Small Country

O Burundi é um pequeno país de África, encravado ente o Ruanda, a Tanzânia e a República Democrática do Congo, e cuja capital foi até há pouco tempo Bujumbura. Situado na zona dos grandes lagos africanos é “banhado” pelas águas do Lago Tanganica, e cerca de 85% da população são de etnia hútu, 15% são tutsis e 1% são pigmeus twa.

Small Country é uma semi-autobiografia, e conta-nos a história de um menino de 10 anos –Gabriel - filho de pai francês e mãe ruandesa-tutsi, que vive nos arredores de Bujumbura com os seus pais e a sua irmã Ana.
Gaby vive uma infância feliz, cheia de alegria, risos e aventuras com o seu grupo de amigos. Os dias são passados a roubar mangas, a fumar às escondidas, a imaginar o seu primeiro amor, e fazer planos com os amigos para formarem um gang com um nome fixe.

Toda esta existência pacífica está prestes a acabar. Há uma ameaça de guerra civil, e Gaby e os seus amigos rapidamente percebem que terão que definir-se como hútus ou tutsis.

I was a direct witness to Hutu–Tutsi antagonism, the line that could not be crossed, forcing everyone to belong to one camp or the other. This camp was something you were born with, like a child's given name, something that followed you forever. Hutu or Tutsi. It had to be one or the other. Heads or tails.

As tensões crescem, e Gabriel refugia-se nas cartas com a sua amiga por correspondência Laura, e nos livros que a Madame Economopoulos, sua vizinha, lhe empresta.

Have you read all those books?” I asked her.Yes. I've even read some of them many times over. (...)A book can change us?Of course a book can change you. It can even change your life. It's like falling in love. And you never know when such an encounter might happen. You should beware of books, they're sleeping genies.

Mas a guerra civil chega, e é através dos olhos de Gaby, e do relato devastador do impacto psicológico e emocional do genocídio numa família apanhada por esses horríveis acontecimentos, que acompanhamos a limpeza étnica ocorrida no Burundi e no Ruanda.

Genocide is an oil slick: those who don't drown in it are polluted for life.

I had no explanation for the deaths of some and the hatred of others. Perhaps this was what war meant: understanding nothing.

A carta que Gaby escreve a Christian é muito bonita, mas partiu-me o coração.

Dear Christian,I waited for you during the Easter holidays. Your bed was made up, next to mine. I'd pinned up a few pictures of footballers above it. I'd made some room in my wardrobe, so you could keep your clothes and ball in there. I was ready to welcome you.You're not coming.There are lots of things I never had time to tell you about. Take Laure, for instance, I realize I never told you about her. She's my fiancée. She doesn't know it yet, but I'm planning on asking her to marry me. Very soon. Once peace is here. Laure and I talk to each other with letters. Letters sent by airplane. Paper-storks flying between Africa and Europe. It's the first time I've fallen in love with a girl. It's a funny feeling. Like a fever in your belly. I don't dare tell my friends about it, they'd only make fun of me. They'd say I'm in love with a ghost. Because I haven't even seen this girl yet. But I don't need to meet her to know I love her. Our letters are enough for me.It's taken me a long time to write to you. I've been very busy recently, trying to stay a child. I'm worried about my friends. They're drifting further away from me every day. They argue about stuff that's meant for grown-ups, they invent enemies and reasons for fighting. My father was right to stop Ana and me from getting mixed up in politics. Papa looks tired. He seems absent. Distant. He's built up some heavy armor for himself, so the evil glances off him. But I know that deep down he's as soft as the pulp of a ripe guava.Maman never returned from visiting you. She left her spirit in your garden. Her heart is cracked. She has grown mad, like the world that took you away.It's taken me a long time to write to you. I was listening to a host of voices telling me so many different things...My radio told me that the Nigerian football team—the one you were supporting—won the Africa Cup of Nations. My great-grandmother told me that the people we love don't die as long as we keep thinking about them. My father told me that on the day men stop waging war on one another, it will snow over the tropics. Madame Economopoulos told me that words hold more truth than reality. My biology teacher told me that the earth is round. My friends told me that we have to choose which side we're on. My mother told me that you're sleeping for a long time, wearing the football shirt of your favorite team.But you, Christian, you won't tell me anything ever again.Gaby

É um livro pequeno, escrito com uma linguagem simples, mas poderoso.

40/198 – Burundi