This is basically an extended travel essay, plus an uneasy meditation on the experience of being a white American among black Rwandans, seventeen years after America declined to do any good during the 1994 genocide. Bass was invited to go to Rwanda and co-teach a two-day writing workshop by Terry Tempest Williams, who has some deeper ties to the country and its people.
Throughout the book, he struggles with feeling superfluous, naive, helpless, and generally ill at ease in the face of Rwanda's terrible history. It's understandable--if he didn't feel this way, dropping in for a few days on Rwanda's young writers in the middle of their country's valiant effort to regenerate itself--he'd be a real jerk. But his uncertainty and ambivalence don't make for the best reading. I wanted him to move through his difficulties as White Man Abroad and step aside, to get out of the picture and show me more without constantly reminding me of how complicated it was to be there.
Maybe this is an impossible thing to ask--after all, part of the problem was that Bass was only there for a couple of days. Who wouldn't feel out of place, presumptuous and conflicted, in a situation like that? So maybe the trip was a bad idea, ill-conceived from the start. As Bass points out in every way possible, how much can two white, relatively privileged American writers really offer the Rwandans who are desperately searching for their voices? How shameful is it for them to turn up now, bearing running shoes and free copies of their books, when what Rwanda really needed was for America as a country to wake up, pay attention, and step in almost twenty years before?
The weight of the 1994 genocide (and the genocides before it--1994 was just one in a bloody series of convulsions in Rwanda) hangs horribly over the whole book. But Bass and Williams do their utmost to wring some value from their presence, to teach and listen and dignify their fellow Rwandan writers with, at long last, an audience. And by the end of their two-day workshop, it seems apparent that something good has happened. Their students leave the workshop feeling like writers, with hope that their stories have been and will be heard. And while it's unclear whether Bass and Williams make good on the schemes they've floated to bring Rwandan writing to a wider (American) audience, this book includes some of the Rwandan student writers' pieces, and its title is taken from one of them.
The rest of Bass's book (or essay, or whatever) is occupied with Rwanda's gorillas, and here his writing relaxes and grows smoother, less anguished, and more concrete. While he's horrified that there are only 780 gorillas left in the preserves shared by Rwanda, Congo, and Burundi (there used to be hundreds of thousands) he writes about the troop they visit with admiration and deep affection. I haven't read much Bass but I've read him on wolves, and he seems by inclination a writer of animals and the natural world, more than a writer of people. In the context of genocide, it's hard to blame him--although arguably the near-extinction of gorillas is a genocide, too.
This is a troubling little book, with a beautiful binding and a compelling core. All I can say, having finished it, is that I hope and want to see more Rwandan stories, written by Rwandans, making it to American shores.