Performing Trauma in Central Africa: Shadows of Empire

INTRODUCTION

HOW DO YOU MEASURE LOSS, or pain or trauma? Can you quantify pain? Can you quantify a crisis? This question appears in Forgotten World, a play by Ugandan writer Deborah Asiimwe that explores a surreal world populated with the ghosts of child soldiers.¹ Although this experimental play often transcends geographic context, its primary setting is northern Uganda, where the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) conscripted several thousand children during a twenty-year conflict.² Beyond the painful question of how we convey to others the experience of mass violence, Asiimwe’s play explores the complicity of the international community in the commodification of trauma. At the heart of the play is the Photographer, who auctions photographs of traumatized children across the globe to various media conglomerates ranging from Al Jazeera to Fox News. The spirits of six former child soldiers increasingly haunt the Photographer, shattering her complacency as they insist on enacting their experiences of violence through a series of twisted games. She becomes fascinated by their games and narratives to the extent that they colonize her thoughts. She confides to the audience, The real exhibition is always inside my head…. That is where they play their games.³ Despite the emotional and cognitive impact of the children, she ultimately fails to overcome her impulse to document their suffering and holds an auction of the photographs: Four … five … six hundred thousand…. I will sit with you at dinner…. This is great…. Two minutes left and we are out of here!⁴ The cynical denouement underscores the relentless cycle of commodification, objectification, and the othering of pain.

Fig. 1. Production of Forgotten World by Deborah Asiimwe, 2009. Photo by Steven A. Gunther. Courtesy of CalArts.

Forgotten World confronts the economies of war that feed on trauma. Chaos and crisis are to some their daily bread, the Photographer is cautioned in a reminder of the profitability of war, a business in which she is thoroughly complicit insofar as her livelihood depends on the sale of her photographs.⁵ A slide show of images with the hottest sales clarifies these dynamics as the Photographer presents her series of portraits of notorious recruiters of child soldiers across the African continent: Charles Taylor of Sierra Leone, Jonas Savimbi of Angola, and, of course, Joseph Kony, the founder and leader of the LRA.⁶ With each slide, she enumerates their violent acts, such as physical mutilation of civilians and the abduction of children, with the implication that the scale of violence increases the auction value of these images on the trauma market. The enterprise of humanitarianism also comes under fire when the Photographer mixes up the orderly narrative through which the children are expected to progress: Lives will be transformed … rehabilitated … reintegrated! That’s not the order…. Rehabilitated, Transformed, Reintegrated! That is right!⁷ The simplistic slogans of these organizations, which foretell the triumph of humanitarian intervention through the production of newly functioning members of society, adds another layer of complicity in the marketing of war. To return to the original question, pain and suffering can indeed be quantified by the market’s peculiar wisdom.

Forgotten World focuses less on the actual event of mass trauma than on its commodification. Marx’s expansive definition of commodity as a thing which through its qualities satisfies human needs of whatever kind accommodates the recasting of trauma as a thing to be appropriated and consumed.⁸ The auctioning of the photographs in Forgotten World literalizes and thus demystifies the process in which the multifaceted impact of sustained violence on Ugandan bodies is objectified and bartered in the affect economies of the present media-saturated age. The commodification of African trauma entails a brutal domestication of unspeakable acts into reassuring stereotypes of distant suffering, in which the consumer’s precious fiction of safety and security is affirmed. As the Photographer muses, "These tragic stories … these photographs. Very sad and very … very … hm … appealing."⁹ In the world of the play, both narratives and images are used in the marketability of pain. Death becomes circumscribed and contained in an urge to satisfy one of the more peculiar human needs of whatever kind.

Forgotten World asks pointed questions about these acts of consumption. The play opens and concludes with a cocktail party in which the audience is invited onto the stage to view photographs of the children. Spectators are served drinks as they peruse images of African suffering; meanwhile, a recorded voice reminds them that the exits are well marked in case of an emergency.¹⁰ Should the veneer of what Susan Sontag calls the luxury of patronizing reality begin to crack and the ordinariness of crisis be exposed, the spectators can blithely resume their lives of carefully cultivated and forcefully maintained ignorance.¹¹ This staging device not only gestures to the predictability of commodification but also unmasks the geopolitical privilege of western desiring subjects.

Ugandan child soldiers step in as the thing to be desired. These children occupy a starring role on the trauma stage in the United States, in no small part because of the efforts of the organization Invisible Children, whose 2004 documentary Invisible Children: Rough Cut brought the LRA crisis to the attention of high-school and university students. Invisible Children’s sensational footage of the atrocities committed by the LRA, coupled with soothing affirmations of how US privileged youth can help bring the LRA leaders to justice, galvanized and sustained what Teju Cole has termed the white savior industrial complex.¹² Even as the LRA retreated from northern Uganda in 2006 and the region stabilized, Ugandan child soldiers increasingly appeared in a range of mass-media forms, ranging from a music video for Fall Out Boy’s 2007 hit single I’m like a Lawyer to a 2009 episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.¹³ Fascination with the LRA peaked with Invisible Children’s release of Kony 2012, which raised US$5 million within forty-eight hours. Very, hm, appealing.

I was also susceptible to this appeal. In the mid-1990s, I read about the LRA’s abductions in northern Uganda while I was conducting fieldwork in Tanzania. Even though I was shocked by the alarming statistics of mass killing and abductions reported in the Swahili press, I also recall how distant I felt from these events despite Uganda’s geographic and political proximity. Tanzanians with whom I discussed the LRA, generally speaking, were able to fold these stories into an affirmation of Tanzania’s much-vaunted national stability that stood in contrast to Uganda’s fractured and violent postcolonial past. These sensational narratives—as well as their appropriation—stayed with me when I returned to the United States, and in 2004 I visited Gulu to learn how the arts served as a tool for healing and forgiveness in the context of rehabilitation. As I prepared for this visit, I came across Carolyn Nordstrom’s stirring call in her landmark study of the Mozambican civil war, A Different Kind of War Story, in which she writes, It is in creativity, in the fashioning of self and world, that people find their most potent weapon against war.¹⁴ Even though I was well schooled in the dynamics of appropriation and counterappropriation in the context of Tanzanian performance, I vividly recall my eagerness to learn how theatre in northern Uganda served as a forum for the articulation of human rights and the rebuilding of self and world. For some mysterious reason—perhaps I had succumbed to the western tendency to romanticize violence as a spark for creativity—I anticipated a rich variety of case studies in which aesthetic experimentation served as a gateway for processing the trauma of war. I explain this background in order to emphasize that I am susceptible to the very forces I have chosen to study. The processes of commodification and the othering of pain are too pervasive, I suspect, for any of us—and I do mean a capacious us—to be immune.

My experiences in Gulu served as the springboard for this book. Although I encountered vivid demonstrations of creativity and resilience in northern Uganda, I also came to realize the stakes of artistic expression in a time of war and the eagerness of humanitarian nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) and the state to appropriate and manipulate these expressions. The year in which I visited Gulu marked the ten-year anniversary of the 1994 Rwandan genocide, an occasion commemorated with an explosion of performance texts and films. Three years later, in 2007, US playwright and activist Eve Ensler launched a mass humanitarian campaign against the femicide in the eastern Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). As my research expanded, I found that I could more fully understand images and narratives related to these events in Uganda, Rwanda, and the DRC through exploring their connective tissue. Although governments and humanitarian NGOs use these horrors to compete with one another for international attention, the events themselves are linked through a dense regional history of colonial and postcolonial violence, transnational technologies of war, and the praxis of global humanitarianism. In focusing on cultural productions that respond to the LRA conflict, the Rwandan genocide, and the continuing violence in the DRC, I can explore not only the commodification of violence but also why certain kinds of violence are commodified—that is, which ones are deemed to satisfy human needs.

But instead of human needs, I write of empire. I repeatedly encountered a stubborn, homogenizing force that I have come to think of as an empire of trauma, a global shadow that has infiltrated creative capacities and the interior of memory.¹⁵ A curious predictability insistently cuts across representations of violence in and from the Great Lakes region.¹⁶ The Congolese crisis is perceived through the lens of sexual violence, Rwanda is equated with the 1994 genocide, and northern Uganda is understood in terms of abducted children. One might argue that these singular emphases speak to certain realities and statistics: the 66,000 children abducted by the LRA, the 800,000 Rwandans killed in less than three months in 1994, and the forty-eight Congolese women raped every hour in the DRC.¹⁷ But as I will explain in the following chapters, these statistics are regularly invoked as evidence for master narratives and thus tend to cloud more than they clarify. Rey Chow uses the term repeatable visibilities to describe the artificiality and potency of representations as commodities; I found that the tropes coming out of East and Central Africa were repeatable to the point of banality.¹⁸ Empire insists on consistent and simplistic narratives with clear-cut definitions of victim and perpetrator, sweeping aside nuance and complexity in its single-minded quest for spectacles and narratives of suffering. Empire hungers for suffering northern Ugandans, Tutsi victims, and raped Congolese women. These repeatable visibilities are the sustenance on which it feeds.

I borrow the phrase empire of trauma from Didier Fassin and Richard Rechtman’s The Empire of Trauma: An Inquiry into the Condition of Victimhood. Fassin and Rechtman trace how trauma was granted legitimate and moral status in which being defined as a victim entails access to rights and compensation. They explain, Trauma is not simply the cause of the suffering that is being treated, it is also a resource that can be used to support a right.¹⁹ In the second half of the twentieth century, as international humanitarian organizations sought to heal traumatized populations in the aftermath of catastrophe and war, the gathering of testimony—that is, the narration of trauma—served as a useful justification for these organizations in light of their limited ability to provide material aid. Although Fassin and Rechtman do not theorize their use of the term empire as a rubric for the processes of legitimation and politicization of trauma that occurred during the twentieth century, they acknowledge the ways in which trauma contributes to constructing new forms of political subjectification and new relations with the contemporary world, thus opening the door for a closer analysis of these dynamics.²⁰ In coining the phrase empire of trauma, they hint at the ways in which trauma, humanitarianism, and sovereignty intersect.

Performing Trauma in Central Africa explores performance in the Great Lakes region through the lens of an empire of trauma. This lens speaks powerfully to the politics of representation in Uganda, Rwanda, and the DRC, where victim narratives are often perceived as a point of access to international recognition, as well as the material resources of humanitarian aid. To theorize an empire of trauma is to attend to the ways in which cultural workers maintain and manipulate these narratives as a means of attracting the gaze of empire, and how empire consumes and appropriates these narratives. Fassin and Rechtman write that trauma excites sympathy and merits compensation, a phrase that speaks to the intersection of emotional appeal and economic incentives.²¹ For Central Africans located on the margins of global economies, trauma is not only a cause of suffering but is also perceived as a ticket to access empire’s wealth. As John and Jean Comaroff might put it, trauma serves as a useful commodity for those with no work and little to sell.²² The processes of commodification ensure that cultural expressions perpetuate the quantification of pain.

The lens of empire also sheds light on the shifting terrain of sovereignty in Central Africa. In theorizing the contours of a humanitarian empire that permeates and even supersedes the state, scholars have coined various terms including post-postcolonialism, therapeutic sovereignty, the global morality market, traumatic citizenship, a colonialism of compassion and charitable imperialism.²³ These studies underscore the arbitrariness of how humanitarian administrations define victimhood and how these definitions overlap with determinations of citizenship in their quest to alleviate suffering.²⁴ In her studies of humanitarian interventions in the Balkans, Mariella Pandolfi often invokes Arjun Appadurai’s notion of mobile sovereignty to describe the transnational reach of humanitarian NGOs and military interventions that exists alongside local structures of governance.²⁵ Even celebrities such as Bono and Angelina Jolie are implicated in these networks of transnational dominance. In their scathing indictment of celebrity activism in Africa, Lisa Ann Richey and Stefano Ponte describe these activists as emotional sovereigns and the lubricant for a political-economic formation in which consumption becomes the mechanism for compassion.²⁶ The concept of an empire of trauma highlights the role of humanitarian affect in the processes of imperial sovereignty. Empire does not only want to rule the world—it wants to experience warm fuzzies while doing so.²⁷

Empire cries. A lot. This book is, in part, a response to the many crying foreigners I saw during my travels in Uganda and Rwanda. They sobbed while visiting memorial sites of the 1994 Rwandan genocide; they wept when listening to testimonies of former child soldiers of the LRA in northern Uganda. They cried in response to the warm welcomes and the bright smiles of Rwandan orphans; they wailed about the extreme poverty in northern Uganda. Although young white women predominated in this public, overt shedding of tears in response to East African structural and episodic violence, these displays often transcended the boundaries of race, sex, and age. What these foreigners held in common was economic and geopolitical privilege, signified by their ability to travel to far corners of the globe out of curiosity and interest rather than flight from limited economic opportunities or political upheaval. They were united in a collective sense of earnestness that brought them to Central Africa in the first place. They were open, naïve, and painfully eager to help. They were playwrights, filmmakers, students, professors. They were minions of empire.

Sentimentality has long been marshaled in the cause of empire. In the early 1700s, a new dramatic genre called sentimental comedy emerged in England, in which praise of virtue was emphasized over ridicule of vice. Open sobbing over the plight of these virtuous characters was perceived as a mark of morality and good character; this new kind of drama was often called weeping comedy, as if to underscore the performative nature of audience reception.²⁸ Analogously, one’s tears in response to genocide and mass trauma in Central Africa could be a reassuring gesture that one’s sense of moral outrage is alive and kicking; that is, the sobbing self is a good self. But as Lynn Festa persuasively argues, eighteenth-century sentimental literature dovetailed with the expansion of a European empire; these texts, which helped to define who will be acknowledged as human in the course of imperial expansion, worked to convert the violence of conquest into expressions of benevolence.²⁹ Festa’s analysis invites comparison with twenty-first century trauma tourism. These visitors’ willingness to seek out memorials and listen to victim testimonies operates in what Jennifer Hyndman calls the colonialism of compassion, that is, a kind of affect that ultimately sugarcoats the violence of neoliberalism and neocolonialism.³⁰ The sobbing self is also an imperial self.

Sovereignty and humanitarianism intersect in an empire of trauma. These weeping foreigners serve as an omnipresent audience for cultural production and creative expression throughout postconflict and conflict regions in Uganda, Rwanda, and the DRC. Ponte and Richey’s concept of emotional sovereignty helps clarify my approach to trauma, which I interpret less as a tool of empire than as a lubricant for the cogs of global sovereignty. Certainly the role of trauma in the machinery of global capital has been theorized elsewhere; Naomi Klein, for example, has famously argued that neoliberal systems appropriate or even provoke catastrophic events in order to implement market reform among vulnerable populations and thus encroach on their resources.³¹ Although I (and, I dare say, many of the Central Africans mentioned in this book) would agree that state and world orders are keenly aware of the usefulness of episodic violence as a means of keeping populations of the global south in check, this book takes a different slant.³² It focuses on the summoning of African trauma as a means to satiate and soothe the appetites of empire. Empire demands spectacles of trauma to assuage its fear regarding its own precarity and fragility in an increasingly unstable world order. During a time when the north appears to be ‘evolving’ southward, leaving many western citizens to face the insecurities and instabilities, even the forced mobility and disposability, characteristic of life in much of the non-West, Uganda, Rwanda, and the DRC serve as the ultimate others against which the west can collectively define itself and be reassured of internal solvency.³³ In theorizing the lure of violence, Slavoj Žižek suggests that there is something inherently mystifying in a direct confrontation with [violence]: the overpowering horror of violent acts and empathy with the victims inexorably function as a lure which prevents us from thinking.³⁴ Drawing on Žižek, we might interpret the emotional outpouring over the plight of northern Ugandan children or eastern Congolese women as useful distractions from pointed questions and deeper understandings of global politics.³⁵ African trauma is packaged to obscure rather than to illuminate empire’s complicity in a world order that sustains mass death and systemic violence.

My emphasis on the summoning and narrating of trauma makes me wary of defining it. The thing that is commodified might bear only a passing resemblance to the actual psychic or physical wound that triggered immediate and long-term suffering on individual and collective levels. Fassin and Rechtman again prove helpful by describing trauma as a signifier to help explain its capaciousness: Today we talk of rape and genocide, of torture and slavery, of terrorist attacks and natural disasters in the same language, both clinical and metaphorical, of trauma: one signifier for a plurality of ills signified.³⁶ The reduction of heterogeneity facilitates the erasure of cultural specificities regarding the perception, processing, and narration of trauma. Although this book does periodically address Central African perceptions of trauma, as in chapter 2, when I touch on the investment in realism in northern Uganda that exceeds the imperial gaze, the cultural nuances of trauma are not my focus.³⁷ Instead, I emphasize the dynamics of consumption and the packaging of suffering that the trauma limelight has deemed appropriate for international visibility and attention. The signifier trumps specificity and nuance.

This is not the book I wanted to write. Empire insinuates itself into a range of public forums discussed in this book, from global forms such as NGO media campaigns to grassroots expressions such as indigenous dance. Like the children’s macabre games in Forgotten World, these cultural productions might be understood as attempts to attract empire’s attention rather than as manifestations of cultural resilience. This book sidesteps conventional understandings of African performance, which is often viewed as a kind of fun space or as flights of imagination operating outside the constraints of global capitalism; alternatively, it is theorized as a site of resilience or resistance that maintains a sense of cultural autonomy despite economic and political oppression.³⁸ Theatre, which looms large in this book as a form of creative expression, often receives special mention in African studies because of its potential to script emancipatory or critical narratives in a public forum.³⁹ Although I remain deeply invested in theatre’s creative and imaginative capacity, particularly in light of the brilliance and dedication of many Central African artists, the case studies explored in this book insist upon a multilayered understanding of performance.⁴⁰ Although optimistic interpretations periodically surface—see, for example, my analysis of dance in northern Uganda in chapter 2, as well as my discussion of Faustin Linyekula in the afterword—these alternative readings operate alongside rather than in tension with articulations of empire. Performance is widely seized on as a means of accessing the empire of trauma and thus highlights the ambiguities, opacities and uncertainties of postcolonial visibilities.⁴¹ In his well-known critique of globalization theory, James Ferguson argues that as the contemporary African material shows so vividly, the ‘global’ does not ‘flow,’ thereby connecting … contiguous spaces; it hops instead, efficiently connecting the enclaved points in the network while excluding (with equal efficiency) the spaces that lie between the points.⁴² The vast majority of Ugandan, Rwandan, and Congolese people inhabit the in-between spaces; to perform the right kind of trauma in the right kind of way might open up access to the enclaved points themselves.

In tracking these points, this book does considerable hopping. Although the creative expressions of Central Africans take center stage in this analysis, I also address interventionist and activist efforts of westerners in order to clarify the investment and reach of empire. This analysis draws on fieldwork and textual analysis, as well as my participation in a series of intercultural encounters and collaborations with theatre artists from these countries who have sought an ethical response to war and genocide. Through a careful contextualization of these texts and encounters in the fraught political landscape of the Great Lakes region, this book calls for new understandings of the role of creative expression, cultural agency, and activism in a landscape of conflict, postconflict, and structural violence. Emotional sovereigns are not limited to megastars like Bono but also include the earnest college student making her way to Uganda and Rwanda to try to make a difference. And the US-based theatre scholar is not necessarily impervious to empire’s charms. I cried, too.

SLOUCHING TOWARD EMPIRE

Theorizing empire in a postcolonial African context raises academic hackles, not least because the term calls to mind Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri’s controversial manifesto Empire. Hardt and Negri posit a new world order in which diffuse multinational and supranational institutions have effaced previously cohesive and legitimized states.⁴³ They argue that unlike traditional imperial forms that relied on classical notions of territorial sovereignty, as in the instance of the European colonization of Africa in the late nineteenth century, Empire with a capital E "is a decentered and deterritorializing apparatus of rule that progressively incorporates the entire global realm within its open, expanding frontiers."⁴⁴ Borrowing extensively from Giles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s concepts of horizontal and rhizomatic modes of power, Hardt and Negri characterize millennial forms of power as lines of flight, that is, as a deterritorializing rather than a stratifying force.⁴⁵ Instead of manifesting itself through boundaries and binaries, global hegemony exerts itself through permeation and infiltration, breaking down distinctions between inside and outside, public and private.

Hardt and Negri’s concept of Empire has minimal relevance in a continent where state sovereignty has often been cobbled together through a complex system of neopatrimony, foreign aid, and authoritarian tactics. Central African contexts include a variety of state survival strategies that make a mockery of Hardt and Negri’s notion of a smooth global space with all-encompassing reach. President Yoweri Museveni of Uganda, for example, generally tolerates a relatively robust Ugandan press but is quick to crack down on protests and rallies organized by the political opposition. President Paul Kagame of Rwanda has sharply curtailed press freedom and opposition politics but has embraced neoliberalization tactics, such as the privatization of the public sector and large-scale conglomerate investment.⁴⁶ Although Uganda, Rwanda, and the DRC are linked by shared political, ethnic, and regional affiliations, categorizing them under the rubric empire erases vastly different political structures and approaches to democratization, militarization, and social welfare.

Hardt and Negri’s grand rhetoric also fails to account for the acute marginalization of Africa in global capital. Although Uganda and Rwanda do not quite match the DRC’s notoriety for ranking near the bottom in various indexes of infant mortality, life expectancy, and literacy, substantial numbers of the populations in all three countries eke out lives of economic desperation.⁴⁷ Hardt and Negri acknowledge Africa’s exceptionalism when they write that most subordinated regions, such as areas of sub-Saharan Africa, are effectively secluded from capital flows and new technologies, and they thus find themselves on the verge of starvation.⁴⁸ But despite these attempts to account for Africa’s intractable alterity, the book’s broad scope sits uneasily with Africanists. As Kevin Dunn points out, Hardt and Negri demonstrate a contradictory reasoning that leaves Africa occupying an ambiguous relationship with Empire—simultaneously incorporated and excised.⁴⁹ Not surprisingly, the field of African studies has responded to Hardt and Negri’s epochal claim with pointed silence.⁵⁰

In place of empire, neoliberalism beckons as a more obvious platform that accounts for a marketplace of trauma in which the logic of capital deems testimonies and other performative expressions of suffering useful and productive. Erica Caple James, for example, describes how Haitian suffering became productive as a tool of NGO governance, noting that a professional transformation of suffering … fed a growing humanitarian market.⁵¹ Similarly, Hardt and Negri often resort to neoliberal terminology to describe the permeations and permutations of empire.⁵² Throughout this book, I also borrow from neoliberal theory to trace the marketing of trauma. In chapter 4, for example, I discuss how an empire of trauma participates in techniques of neoliberal governance with its emphasis on apolitical and compliant subjectivity. Representations of trauma in the eastern DRC cannot be fully understood without referencing the international campaign against the violent excesses of King Leopold’s Congo Free State (1885–1906), which serves as one of the most spectacular and forceful antecedents of modern humanitarianism. But what is decidedly new (read: neoliberal) about present-day discourse concerning the eastern region as the rape capital of the world is that the female victims are interpreted as docile subjects submissive to modes of Western ideals of neoliberalism and governance, and thus their experiences of trauma are invoked to legitimize their participation. In a similar vein, the title of chapter 3, which pays tribute to the Comaroffs’ Ethnicity, Inc., underscores the processes through which trauma is compartmentalized and incorporated into the machinery of late capitalism in the example of postgenocide Rwanda.⁵³ The fleeting and arbitrary nature of the resources of humanitarianism raises the stakes of competition.

Despite these caveats, I hold fast to empire as a framework. Hardt and Negri’s Empire repeatedly and insistently blurs the dichotomies of private/public, fact/fiction, and reality/spectacle—a dynamic that clarifies the transformation of personal experiences of trauma into public expression. The reified status of victim testimony, long privileged as a source of truth-knowing about suffering individuals or groups, has facilitated what James calls its global saturation. James notes that the performance of trauma narratives has become a necessary transaction in order for sufferers to participate in local, national, and international compassion economies.⁵⁴ Trauma is translated into testimony in hopes of gaining access to the economies of empire. Drawing on Guy Debord’s The Society and the Spectacle in their discussion of mass media in the age of empire, Hardt and Negri heighten the stakes of trauma economies in their argument that in the society of the spectacle only what appears exists.⁵⁵ This logic calls for postcolonial subjects to seize the workings of spectacle in order to lay claim to existence, which serves as a gateway to the politics of rights, recognition, and material gain. In this context, commodification might be understood as a desirable alternative to abandonment.⁵⁶

In the humanitarian market, testimony serves as currency. Didier Fassin explains that suffering beings become complicit in the process of essentializ[ing] the victim insofar as these persons often willingly submit to the category assigned to them: they understand the logic of this construction, and they anticipate its potential benefits.⁵⁷ He then takes this argument a step further—not only are trauma narratives exchanged in order to gain access to humanitarian capital, but also these narratives might be actively shaped in response to empire’s appetites. As he writes, The individuals in question tend to conform to this portrait [of suffering], knowing that it will have an impact on public opinion, and thus offer to the humanitarian agents the part of their experience that feeds the construction of them as human beings crushed by fate.⁵⁸ If trauma functions as a commodity, nuggets of pain will be used as raw material to manufacture full-blown tales of woe. Fact and fiction might be blurred to such a degree that the possibility of counterfeit currency looms.⁵⁹

In theorizing an empire of trauma, it would be easy to leap onto the critical bandwagon and lambast international NGOs for their active and enthusiastic participation in these narratives of victimization. During the Kony 2012 controversy, critics attacked Invisible Children for implying that the conflict was still decimating northern Uganda despite the LRA’s departure from Uganda in 2006.⁶⁰ In suggesting that the conflict was still alive and well in northern Uganda, Invisible Children negated local efforts to sustain a hard-won semblance of stability. Although I acknowledge and unpack the damage wrought by top-down forces, this exercise is reminiscent of shooting fish in a barrel. A more complicated and fraught task is to consider local complicities of organizations and individuals in an empire of trauma. For example, I often refer to Hope North, which was founded in 1998 as an alternative resettlement community for war-affected Acholi and currently serves as a secondary school and vocational program. Hope North was founded by Okello Kelo Sam, himself an Acholi whose brother was abducted by the LRA in 1996. Until November 2012—about six years after hostilities on Ugandan soil had ended—the Hope North website continued to perpetuate the notion of a northern Uganda at war, proclaiming, for example, that the civil war in northern Uganda has raged now for 22 years, making it one of the world’s most neglected humanitarian crises.⁶¹ This outdated piece of information could be chalked up to a simple labor shortage; the internet abounds with out-of-date websites that do not necessarily speak of the perniciousness of empire. The website was, however, often updated with other events and news about Hope North and its students over this six-year period, whereas the master narrative of the LRA war was left untouched. An alternative reading is that it serves as a classic example of how Fassin’s suffering beings are complicit in the perpetuation of northern Uganda’s image as a war zone.⁶² But even more complicated is the way in which Sam’s personal involvement in the war takes on various forms depending on the humanitarian context in which he shares details of his complicated life history, as well as how this history is perceived by outsiders (see chapter 5). My findings suggest that even the interior of memory is vulnerable to empire’s reach.

Social scientists caution that notions of truth and testimony become destabilized in conflict and postconflict zones. Interviewing a survivor involves not only gleaning data but also negotiating humanitarian expectations. As Alex Argenti-Pillen puts it, how these survivors talk about violence can … no longer be studied in isolation from the ways they have learned to present themselves to humanitarian agencies.⁶³ In their research on former LRA abductees, for example, Christopher Blattman and Jeannie Annan verified the identities of their informants because of widespread eagerness to claim the status of abductee in hopes of accessing material assistance.⁶⁴ A project such as mine could be said to be stating the obvious since these dynamics proliferate in resource-poor contexts. My aim, though, is not to footnote them but to place them center stage; I argue that these dynamics exceed the relationship between researcher and informant and spill into the realm of creative expression. This approach builds on James Thompson’s work on humanitarian performance, in which he explores how humanitarian agencies perpetuate a troubling mix of iconic images, compassion economics, celebrity concern, and the staging of misery, but it also considers how a humanitarian aesthetic has become internalized by local actors.⁶⁵ As described in chapter 6, when the students of Hope North developed a play in 2007 that put forward a critique of foreign intervention, they were quick to rein themselves in and suppressed the play of their own accord once they began to realize the implications of their lively and humorous performance. In its place, they offered a drastically scaled-down performance that provided a far more palatable and conventional humanitarian narrative. Creativity was not only circumscribed but actively self-censored before the gaze of empire.

Twenty-first-century manifestations of empire and late capitalism are inextricable. But in contrast to the nimbleness of neoliberalism, characterized by extreme dynamism, mobility of practice, responsiveness to contingencies and strategic entanglements with politics, the empire of trauma is a ponderous beast that relies on the overtly paternalistic stance of humanitarianism and blatant dependence on top-down structures and clear divisions between victims and benefactors.⁶⁶ Its tastes run to contained versions of trauma that emphasize exceptionalism and disruption; it rejects evidence of its ordinariness for much of the world’s population and the violence of the everyday. Instead of the dynamism of neoliberal strategies and techniques, an empire of trauma demands blunt humanitarian narratives and simplified images of spectacularized suffering. In addition, its insistence on finding traumatized victims in the face of contradictory evidence can be breathtakingly obtuse. Ugandan child soldiers, Rwandan genocide survivors, and Congolese rape victims were found on slender or even nonexistent evidence, as if they were invoked at will. This predictability and homogeneity speak of the blatant nature of conquest—I name you as traumatized, and therefore you exist—rather than the subtleties of neoliberalism. Although the tactics of marketing, branding, and commodification are used to draw empire’s mercurial attention, neoliberalism makes up only part of the story.

Empire might be voracious, but it is also gullible. Reappropriations and rejections proliferate under the very eyes of empire, which becomes vulnerable in its ponderousness and predictability. I observed numerous instances in which foreigners were quite willing to be duped as long as they believed that they were encountering authentic notions of trauma that adhered to their preconceived notions of African victimization. In such cases, trauma must be served regardless of its context.⁶⁷ This ponderousness and banality feed into my understanding of empire and help explain my earlier reference to empire as a beast. Speaking of empire as a beast recalls numerous Punch cartoons from the colonial era that depicted colonialism and imperialism in animal form. An octopus, a lion, an eagle, and a python were variously used as metaphorical images of empire’s grasping reach, domination, and hold.⁶⁸ But the kind of beast I am thinking of is more predictable and less cunning than these images suggest. It is akin to what Heidegger called a benumbed beast, a term he used in his 1929–1930 lecture course to describe the way in which the animal is absorbed in itself and its sense of captivation.⁶⁹ To further differentiate the benumbedness of an animal from the selfhood of the human being, he writes that "the animal behaves within an environment but never within a world; that is, an animal is confined to perceiving the parts of the world that are of immediate relevance to its survival.⁷⁰ I borrow from Heidegger to underscore the self-absorbed, driven, captivated behavior of empire. Certainly, this notion of the benumbed beast moves far afield from Hardt and Negri’s concept of empire, which they describe as vampiric, as if to underscore its seemingly supernatural ability to survive by sucking off the blood of the living."⁷¹ But the uncanny abilities of Hardt and Negri’s empire do not apply to an empire of trauma, which is predictable in its appetites to the point that it can be fooled. My point here is not to underestimate empire’s ability to colonize even the creative capacities of East and Central African cultural workers who tailor their expressions to satisfy its tastes. I am intrigued, though, by the possibility that beasts—unlike, say, vampires—fall prey to their own benumbment.

STATE ATTACHMENTS

This book considers the staging of mass trauma in Central Africa through a transnational lens. As studies such as René Lemarchand’s The Dynamics of Violence in Central Africa and Gérard Prunier’s Africa’s World War make relentlessly clear, it is untenable to isolate the armed conflicts and mass killings of Central Africa in a national frame.⁷² Africa’s World War refers to a deadly conflagration that engulfed the DRC starting in 1998, which can be roughly traced to the 1994 genocide in Rwanda and the flight of genocidaires to refugee camps in the eastern DRC, which was then called Zaire. (This unfolding of events, which also includes a war fought in the former Zaire from 1996 to 1997, is discussed in much greater detail in chapter 1.) Although the war ultimately involved seven African countries on both sides of the conflict, Rwanda and Uganda assumed a leading role in their combined efforts to topple the Kinshasa government. The war formally ended with the signing of a peace agreement in 2003; however, Rwanda and Uganda continued to back new insurgencies in the eastern region, most notably the M23 rebellion, which lasted from 2012 to 2013. Meanwhile, the LRA has come to epitomize the havoc of transnational violence. Since its departure from Uganda in 2006, the group has committed massacres and abductions in the northeastern DRC and the southeastern Central African Republic; attempts at military intervention have only exacerbated regional violence. The conflict in eastern Zaire and the movements of the LRA are just two of the most obvious examples of how violence exceeds and confounds national borders, giving rise to what David Newbury calls convergent catastrophes.⁷³

The complexity of these convergent catastrophes has failed to intimidate playwrights. Given the status of the 1994 Rwandan genocide as a defining event of the late twentieth century, it is not surprising that most of these creative efforts have been devoted to this episode of horrific violence. Several US and UK playwrights have addressed the genocide, including Erik Ehn (Maria Kizito), J. T. Rogers (The Overwhelming), Sonja Linden (I Have a Remarkable Document Given to Me by a Young Lady from Rwanda), and most recently Katori Hall (Our Lady of Kibeho).⁷⁴ Rwandan playwright and director Hope Azeda created Rwanda My Hope in collaboration with the Mashirika Theatre Company for the ten-year commemoration of the genocide held in Amahoro Stadium in Kigali; then, for the twentieth commemoration ceremony, also held at the stadium, she created another powerful dance/drama titled Shadows of Memory.⁷⁵ Both productions employed hundreds of actors in a spectacular gesture toward the mass noun of genocide.⁷⁶ The thousands of child soldiers conscripted by the LRA in northern Uganda have also caught the imagination and attention of several playwrights, as indicated by Asiimwe’s previously discussed Forgotten World, Time of Fire by Ugandan playwright Charles Mulekwa, dogsbody by Ehn, and Butterflies of Uganda by US playwrights Darin Dahms and Soenke Weiss.⁷⁷ Northern Ugandan playwrights who have addressed the LRA conflict include Okello Kelo Sam, mentioned earlier as the founder of Hope North, and Lucy Judith Adong.⁷⁸ Plays about the conflict in the eastern DRC are dominated by Ruined by US playwright Lynn Nottage, which won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 2009 and went on to become one of the most produced plays in the United States in the 2010–2011 season; it received its French-language premiere in Kinshasa in 2011.⁷⁹ These scripts run the gamut of aesthetic genres—from theatre of testimony to realism, absurdism, surrealism, or some combination thereof—in their translations of mass trauma to the stage.

Many of these plays emerged in a transnational context. Several playwrights have close artistic and personal connections; for example, Mulekwa, Azeda, Sam, and Asiimwe are all graduates of the Music, Dance, and Drama (MDD) program at Makerere University in Kampala and serve as a testament to Uganda’s vibrant tradition of playwriting.⁸⁰ Azeda’s background as a Rwandan Tutsi who grew up in exile in Uganda speaks to the transnational intersections of Uganda and Rwanda that will be explored in more detail in chapter 1. Moreover, these playwrights are eager to take advantage of a growing regional identity, similar to what Evan Mwangi calls the transnational ethos that prevails in the contemporary East African music scene.⁸¹ Several, for example, have participated in a series of transnational encounters that seek an ethical response to violence and conflict. Ehn’s writing of Maria Kizito sparked an annual program called More Life in which he partnered with Jean-Pierre Karegeye of the Kigali-based Interdisciplinary Genocide Studies Center for a series of cultural exchanges. Asiimwe, Azeda, Hall, Mulekwa, Nottage, and Sam have all participated in More Life, and Asiimwe’s Forgotten World, Nottage’s Ruined, and Hall’s Our Lady of Kibeho drew on their experiences and observations in the exchanges. These encounters have generated a kind of transnational elbow-rubbing that creates part of the context for this book; indeed, my experiences in Ehn’s initiatives inform three of these chapters.⁸² The momentum of these creative alliances and coalitions resonates with concepts of minor transnationalism and critical regionalism and thus serves as a powerful counterpoint to the border-crossing paths of violence.⁸³ The enthusiasm of East and Central African performing artists in forging a creative minor-to-minor network and an artistic regionalism could pave the way toward a recognition of the seriality of genocide—not to homogenize specific experiences of violence but to recognize how they overlap and intersect in a globalizing world order.

Before indulging in romanticized ideas of regional identity as a means of superseding empire, I should acknowledge that I was hard pressed to find these ideas in the performance texts themselves. Given the extent of the transnational journeys, backgrounds, borrowings, and energy that serve as the context for the plays, it is striking that the texts are resoundingly silent on the transnational nature of the endemic violence of the Great Lakes. This silence is most readily discerned in the plays; Nottage’s Ruined, for example, contains a few passing references to Uganda, but Rwanda is never mentioned, even though its aggression against eastern Congo and its exploitation of the region’s famed mineral resources are instrumental to a basic understanding of the conflict. Similarly, none of the existing plays about Rwanda venture beyond the country’s borders to delve into the quagmire of the Great Lakes region, which has been plagued with a series of massacres of both Tutsi and Hutu. Granted, a certain amount of simplification and reduction is inevitable in any dramatic representation of mass atrocity. Even to begin to delve into these complexities would usually entail a thick, carefully footnoted monograph instead of a two-, three-, or even six-hour play, such as the 1999 multimedia performance text Rwanda 94 created by the Belgian theatre collective Groupov. Furthermore, as Paul Rae points out, one of theatre’s strengths is its ability to distill complexities and resonate across geographic boundaries and historical eras.⁸⁴ The plays might serve as gateways to deeper understanding, and thus their silences and simplifications are perhaps justified.

But I argue that these specific silences reveal not only the domestication of empire but also the looming presence of the African state. In this sense, my work responds to critiques of Hardt and Negri for their dismissal of the role of the nation-state in contemporary politics.⁸⁵ In Central Africa, the state’s role is intrusive and vigorous. The Rwandan postgenocide government has cultivated a strong centralized apparatus through a strategic combination of totalitarianism and poverty-alleviation initiatives. Kagame, who became president of Rwanda in 2000, might be hailed as a savior for his work toward stabilizing the volatility of ethnic relations in Rwanda, but he is also criticized for his repression of civil freedoms and opposition politics. Although the specter of failed state or even nonstate status has dogged the heels of Uganda and the DRC, these governments are also ruled by classic prototypes of African strongmen—Museveni, who has served as president of Uganda since 1986, and