all un
der suspicion and it was not safe to discuss Bikindi, much less share his music.
Another Hutu friend and Anglican priest, Charmant, also requested a recording. One day,
he took me to share Bikindi’s songs with some friends of his who worked at the Murambi
Genocide Memorial, each of whom had survived the massacre that had occurred on the
grounds there. Even though Charmant’s friends were Tutsi survivors of the genocide,
when we returned to the guesthouse, my closest Rwandan friend and research colleague,
Aaron, was waiting for me. He was upset. After Charmant had left, Aaron said that we
should not have done what we did. He went on to explain that because Charmant is Hutu,
if people found out he had Bikindi’s songs and that the two of us were sharing them with
others, it could cast aspersions on Charmant, no matter how unfair that might be. Bear in
mind that it was Charmant’s choice to own the songs, but it was still my choice to present
him the opportunity to own them.
Still, Aaron’s rebuke confused me. I had also supplied him with a recording, and he regu
larly shared the songs openly and publicly when we went out together—for (p. 433) in
stance, when we would relax at the sauna together or meet up with friends at a restau
rant or ride the bus. But Aaron is also well connected to the RPF.
Some time later, another Tutsi friend advised me, point blank, not to hand out any more
recordings of Bikindi’s songs.
These incidents raise critical questions as to how propaganda should be conceptualized.

Propaganda is not merely a material object; it is an expressive and interpretive process,
its meaning and influence dependent on context, intentionality, and the identities and ex
periences of those on the receiving end. Nevertheless, under the vagaries of Rwandan
law, and with the paranoid, heavy-handed way the RPF operates, I could be accused of
disseminating genocide propaganda.
I did not keep track of how many recordings I gave out—not many, maybe a dozen or so.
Most of the recipients were RPF loyalists. A few, in fact, were RPF officials, police, and
military officers. A couple of local pop musicians wanted a recording, as did my musician
friend mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, mainly because he considered Bikindi a
master of traditional Rwandan music and wanted to learn more from his musical stylings.
This might be a moot point in that, as of this writing, the songs may now be streamed on
YouTube. However, in August 2012, the RPF enacted measures that legally enable it to
censor Internet content, monitor people’s web activities, and read people’s e-mails. This
includes online activity conducted with mobile phones.16
On December 9, 2010, the Ministry of Education enacted a policy requiring all foreign
scholars to obtain research permits at least three months prior to conducting field re
search in Rwanda. Part of the reason for this, no doubt, is to prevent research that might
be subversive of the RPF’s goal of ideological conformity. By that point, though, I had al
Page 15 of 18

ready concluded my field research. All that was left was to travel to Tanzania and meet
with Bikindi in person at the UN Detention Facility. Otherwise, I am almost certain that I
would have been denied permission to carry out my research unless I made clear that my
purpose was to denounce Bikindi and somehow establish a clear causal link between his
music and the genocide. Even then, I have my doubts. The fact of the matter is that politi
cal research on Rwanda is currently in a state of crisis. Field researchers especially are
caught in a bind between telling the truth as best as they understand it and protecting
their friends and research participants, as well as ensuring that they do not hinder oppor
tunities for other scholars, even if the choice to remain silent enables unjust activities and
human rights abuses on the part of the government.
Ethnomusicologists are instilled early on with the ethical imperative to make available
our scholarly materials and analyses to those who facilitate or constitute the subjects of
our work. Musical repatriation, though, is not always a simple, unilateral exchange free of
controversy. Especially where political agendas, postcolonial legacies, and entrenched so
cial conflicts are concerned, issues of human rights, rightful ownership, and the agency of
providers and receivers are invariably challenged. Since my time in Rwanda, I have often
reflected on and questioned my assumption that musical expression—with the under
standing that musical consumption is a form of expression—is a sacred, universal right.
For now, I do not know if I did the right thing in (p. 434) providing recordings of Bikindi’s
songs to Rwandans, yet I know that it would have felt very wrong had I not.
References
Amnesty International. 2010. “Vague Laws Used to Criminalise Criticism of the Govern
ment in Rwanda” [report]. August 31, 2010. Available at http://www.amnesty.org/en/
news-and-updates/report/vague-laws-used-criminalise-criticism-government-
rwanda-2010-08-31.
Buckley-Zistel, Susanne. 2006. “Remembering to Forget: Chosen Amnesia as a Strategy

for Local Coexistence in Post-Genocide Rwanda.” Africa: The Journal of the International
African Institute 76 (2): 131–150.
Carlsson, Ingvar, Sung-Joo Han, and Rufus M. Kupolati. 1999. Report of the Independent
Inquiry into the Actions of the United Nations during the 1994 Genocide in Rwanda (S/
1999/1257). December 16, 1999.
Davenport, Christian, and Allan C. Stam. 2009. “What Really Happened in Rwanda?”
Miller-McCune. October 6, 2009. Available at http://politics.virginia.edu/wp-content/
uploads/2015/11/Stam-Rwanda-VISC.pdf .
Des Forges, Alison. 1999. Leave None to Tell the Story: Genocide in Rwanda. New York:
Human Rights Watch.
Lemarchand, René. 2007. “Genocide, Memory and Ethnic Reconciliation in Rwanda.” In

L’Afrique des Grand Lacs: Annuaire 2006–2007, 21–30. Paris: L’Harmattan.
Page 16 of 18

Mamdani, Mahmood. 2001. When Victims Become Killers: Colonialism, Nativism, and the
Genocide in Rwanda. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Melvern, Linda. 2006. Conspiracy to Murder: The Rwandan Genocide. London: Verso.
Newbury, Catherine. 1988. The Cohesion of Oppression: Clientship and Ethnicity in Rwan
da, 1860–1960. New York: Columbia University Press.
Prunier, Gérard. 1995. The Rwanda Crisis: History of a Genocide. New York: Columbia
University Press.
Prunier, Gérard. 1998. “The Rwandan Patriotic Front.” In African Guerillas, edited by
Christopher Clapham, 119–133. Bloomington: University of Indiana Press.
Reyntjens, Filip. 2004. “Rwanda, Ten Years On: From Genocide to Dictatorship.” African
Affairs 103: 177–210. Available at https://doi.org/10.1093/afraf/adh045. (p. 436)
Notes:
(1.) Out of respect for people’s privacy and security, I refer to people only in general
terms or use pseudonyms.
(2.) During the redistricting process of 2006, the Rwandan government changed the
name of the town to Huye, though most Rwandans still refer to it as Butare.
(3.) Radio-Télévision Libre des Mille Collines, or Free Radio-Television of a Thousand Hills
(though there was never any television component).
(4.) In fact, Bikindi’s second wife, Angeline Mukabanana, is Tutsi.
(5.) See Final Judgment. Simon Bikindi vs. The Prosecutor. Case No. ICTR-01-72-A, Inter
national Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR), Arusha, Tanzania, December 2, 2008.
(6.) Rwandan laws are inscribed in both English and French.
(7.) Most of the following summary reflects a broadly established and conventional ac
count of the political history of Rwanda (e.g., Newbury 1988; Prunier 1995; Des Forges
1999; Mamdani 2001; Melvern 2006). There is much debate, though, concerning the ac
tions of the RPF in the early 1990s. While there is general consensus that RPF soldiers
killed many innocent Rwandan civilians, there is fierce disagreement over how many
were killed by the RPF, whether casualties were intentional or not, the motives behind the
attacks, and who ordered and had knowledge of the attacks (see Prunier 1998; Reyntjens
2004; Lemarchand 2007; Davenport and Stam 2009).
(8.) Mouvement Républicain National pour la Démocratie et le Développement, or Nation

al Republican Movement for Democracy and Development.
Page 17 of 18

(9.) These rumors and the idea that Tutsi in Rwanda were traitors would especially gain
traction after Melchior Ndadaye, the first democratically elected Hutu president of Bu
rundi, was assassinated by Tutsi soldiers on October 21, 1993. However, this occurred
more than six months after Bikindi composed “Intabaza” and “Akabyutso.”
(10.) Coalition pour la Défense de la République.
(11.) Personal interview, May 26, 2011.
(12.) Literally, “the one who saves.”
(13.) Bene is sometimes translated as “brothers and sisters” or “children” (though the
proper Kinyarwanda term for “children” is abana). The term connotes a sense of familial
intimacy through a shared ancestry, thus my translation as “fellow descendants.”
(14.) Amoko, the plural of ubwoko, once referred to clans but is used now to refer to eth
nicity in Rwanda.
(15.) Mbwirabumva roughly translates as “I speak to those with ears,” implying “those
who understand.” This phrase is repeated often in both “Akabyutso” and “Intabaza.”
(16.) State of Internet Freedoms in Rwanda 2014: An Investigation into the Policies and
Practices Defining Internet Freedom in Rwanda. Collaboration on International ICT Policy
in East and Southern Africa (CIPESA), OpenNet Africa. Available at http://
www.cipesa.org/?wpfb_dl=179.
Jason McCoy
Independent Scholar
Page 18 of 18

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Memory, Trauma, and the Politics of Repatriating Bikindi’s Music in the Af­

termath of the Rwandan Genocide

Memory, Trauma, and the Politics of Repatriating

Print Publication Date: Oct 2019 Subject: Music, Ethnomusicology

Abstract and Keywords

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

an African music shop.

I then brought the recording back to Rwanda.

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

Censorship and Laws against Divisionism, Sec­

1° Discrimination is any speech, writing, or actions based on ethnicity, region or

English.6 It reads, “La pratique du sectarisme est un crime commis au moyen de

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

an aggregate of thoughts characterized by conduct, speeches, documents and oth­

The crime of genocide ideology is characterized in any behaviour manifested by

1° threatening, intimidating, degrading through defamatory speeches, docu­

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

Article 8 regarding the dissemination of genocide ideology is especially concerning:

Any person who disseminates genocide ideology in public through documents,

The Context of the Songs

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

The Content of the Songs

“Intabaza” unfolds as a mythic narrative in which the protagonist, Mutabazi,12 travels

B: Bene sebahinzi bagomba kumenya kandi ko abo banyarwanda batuye u Rwan­

M: Ibyo ntibihinduka.Those things cannot be changed.

M: None se?And so?

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

B: Ayiii . . . ! Ayiii . . . ! Bahamagare rwose bene sebahinzi baze mbahe

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

Sharing the Songs with Survivors and Witness­

“Ahhh . . . because this music—it takes me back to 1994!”

“You mean . . . back to the war? The genocide?”

“Yes, back to 1994!”

“It is my history.” (He repeated this one a lot.)

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

Before going further, let me clarify that I am in no position to diagnose Innocent,

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

These incidents raise critical questions as to how propaganda should be conceptualized.

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

Buckley-Zistel, Susanne. 2006. “Remembering to Forget: Chosen Amnesia as a Strategy

Lemarchand, René. 2007. “Genocide, Memory and Ethnic Reconciliation in Rwanda.” In

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

(4.) In fact, Bikindi’s second wife, Angeline Mukabanana, is Tutsi.

(6.) Rwandan laws are inscribed in both English and French.

(8.) Mouvement Républicain National pour la Démocratie et le Développement, or Nation­

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

(10.) Coalition pour la Défense de la République.

(11.) Personal interview, May 26, 2011.

(12.) Literally, “the one who saves.”

Subscriber: Universidade de Sao Paulo (USP); date: 30 May 2020

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Memory, Trauma, and the Politics of Repatriating Bikindi’s Music in the Af

Censorship and Laws against Divisionism, Sec

an aggregate of thoughts characterized by conduct, speeches, documents and oth

1° threatening, intimidating, degrading through defamatory speeches, docu

B: Bene sebahinzi bagomba kumenya kandi ko abo banyarwanda batuye u Rwan

Sharing the Songs with Survivors and Witness

(8.) Mouvement Républicain National pour la Démocratie et le Développement, or Nation