Rwanda’s Supreme Court has moved to a new building in Kacyiru. It is a striking structure, all glass and stuff, not the sort usually associated with courts of law. The old building in Kimihurura wasn’t much different, just an unremarkable square structure with a part of it sticking up into the sky.

It is not usual for the Supreme Court in any country to move house. So when it does you take notice. There must be a good reason or some other significance.

The court building is normally one of those key landmarks in the capital that serve as reference points, recognisable for their permanence and unique architecture and function. You don’t have to be told whether a particular building is a courthouse, parliament or government office. They have features that identify them as such.

Neither the old building of the Supreme Court, nor the new one have any distinguishing features in the traditional sense that mark them as a temple of justice. That is perhaps why it is easy to move it without as much as a murmur in support or protest.

There is another sense in which you would be struck by the relocation and the new home of the Supreme Court if, like me, you spent a good part of your life in places where courts have a different architectural design.

In the old East Africa (Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania) court buildings were impregnable structures, fortresses really, ugly and forbidding, and apparently designed to intimidate, not to inspire confidence. And then there is archaic dress and language, and strange rituals to match, all intended to awe but also befuddle.

Not surprisingly, ordinary people approach them with trepidation, unsure whether they will get any justice at all. Some even fear they will be sent to jail even when they have not committed or been accused of any crime.

These architectural and even philosophical differences have roots in the history of the respective countries in the region. In traditional East Africa, courts were a British creation and were meant to serve imperial interests. For this they had to be housed in structures that were intimidating to natives. The British intended to stay for a long time and so created permanent structures and systems that resembled what they had at home and reflected their intentions in the colonies.

In Rwanda on the other hand, the Belgians did not build anything that suggested intentions of permanence and so did not put up any remarkable or lasting structures, especially architectural. Or perhaps they were disdainful of the natives to bother with any elaborate infrastructure.

In terms of justice, they administered a rough form of it and for this they did not need uniquely designed structures, except, of course, prisons.

This reluctance or inability was perhaps a reflection of a feeling of insecurity arising out of their own inadequacy as an imperial power. After all Rwanda had been dropped into their laps by circumstances of history. It was acquired as part of the spoils of war and punishment of Germany after World War I.

Rwanda was different in another sense. It had its own institutionalised national justice system, delivered in the open, accessible to all citizens and in which they all participated. More importantly, they believed in it.

Rwandans are good at litigation. They will go to court for the slightest suspicion of injustice. They were even more so in the past. Nearly everyone was an expert on court proceedings and could tell where court had been fair or biased and would be sure to remind the authorities of this whenever an opportunity arose.

Those things that Rwandans valued are indeed the principle that underpins justice even today: openness, fairness, equality before the law, both in reality and perception. It is also what every palace of justice should be: open and accessible, inspire trust and confidence, and not cause fear and apprehension.

It shouldn’t therefore come as a surprise that we are seeing evidence of it today in the ongoing case of Paul Rusesabagina and his FLN associates. It is part of the tradition, not something done to please some noisy outsiders.

The new home of the Supreme Court should be seen in this light of a tradition of openness (apart, of course, from the practical necessity of giving way to new developments). Openness and keeping with the times gives a sense of transparency and fairness, of the here and now and therefore more understanding and inclusion – a sort of people’s temple of justice.

The architecture must be part of it since it reflects the history, philosophy and values of a people. But that said, the Supreme Court needs a permanent home both as symbol and fact because that gives it a sense of solidity, endurance and reliability.

The views expressed in this  article are of the writer.