They all walked out, with me trailing quietly behind, to the place on that particular hill where the disputed crop was planted. My father, in addition to being an elder, was also respected as a man who had a memory for land claims that went back generations. He saw at once that the crop had indeed spilled over onto the neighbor’s land, but also that the majority of the field was where it should have been. There was no clear villain or victim.

“Listen, you two, ” he said, motioning with the blade of his hand. “This is where the line is. Respect it from now on, and respect each other as well. I don’t want to hear about this again.”

This was a vivid lesson for me.

My father spoke with the same kind of gravitas each January, on New Year’s Day, when relatives from all over Rwanda were invited to a feast at our home on the hill. This is probably the most important day in the entire Rwandan calendar, even bigger than Christmas. Most people here identify themselves as Roman Catholic or Protestant, but we tend to emphasize New Year’s Day as the time for extended families to come together and give each other presents and wish one another bonne année. It is also a holiday to reflect on the events of the past and one’s hopes for the future, a fulcrum balanced on the tip of time. The meal served is always a belly buster. We would slaughter a bull for a feast of beef, and there were side dishes of beans and corn and peas and bananas, and, of course, banana beer.

After the meal was over my father would call me and my brothers and sisters to sit around him. He would give us all a verbal report card on our progress throughout the year of becoming good men and women.“You need to work harder in the fields, ” he would say to one. “You are doing well in school, but you must show more respect to your older brothers, ” he might say to another. As a good helper to my mother, and a quiet kid in general, my assessment was usually a kind one. Some parents might disagree with this discussion of a child’s failures and accomplishments before the entire family, and I would agree that in the wrong hands it can be hurtful. But my father showed us the same compassion on these occasions as he showed in justice on the grass. His aim was never to embarrass us but to encourage us to do the right thing. Looking back on it I can say that I grew up knowing where the lines of good behavior were drawn.