The air may be filled with talk of peace negotiations, but fighting has intensified and the transitional government looks fragile, Declan Walsh reports from Bujumbura
The red roses sprout in neat rows on a picturesque hillside above the city. From there, the scented stems are shipped to Amsterdam, where they are sold to European romantics as tokens of love. Little do they know that the place they come from is one of violent hate.
At night, the hills overlooking the Burundi capital, Bujumbura, are alive with the music of war. City residents fall asleep to the crackle of gunfire or the soft crumple of shelling, as Hutu rebels launch attacks on the Tutsi-led army positions in the city below. Thierry Nzohabonayo's rose farm happens to be pinned between the two.
Usually the fighting stays outside his gate, but not always. One of his sheds was destroyed by a stray bomb earlier this year; his workers - some of them Hutu rebel wives - are frequently forced to drop their tools and flee. "I never know if the farm will still be there in the morning," the 29-year-old entrepreneur says. "My friends tell me I'm crazy to continue, but what can I do?"
When he started the business a year ago, it didn't seem like such a stupid idea. Under the guiding hand of Nelson Mandela, Hutu and Tutsi politicians signed a deal to end the devastating nine-year war. The two groups agreed to a three-year, power-sharing transitional government, led for the first half by a Tutsi, then by a Hutu.South Africa flew in more than 700 troops to protect the political leaders, and cement the pact.
Since then, however, it has made dismal progress. The peace deal excluded the two main rebel groups - the National Liberation Front (FNL) and the Force for the Defence of Democracy (FDD) - that were doing the actual fighting. As a result, fighting has only intensified, and the strained transitional government looks increasingly fragile.
Next week regional leaders will attempt yet again to leverage a ceasefire agreement at talks in neighbouring Tanzania between the government and rebels. South African Vice-President Jacob Zuma is leading the talks. But back in Burundi, hopes are low.
"Everyone, Hutu and Tutsi alike, is sick of this war," Mr Nzohabonayo said. "But it doesn't look like it will end any time soon."
Ethnic divisions are at the root of the fighting. A small clique of Tutsis has clung to power almost continuously since independence, and both sides have carried out genocidal pogroms - the Tutsis in 1972, the Hutus in 1993.
By now most war-weary Burundians believe their leaders are more interested in power and money. And when both army and rebels carry out human rights abuses - a daily occurrence - ethnicity seems to matter little.
Two weeks ago the seasonal rains were pounding down in Cibitoke, a rundown neighbourhood near the flower farm. In a two-roomed house, a family huddled together to mourn their daughter. Jeanine Ndayishimiye (25) had been shot hours earlier by a soldier who demanded to see her ID card.
"She handed him the Bible and said that was her identity. He got angry and started shooting," her cousin, Renovat, explained, pointing to a puddle stained red with her blood.
Ms Ndayishimiye was a Tutsi and her killer probably was, too. But that fact had little do with the crime. The brutality of the all-powerful army, which even politicians fear to meddle with, seems a more potent factor. In September, soldiers massacred 173 civilians in the central town of Itaba. Two officers are being punished.
"Our politicians, Hutu and Tutsi, fly off to talks in other countries, and say they are looking for peace. But all they want is big houses and nice cars," Renovat said.
Army reform is the key sticking point in ceasefire negotiations between government and rebels. The 1993 assassination of the only democratically-elected president, Melchior Ndadaye, a Hutu, by Tutsi paratroopers, sparked the current war. The current President, Major Pierre Buyoya, has come to power twice, both times through a coup d'etat.
In a clinic on the edge of Bujumbura, a number of FNL fighters were recovering from war wounds. Yusuf, who had four bullet holes in his left shin, explained why he was still fighting. "Tutsis killed our president," he said. "And those same soldiers are still in charge of the army." The men beside him, one of them missing half his foot, nodded in agreement.
According to army spokesman Col Augustin Nzabampema, such men are only ethnic extremists, "searching for absolute power through genocide".
With the war apparently unwinnable, negotiation seems the only solution. But as political talks limp forward, the sense of crisis is mounting.
Two weeks ago an army source said he believed President Buyoya's aircraft was going to be shot down by mutinous soldiers if he signed a ceasefire with the rebels. In the event, no agreement was signed. But failure to reach a settlement, and soon, could spark another disaster as terrible as those that have gone before.