The Blue Sweater: Bridging the Gap Between Rich and Poor in an Interconnected World

by Jacqueline Novogratz

  Between 1991 and 1994, RPF soldiers reportedly killed two of Prudence's brothers in the north. We discussed the history of the unstable northern region of this tiny country. Many Tutsis had lived in exile for a generation and wanted to return. The RPF's movements and stories of war crimes generated deep-seated fears among Hutus in Rwanda. Politicians preyed upon this, turning fear into hatred, and ordinary people into killers. "It was a terrible time," she said.

  When I pressed her on her involvement, she pushed back, restating that she was innocent. Prudence accused me of interrogating her along military lines, and she was right. I wanted to understand, and I was being aggressive. I felt trapped in a story of fear, identity, politics, and self-preservation and could see why what must never happen again so easily could unless we recognized our shared humanity and conquered fear itself.

  Now there was distance between us. Who was I to step into her life after a decade-long absence, to show up at the prison and begin firing off questions? I understood why she didn't trust me. But what I sought in talking with Agnes and Prudence had little to do with trust; rather, in truth, I think I was searching for clarity from them to keep my own worldview in some sort of order.

  As I said good-bye to Prudence, she thanked me for visiting her, saying that none of her friends had come.

  "They're probably afraid," I said, and she gave me a wan smile.

  On the drive back to Kigali, I felt so nauseated I had to ask the driver to pull over so I could be sick. Why had I thought I might find any clear answers in these prison cells? Maybe the gift those women had given me had more to do with accepting the disorder at the crucible of human existence.

  A YEAR LATER, PRUDENCE was freed, declared innocent, though she never made an appearance in court. This time, I visited her at home, where she welcomed me with grand salutations and a long, warm embrace before walking me from her blue metal gate past the manicured garden filled with fruit trees and flowering bushes. On that day, this former high-ranking government official looked like a woman you might bump into at the supermarket, in black pants and a loose-fitting striped top. Her hair was styled with hundreds of tiny extension braids that nearly reached her shoulders.

  We drank tea, exchanged pleasantries. When I asked her how she'd ended up being released, she responded softly, "There were never any charges against me."

  She told me that after 2 years in prison, reclaiming a life was harder than she'd expected. She had grown accustomed to the coarse prison food and had problems sleeping in a bed after so many nights spent lying on the floor, pressed against women on either side.

  "I had become nearly paralyzed from sitting all day and night in prison without moving much. I had terrible swelling in both legs. All night long I woke up, wondering where I was, forgetting that I was not on the ground."

  But now she was a free woman-at least legally so, released without charges. Her eyes still had that familiar twinkle.

  "And you know," she said, "if you pray hard enough and believe with your entire heart, miracles do happen."

  THE NEXT YEARS WOULD not be easy for Prudence, but in time she would again become a contributor, due to her own resilience and the acceptance of a country still undergoing a remarkable healing process.

  If Prudence had been just a bystander and that was her crime, then what about the rest of us who just stood by? The international community could have stopped the genocide if it had intervened. As our world becomes increasingly interconnected, we need to find better solutions that will include everyone in today's opportunities. Monsters will always exist. There's one inside each of us. But an angel lives there, too. There is no more important agenda than figuring out how to slay one and nurture the other.

  CHAPTER 12

  INSTITUTIONS MATTER

  "God helps those who persevere."

  -THE KORAN

  hen looking at what happened in the Rwandan genocide, we can conclude despairingly that the nature of humanity is evil-or we can focus on the things that endured: the extraordinary power of the human spirit, the exquisite dignity of some individuals on even the darkest days, and the number of people who helped one another during and after the tragedies in Rwanda simply because it was the right thing to do. It is from a place of hope, of the possibility of rebirth, of retribution, and even of optimism that Rwanda now has a real chance to become one of the developing world's success stories.

  I have been touched deeply by what happened in Rwanda not only because it revealed our potential for untold cruelty, but also because it will forever remind me that in any good society, nothing justifies the powerful excluding the powerless from basic opportunities. And if the genocide reminded me of our fragility as human beings, it also reinvigorated my belief that providing incentives for people to do the right thing matters a great deal. Institutions are key in reminding us who we are meant to be and how we are expected to behave as community members and citizens.

  We founded the microfinance bank Duterimbere on the assumption that women could not be excluded from the economy if Rwanda were to develop. The Rwandan founders dreamed that women could improve their conditions themselves if only they were given access to loans, markets, and some degree of business training. Though we made a lot of mistakes in the beginning, we created an institution that, for all its flaws, outlasted its founding group and has a life of its own, being run by and for Rwandan women and taking risks traditional enterprises would not consider. In retrospect, there is much I would have done differently, but seeing the Bank making an impact in so many lives 20 years later remains a deeply fulfilling experience.

  Imagine Kigali in 1994, a few months after the genocide: Houses everywhere had been looted and many were burned to the ground. Computers and phone lines had been ripped out of nearly every school and building, and the public infrastructure had been entirely destroyed. Stunned survivors walked through streets in a state of collective shock and inconsolable grief while more than a million of their countrymen, nearly all Hutus, lived along with Liliane and her family in the refugee camps in Zaire.

  To add to the overwhelming confusion, Tutsis who had lived in exile, some for more than 30 years as a result of earlier pogroms, returned to Rwanda. Those who had lived most of their lives in Uganda, including the new President Kagame and most of the soldiers of the Rwandan Patriotic Front, spoke English in addition to Kinyarwanda, not French, Rwanda's national language since colonial days. An entire nation needed to reinvent, rebuild, and reclaim itself.

  A group of determined members of Duterimbere came together to be part of the country's rebirth, though the building housing its offices had been ransacked and the furniture and equipment had been destroyed. Most account records had disappeared, and loan documents were scattered in the streets and in nearby houses. Step-by-step, women borrowers began retrieving far-flung documents and slowly rebuilding the institution.

  By 2007, I had a chance to see for myself what had become of their efforts. By then, Rwanda had again become a favorite cause of philanthropists and international aid specialists. I found myself in awkward conversations with wealthy individuals who spoke enthusiastically about the country: "An economic miracle," they called it, citing its 6 percent rate of economic growth, arguably a near-impossibility for a country still in a postconflict situation. They said it was "the perfect investment opportunity," a "democratic" nation with a population that "had moved on from the genocide."

  Indeed, the country had seen extraordinary growth while maintaining peace, and has also demonstrated a commitment to women that stands as a model for the world. Rwanda proportionally has more women in parliament today than any other nation-something we only dreamed would happen when Prudence, Constance, and Agnes were the first. Moreover, women represent more than 40 percent of the country's entrepreneurs. President Kagame has also done a remarkable job of communicating that all of his country's citizens are Rwandans and should not define themselves by their ethnic identity. There is so much to be hopeful about-and proud.

&nbs
p; At the same time, I bristled whenever I heard talk of Rwandans being "over the pain of genocide." I wanted to ask these philanthropists-and sometimes did-if they would be able to "move on" within a decade if they had to live next door to someone who had murdered their children in cold blood. I also wished for more humility and more answers about whether there was real equity in who was benefitting from growth.

  Over 20 years, I'd changed. At one time I sounded just like those wealthy philanthropists, looking for ways to make a difference with an uncritical eye, certain of my ideas, not questioning whether there were countervailing forces that had to be reckoned with in order to achieve long-term success. The genocide had exposed the dangers of a country overly reliant on aid, illuminated the perils of government power concentrated in too few hands and dependent on systems lacking accountability, and shown the fault lines of idealism without tough pragmatism. I was returning more humble and ready to listen at a deeper level.

  After arriving on an evening flight, I was instantly confronted by Kigali's distinctive scent, the sweet, burnt smell of roasted cassava, which made me both apprehensive and somewhat rueful, calling up in one aroma complex emotions about being back in a country so riven with contradictions.

  Outside customs, my old friend Liliane stood waiting in the crowd, looking very formal in a cream-colored suit and matching pumps, her hair coiffed in elaborate plaits, her smile clear and brilliant. She enveloped me in a powerful hug, showing real emotion without a trace of restraint. Standing beside her was her husband, Julien; their 18-year-old son, Augustin; and Valerie, the surviving twin, now an awkward, beautiful teenage girl. Suddenly, I was back, feeling fully alive, ready to see and absorb whatever I could, happier just being in the presence of Liliane's unbridled spirit than I'd imagined I could be.

  "We are your welcoming committee," she laughed.

  That night we dined on shish kebabs and grilled plantains with chili sauce, like the old days. Liliane described with great animation the changes I would see the next day: high-rise buildings, upscale restau rants, even a posh cappuccino shop. I laughed, remembering my reliance on instant coffee and fat-fortified powdered milk 20 years earlier. At the next table, a group of men were involved in a heated discussion. I was intrigued by the way their voices would rise and then suddenly go quiet, a reminder that people still did not feel it was safe to talk politics in a public place. Later, I fell asleep feeling tenderness for the people and city of Kigali and also a sense that fear and mistrust were understandably embedded in the nation's fabric.

  The next morning's light illuminated a frenzy of construction, not only in Kigali's business district but also in new suburbs, where giant houses were springing up for government ministers and a few highly successful entrepreneurs. Hundreds of boys wearing lime green jackets and helmets drove motorbikes that served as taxis, shuttling people back and forth across town for 504 a ride. Another league of young men in yellow shirts was selling cell phone cards, connecting people in this once faraway place to the rest of the world. Kigali was on the move, making strides well ahead of other countries in the region in spite of, or maybe partially as a result of, its national crisis. The change was exhilarating.

  Still, I was struck by a startling feeling of sameness in the physical aspects of Kigali and found comfort in knowing most of the buildings, stores, banks, and roundabouts along the roads. The hilly streets were still graced with eucalyptus and bougainvillea and walls enclosing neat brick houses. Soldiers on some street corners and a barricade blocking the road housing the president's compound were further reminders that not everything had changed.

  At a cafe where I sat for lunch, I met a Westerner who'd been in the country for decades. I asked him why he'd stayed so long and then remarked on the incredible progress I'd been witnessing. "Sure, things are getting done," the man with weary eyes and salt-and-pepper hair responded. "Rwandans are among the best at that. But there is a growing sense here that only one side is getting most of the benefits of development. The others resent that they've been left out of the system. It looks worse to them because some people here are getting very, very rich. Have you seen the houses being constructed? Mansions, some of them, almost all owned by government officials."

  I reminded him that he hadn't answered my question about why he stayed.

  "After all this time," he sighed, "this is my home, and I will never leave it.

  "Why did you come back?" he asked me.

  "Visiting friends" was all I said and then excused myself. I wanted to see what had happened to the women of Duterimbere 13 years after the genocide, 20 years after the institution was first created. I'd been in touch only sporadically since my last visit, 6 years prior. During that time my attention had been focused on building Acumen Fund, a new organization formed partially because of those early experiences with Duterimbere. But I also didn't have strong connections to the institution; it had seen several executive directors since my previous visit.

  As the car moved toward the bank, I wondered how I would be received after so much time and so little contact. Would I be remembered at all? I told myself it didn't matter, though I hoped not to have been entirely forgotten.

  It was thrilling to see a long line of people waiting outside the bank. The building looked clean and white, and I smiled at Duterimbere's familiar logo on the sign above the door. The people waiting were obviously poor, and there was a solid mix of women and men, something I hadn't seen in my day. I guessed the men were there for the for-profit credit union that Duterimbere had started, and smiled to myself at thinking about how organizations change and flourish, influenced by many hands and forces. Before entering to talk to the new executive director, I approached an older woman waiting in line, a red and yellow wrap around her waist.

  "What brings you here?" I asked.

  "I'm waiting to deposit my pay," she said, and her neighbors nodded. The woman next to her, holding 2,000 francs-about $4-was depositing her savings. More people sat patiently inside as three bank tellers tried to keep up with demand.

  The bank's new executive director, Dativa, a tall woman with pokerstraight shoulder-length hair in a smart pantsuit, welcomed me with a big hello and proceeded to introduce me to everyone in the office, pointing to the separate sections housing the for-profit credit union and the nonprofit, separate microfinance organization, which, together, served 50,000 clients. She then proudly showed me pictures of Duterimbere's 20th anniversary celebration, which had been attended by the first lady of the country and other dignitaries, including several woman parliamentarians and founding members of the organization.

  Grateful for Dativa's generous reception, I congratulated her on how far Duterimbere had come, though I knew it hadn't been a smooth jour ney. Over the years, there'd been a number of severe financial stresses and staffing challenges.

  "Yes," she affirmed, "but we're through that and are looking forward to more successful times."

  In the third-floor library, a simple room with wooden, glass-fronted bookcases on the perimeter and chairs for meetings in the middle, Dativa found the training manual I'd written. She explained that recently Duterimbere had updated it to reflect the country's current realities. Eagerly I turned the pages of the earlier version, seeing my younger self in handwritten phrases and overly earnest explanations of business finance, such as the difference between current liabilities, debts the women could pay off quickly, and long-term liabilities. Unable to imagine that I actually went into this level of detail with our mostly illiterate clients who typically sold vegetables in the marketplace, I apologized to Dativa for all the poor women I'd tortured with my Wall Street credit training. We both laughed as she gave me a high five.

  As we giggled at my expense, an affable-looking 50-year-old with straight black hair flecked with gray, wearing a long, traditional cotton dress in black and yellow and green, entered the library. Anne Marie, one of the earliest managers at Duterimbere after the genocide, was in charge of all training and program activities and would
be my guide for the day. I liked her energetic style and smile.

  I asked Anne Marie if she had grown up in Rwanda. She raised an eyebrow and smiled: "Already, you are placing people. Now I know you know Rwanda," she said, as if I had broken a code.

  Sheepishly, I responded that the country still seemed very complicated; I was just trying to make some sense of things.

  "Complicated, yes," she said. "No doubt. And it is good you understand it instead of ignoring the cultural context and realities of Rwanda. But there is more hope now, more of a sense that we can do something important. This is our chance. But we have to help one another live together as one people. We are trying."

  Born and raised in the Republic of the Congo by Rwandan parents, Anne Marie had been living in Rwanda since a month after the genocide ended. She described coming to the country in 1994: "Kigali was in chaos then, and I was looking for an organization where I would feel proud to work," she told me. "I had experience with cooperatives and believed in women working together. My mother always said `In union we are strong,' and I thought of her when I first saw Duterimbere's logo with the women marching together toward the bank."

  I recalled the days when Dieu Donne had created that logo, working with Ginette and me, how he had laughed and said he agreed with Prudence that the women walked more like me than Rwandan women. I thought of so many struggles to conquer oppression or just survive. In union we are strong-all of us.

  Anne Marie continued: "At the end of 1994 when I joined, everything was daunting, overwhelming really, but we pulled together. No one was without great suffering, but there was also no crime, nor were there voices raised in anger, even. We all helped one another. Sadly, since then life has changed."