July 27, 2008
Two of the interns asked me a few weeks ago if I have had any great realizations here, and I had to think a moment. I ended up telling them that I haven’t, although I feel that everything about me and what I know about life has deepened here.
So here is how I’m thinking of this: I work in the US for eleven months and in Rwanda for one month. Work, of course, doesn’t mean employment, but rather it is just work. Some of the time here is research; lots of it is doing what I can for peace, healing, and recovery. I still haven’t jumped onto the reconciliation wagon yet; but the unity I get. Peace I get; healing and recovery I get. Right now, that work includes writing grants and any other materials that Help Life Rwanda needs. I am the NGO’s honorary advisor, which translates basically as mother.
Rwanda is really a good place to feel needed, like my abilities are valuable, like I can make a difference. Like a mother without the biology. Of course I feel needed in the US; my kids and family need me, but that need will not always be so intense. My friends like having me around, but with internet and cell phones, hey, I can be right there, wherever they are. The concept of need and my job is a bit different: I need my job, but if something happened to me and they needed to fill the position, there would be two hundred well-qualified candidates to fill it. My colleagues would be sad for a bit, but everything would go on as normal. So does my college really need me? Not so much. But do you know how many PhDs the National University of Rwanda has on staff? Five.
So in terms of trajectories, I feel like I have been at or near the pinnacle, the top of the arc: great kids, a terrific career, about halfway through a PhD. My trajectory hasn’t changed, but now I’m on just the other side of the arc, like I’m aiming toward home. It doesn’t feel like going downhill. Rather, when I think about the point later in my life, when this middle part done, the idea that I could land in Rwanda fills me with solace.
The night before I left Rwanda, Julius and Help Life Rwanda gave me parting gifts, two pieces of traditional artwork. Now that I am back in Texas, they hang above my desk to the left of my computer. One piece of art is of a man and woman working in front of two traditional style Rwandan homes. The man carries a hoe; the woman carries a huge jug of water on her head, and I can’t help but see my Aquarius self in that female figure. The other piece of art depicts a man and a woman in a boat, just before they get to shore, where normal life is taking place. Julius, when he gave me the gift, noted that the figures in the boat were he and I on Lake Kivu as we checked out sites for next year’s writing retreat. But the more I look at it, the more it feels like coming home.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Young humanitarians
July 25, 2008
I have been working alongside a number of young people from the US, Canada, and Holland who are interning, volunteering, researching or otherwise working toward peace here in Rwanda. Their ages range between 19 and 25.
The two youngest ones, young women, came to Rwanda alone. One experienced her first wedding and first funeral here; the other lived for a number of weeks in a village of Genocide orphans where the children constructed families with assigned family roles; they are called child-headed households. She has learned basic Kinyarwandan phraseology to the merriment of Rwandans who hear her speak, and believe, me, this is no small task.
These two young ladies came here hungry for experience, knowing that while the US can provide myriad experiences, Rwanda would be different and would challenge just about every assumption that their US lives were based on. They also challenge Rwandan stereotypes that don’t align with contemporary views of human rights, especially the objectification of women. I think some of these Rwandan men will remember these young ladies for a long time.
A couple of other young Canadians work to exhaustion teaching orphans conflict management and peace-building through soccer. Both have decided here that they want to continue humanitarian work and are trying to align money, skills, and education so that they can work for peace and human rights, especially for children.
The thing is, really, that they are committed to helping other people, a simple life, and transcendent values. I wanted to do something like this, too, when I was young, but through a series of poor decisions combined with fear, I didn’t. But they are here, living in a place where the language and culture are completely foreign.
Humanitarians with deep pockets—a generation ahead of these twenty-somethings—need to help nurture this fresh generation of humanitarians. Even if this new batch receives less than half of their costs they need to live simply and do their work, they’d raise the rest of the funds. I am amazed at their fundraising creativity, ranging from door-to-door solicitation to benefits at hometown clubs. My own pockets are just deep enough to pay for one Rwandan teenager’s educational costs, but if I won the lottery, I’d fund these young people in a heartbeat.
We can’t afford to let this fresh generation of humanitarians burn out, give up, or lose hope. What comes to mind are the words spoken by the minister at Dr. J’s wedding: “You are too young to fail. You are too smart to fail. You are too important to each other to fail.”
I have been working alongside a number of young people from the US, Canada, and Holland who are interning, volunteering, researching or otherwise working toward peace here in Rwanda. Their ages range between 19 and 25.
The two youngest ones, young women, came to Rwanda alone. One experienced her first wedding and first funeral here; the other lived for a number of weeks in a village of Genocide orphans where the children constructed families with assigned family roles; they are called child-headed households. She has learned basic Kinyarwandan phraseology to the merriment of Rwandans who hear her speak, and believe, me, this is no small task.
These two young ladies came here hungry for experience, knowing that while the US can provide myriad experiences, Rwanda would be different and would challenge just about every assumption that their US lives were based on. They also challenge Rwandan stereotypes that don’t align with contemporary views of human rights, especially the objectification of women. I think some of these Rwandan men will remember these young ladies for a long time.
A couple of other young Canadians work to exhaustion teaching orphans conflict management and peace-building through soccer. Both have decided here that they want to continue humanitarian work and are trying to align money, skills, and education so that they can work for peace and human rights, especially for children.
The thing is, really, that they are committed to helping other people, a simple life, and transcendent values. I wanted to do something like this, too, when I was young, but through a series of poor decisions combined with fear, I didn’t. But they are here, living in a place where the language and culture are completely foreign.
Humanitarians with deep pockets—a generation ahead of these twenty-somethings—need to help nurture this fresh generation of humanitarians. Even if this new batch receives less than half of their costs they need to live simply and do their work, they’d raise the rest of the funds. I am amazed at their fundraising creativity, ranging from door-to-door solicitation to benefits at hometown clubs. My own pockets are just deep enough to pay for one Rwandan teenager’s educational costs, but if I won the lottery, I’d fund these young people in a heartbeat.
We can’t afford to let this fresh generation of humanitarians burn out, give up, or lose hope. What comes to mind are the words spoken by the minister at Dr. J’s wedding: “You are too young to fail. You are too smart to fail. You are too important to each other to fail.”
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Thank goodness for naps
July 27, 2008
After a much-needed nap, I and five others from NAR headed to FESPAR, an international cultural dance festival that lasts a week long. Patrick, a traditional Intore dancer with the national troupe, would be performing, and rather than crash a wedding where he was hired, I would see him dance for first time.
After worrying about getting there for the supposed 3:00 start, we arrived and stood on looooong queues. There were many people jumping line and we sent several people up to the front to scope out what was holding us up.
It seemed like there were two lines because each person needed to be patted down before entering. There was a huge metal gate and lots of military police. The first surge felt a bit like a concert at the Warped Tour, an experience provided to me by one of my nieces on her 16th birthday. People from behind pushed and the queues dissolved into a single mass. It was now 4:30.
A couple of people tried to body-surf over the gate but didn’t succeed. At some point, the gate was closed and people started getting really…annoyed. They were waving their tickets overhead and yelling and we all agreed that things could get really interesting.
And they did.
Whatever tension was building erupted into the MPs beating back people with batons. There was no blood, and it didn’t look like a mob scene from CNN, but seeing people getting hit was disturbing.
Little did we know that we would experience this part of the culture.
After a few more rushes at the gate and more baton incidents, the crowd finally pushed through. I was holding onto A, my young Rwandan friend for whom I felt responsible, and I lost track of the others. A and I ended up on the edge of the crowd next to the MPs, and although the baton went up, it didn’t rain down on us. A and I got through and waited a few yards away. The other muzungus made it through eventually, but one girl, whose toes were injured on her descent from Mt. Kilimanjaro, was shaken up and her foot was stepped on. She and another girl were pinned against the gate, which upset the MPs greatly. They didn’t want the girls to get hurt.
We were in—or so we thought.
We walked through the campus of the ULK (Université LIbre Kigali) toward the stadium and the dance. It is a lovely new campus; one of the interns hopes to attend school here in January. We neared the stadium and encountered another MP checkpoint. When we saw that this would very likely take time and possibly result in more mob-like roughness, we decided to sit on a wall and find drinking water.
We saw the various delegations arrive: Namibia, Burundi, DRC, Congo, Japan, and others. When I saw the Chinese contingent, I asked the others what they would think if I went into the crowd and started yelling “Free Tibet!” I thought I could get lots of Rwandans to join me. My friends then figured out the probable reason why the current American president’s administration didn’t allow me (at first) to tour the White House with my students a few years ago.
Instead, I suggested that we do whatever the MPs told us to do.
The MPs chased everyone else into the now-orderly lines as they admitted about 20 people at a time for the pat-down. When the lines were nearing the end, we walked down and stood at the end of the queue.
As soon as we got to the end of the queue, I looked up and saw an MP 25 meters away pointing to me. My herd instinct is strong here, but I looked around anyway to make sure he meant me. I had a flash of anxiety that I had done something unintentionally wrong, but he wanted me to move to the front of the line. I grabbed onto A and told the others to come with. When I got to the front of the line, the MP grabbed my arm and inserted me between two people. I heard the Rwandans behind me grumbling, but I figured that the MP was working on the combination of age and visitor status rather than simply race.
A few seconds later, I was through and proceeded through security. When I was done, I looked back and noticed that A still hadn’t made it past the final through-point. I was headed to the MP to tell him, “Elle est avec moi,” and he let her through.
It was close to 6:00.
The first group of seats we found were okay, but I couldn’t see the stage well, so A and l left the others and found seating almost directly center stage, although we were about 50 feet up. The stage was incredibly beautiful—blonde wood poles constructed as an abstract traditional Rwandan dwelling. There was a large center structure—the top of which was as high as I was sitting—and two smaller structures to each side.
Before the sun set, I could see a familiar curve of a hill across from Gisozi. When I asked A, she verified it is the hill on the west side of Nyamirambo. It is the hill I gazed at on the bus ride to the offices.
At this point, bands were playing. The National Choir performed beautifully. The sun went down and the lights of the city started to come on, appearing like fires in the darkening sky.
One of the singers had two young dancers come on stage to dance. Though they were very far away, I pointed out to A that one of the dancers was Patrick’s age. (The next morning when Patrick came for breakfast, he asked, “Did you see me up on stage with [----]?”)
Later, when it was a bit darker, I saw a familiar curve illuminated with street lights on the hill beyond the stadium and a little to the right. I knew from my visits to the Kigali Memorial Centre (called locally the Gisozi Centre) that this hill is Muhima, where I have lived these few weeks. From my vantage point tonight, that familiar curve looked like an upside down question mark. I pointed it out to A, and together, we identified landmarks: there was the rond poin; there was the UTC and the bank. In my mind’s eye, I could visualize the inn on the curve that began the round part of the question mark.
Pretty soon the First Lady entered the stadium, as well as the Prime Minister, although President Kagame did not attend. This explained the security issues getting into the stadium.
In the dark night, the lights in the stadium were low, and the boy sitting to my left struck up a conversation with me. His name was Emmanuel. He mistook me for a young woman and told me he was sure he was in love with me. After I assured him that I am old enough to be his mother, he was quiet for a moment, and then said, “You can be my father. I want to come to the US.” He explained that he is an orphan and that his parents were killed in the Genocide. I gave him my condolences but tell him I have enough children.
At 7, A left. My fellow muzungus also left, but I stayed to watch Patrick dance. Soon his troupe came out and danced for twenty or thirty minutes. It was amazingly beautiful. And Patrick? I recognized his smile, as bright 50 metres away as it is 5 feet away. I also recognized his joy and flair as he danced.
There was so much music, and in the stands, everyone danced. The young men in the row in front of me were teaching each other different steps as they danced on the benches.
But the music was just getting started. A famous Rwandan Reggae singer took the stage and within moments, the floor in front of the stage was filled with exuberant dancing. Emmanuel, who had been persistently trying to woo me as an adoptive parent, gave it up and excused himself to dance.
After some time, a limo winded its way in back of the stage and the crowd started to get really excited. I asked the boys around me, and they said it was the arrival of the headline group, Brick and Lace.
I can tell you, when those beautiful Jamaican girls took the stage in MTV-style costumes, everyone—male and female alike—went wild. A hundred blue lights of cameras taking video lit up near the front of the stage. Parts of their concert were unintentionally humorous. At one point, one of the singers yelled out, “Where are the sexy men?” and there was a sort of collective “ummm…” even from the attractive youth that surrounded me. Then the performer yelled, “Where are the sexy women?” This time, there was a collective silence. Rwandans are a modest people, but you can’t always know your audience.
After a dance contest of young Rwandan women, the cultural festival was over. I walked out with at least several hundred Rwandans, and I figured they knew where they were going, so I followed. Finding a moto under these circumstances seemed foolhardy, and I didn’t want to climb into the jam-packed buses. It was a beautiful night, and I walked.
Pretty soon, a young man joined me and commented that I walked "like a Rwandan.” I didn’t ask what he meant exactly, but it was a compliment. His name was Oliver, and he wanted to marry an American girl. We walked and walked and he extolled the virtues of American women. I asked how he knew American women, and he said, “TV.” I finally asked him if the reason he wanted to marry American is because of “this,” and I held out my arm and pulled up my sleeve to expose my white skin. He laughed, knowing that I knew. I told him that was a really, really bad reason to want to marry someone. I advised him to come up with alternative plans, and to find one of the many beautiful women in his country.
Oliver and I both live on Muhima, but he eventually took a road and I kept walking. Nothing looked exactly familiar, but I came to a road that took an angle that looked just about right. This was the right street, and it was close to midnight. I headed uphill, walking the question mark.
Catching up
Aug. 24, 2008
The posts that I started near the end of my stay in Rwanda and those started just after my return are ready to post. These were too difficult to finish sooner, with the emotional ache of leaving people I care for deeply.
I've left the original dates intact, so there appears to be a time-space anomaly in the blog. That's just the way writing goes, though, sometimes.
The posts that I started near the end of my stay in Rwanda and those started just after my return are ready to post. These were too difficult to finish sooner, with the emotional ache of leaving people I care for deeply.
I've left the original dates intact, so there appears to be a time-space anomaly in the blog. That's just the way writing goes, though, sometimes.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
A few photos are up on Flickr
Many hours of sleep, lots of calls to Rwanda, a malaria scare, and a few weeks later, I now uploaded a few--really, just a few--photos to Flickr. I think this link will work:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/27528382@N06/
The photos I posted were taken by me; I have others, but some can't be posted because of lack of permissions. I'll get the ones I'm comfortable posting onto Flickr soon.
However, the most wonderful photos and video clips were taken by Patrick, who carried my niece's camera for a couple of weeks and documented daily Rwandan life in ways that I never would have been able. So next time you see me, just ask to see them.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/27528382@N06/
The photos I posted were taken by me; I have others, but some can't be posted because of lack of permissions. I'll get the ones I'm comfortable posting onto Flickr soon.
However, the most wonderful photos and video clips were taken by Patrick, who carried my niece's camera for a couple of weeks and documented daily Rwandan life in ways that I never would have been able. So next time you see me, just ask to see them.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Back in Texas...
Just a quick post that I arrived safely back in Texas. Will post more soon--about seven posts in varying degrees of completion in the queue.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Ugh.
July 27, 2008
I’m sitting here in my room and, for those of you who are keeping track of the various metaphors in this blog, that means I’m floating. Basically, I’m trying not to have a meltdown.
I feel like throwing up; there’s a low-frequency buzz running through my brain, maybe like snow on old TV sets, and I’m trying really hard not to cry. Maybe I need to cry; maybe that will wash these feelings away.
I miss my family so much. But I will miss Patrick (who calls me “mom”) and my friends here too.
Oh, and on my way back from Sunday breakfast at Bourbon, I saw my first accident. When Dr. J tells us that motos are so dangerous, we have always responded, “But we haven’t seen one accident yet.” Well, that response won’t fly anymore. It happened right under the bridge/sign that indicates where the road splits off from the rond poin. As I was about 50 metres away, I saw children running and then noticed a crowd gathering. I thought maybe the President was passing, but then I noticed that traffic wasn’t moving. Then I realized. I asked a man on my right, “C’est une accidente?” He gave the Rwandan verbalization for assent.
I didn’t see what happened, but a white sedan and a moto collided. There was broken glass on the street, but I didn’t see a moto down. I think the driver was okay, but there was much happening in the back seat of the car, and I believe someone was hurt. I don’t know if the person was a passenger in the car or on the moto.
There were so many people at the scene, and I figured they would know whether a doctor or ambulance was needed, so I kept walking. I passed an older white man with a huge camera, clearly a tourist, and I swear, if I had seen him taking photos of the scene, I would have pushed him over the side of the hill.
So there is this terrific dissonance within me: wanting to stay, wanting to go. But I think the division is a false dichotomy. I know, of course, that I will be physically in one place—and that could be anywhere—but I can live in two cultures. I almost wrote “two worlds,” but my home in the US and my sense of home and belongingness here are in the same physical world.
So if I have any great breakthrough, a new discovery, a major surprise during this trip, it is relearning to trust myself more deeply than I ever have. I am remembering now what it was like being a brand-new mother, having to absolutely trust my instincts about what my son needed, but that lesson in trust seemed easier than now. Then, I could assess either right away or soon if I needed to keep doing what I was doing or adjust or change or call someone for help.
So now I have to trust myself that I can live and work in the US and Rwanda and that that life can have coherence and meaning. It means, of course, that my world is quite a bit larger than it was just a month ago, which may mean that balance will be an issue. Having someone I love like a son on the other side of the earth is mind-boggling (and frankly, heart rending), though I took this into consideration when I committed to sponsoring Patrick. Sustained work with my partners here certainly helps bridge my two personal worlds. I mean, it’s not like I have two lives—wouldn’t that be great?—but I have only the one and for me, there needs to be coherence, alignment between the two places and among all the relationships in my life.
I suppose that this means that my sense of self or my self-identity is stretching a bit. And maybe that’s why I feel like heaving. I do feel afraid. The thing is, though, that I’m not sure of what. Maybe I should try a list:
What if the world economy collapses and the cost of flying over here skyrockets and I can’t afford it?
What if my college closes and I lose my job?
What if something happens to Patrick while I’m in the US?
What if something happens to W and T while I’m in Rwanda?
So the thinker, the technical communicator, in me wants to classify, analyze, sort out these fears. A common denominator looks to be power:
What if something happens beyond my control and I can’t take care of it?
Are these a mother’s fears?
I’m suddenly so sleepy, although it’s 11:00 a.m. here and I’ve slept seven hours. At least I don’t feel like barfing.
Maybe I’ll take a little nap. Everything is too big right now.
I’m sitting here in my room and, for those of you who are keeping track of the various metaphors in this blog, that means I’m floating. Basically, I’m trying not to have a meltdown.
I feel like throwing up; there’s a low-frequency buzz running through my brain, maybe like snow on old TV sets, and I’m trying really hard not to cry. Maybe I need to cry; maybe that will wash these feelings away.
I miss my family so much. But I will miss Patrick (who calls me “mom”) and my friends here too.
Oh, and on my way back from Sunday breakfast at Bourbon, I saw my first accident. When Dr. J tells us that motos are so dangerous, we have always responded, “But we haven’t seen one accident yet.” Well, that response won’t fly anymore. It happened right under the bridge/sign that indicates where the road splits off from the rond poin. As I was about 50 metres away, I saw children running and then noticed a crowd gathering. I thought maybe the President was passing, but then I noticed that traffic wasn’t moving. Then I realized. I asked a man on my right, “C’est une accidente?” He gave the Rwandan verbalization for assent.
I didn’t see what happened, but a white sedan and a moto collided. There was broken glass on the street, but I didn’t see a moto down. I think the driver was okay, but there was much happening in the back seat of the car, and I believe someone was hurt. I don’t know if the person was a passenger in the car or on the moto.
There were so many people at the scene, and I figured they would know whether a doctor or ambulance was needed, so I kept walking. I passed an older white man with a huge camera, clearly a tourist, and I swear, if I had seen him taking photos of the scene, I would have pushed him over the side of the hill.
So there is this terrific dissonance within me: wanting to stay, wanting to go. But I think the division is a false dichotomy. I know, of course, that I will be physically in one place—and that could be anywhere—but I can live in two cultures. I almost wrote “two worlds,” but my home in the US and my sense of home and belongingness here are in the same physical world.
So if I have any great breakthrough, a new discovery, a major surprise during this trip, it is relearning to trust myself more deeply than I ever have. I am remembering now what it was like being a brand-new mother, having to absolutely trust my instincts about what my son needed, but that lesson in trust seemed easier than now. Then, I could assess either right away or soon if I needed to keep doing what I was doing or adjust or change or call someone for help.
So now I have to trust myself that I can live and work in the US and Rwanda and that that life can have coherence and meaning. It means, of course, that my world is quite a bit larger than it was just a month ago, which may mean that balance will be an issue. Having someone I love like a son on the other side of the earth is mind-boggling (and frankly, heart rending), though I took this into consideration when I committed to sponsoring Patrick. Sustained work with my partners here certainly helps bridge my two personal worlds. I mean, it’s not like I have two lives—wouldn’t that be great?—but I have only the one and for me, there needs to be coherence, alignment between the two places and among all the relationships in my life.
I suppose that this means that my sense of self or my self-identity is stretching a bit. And maybe that’s why I feel like heaving. I do feel afraid. The thing is, though, that I’m not sure of what. Maybe I should try a list:
What if the world economy collapses and the cost of flying over here skyrockets and I can’t afford it?
What if my college closes and I lose my job?
What if something happens to Patrick while I’m in the US?
What if something happens to W and T while I’m in Rwanda?
So the thinker, the technical communicator, in me wants to classify, analyze, sort out these fears. A common denominator looks to be power:
What if something happens beyond my control and I can’t take care of it?
Are these a mother’s fears?
I’m suddenly so sleepy, although it’s 11:00 a.m. here and I’ve slept seven hours. At least I don’t feel like barfing.
Maybe I’ll take a little nap. Everything is too big right now.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
What I thought I knew about beauty
July 23, 2008
The issues of how I represent myself physically have always been tangly for me. It seems to me that body image, class, gender, age, boldness or timidity, money, intellect, availability, values, rebellion, profession, authority, sexuality, and personal history all vie to take precedence and so throughout most of my life I have represented myself in many ways, some of which are contradictory. I can do the skirts and suits and high heels, but really, I’d rather be in jeans and a t-shirt. My own need for beauty now manifests itself mostly in my home. And like I’ve written in other posts, for this trip I brought…well, mostly shabby clothes. They are clean and mostly new, but absolutely not stylish. And not beautiful. To remedy this error, I’ve had a few outfits made so I can present myself more appropriately.
People here dress, as I’ve written before. Julius tells me it’s a vestige of colonialism. When I ask him how he stays pressed, he looks a bit shocked. I follow up by asking if his houseboy does his laundry and ironing. Julius tells me he does it himself; it takes just one minute to iron a shirt and pants. Julius describes the style here as descended from the Belgian (and the French, indirectly): ironed clothes, belted pants worn close to the body, women in very put-together outfits, little girls in party dresses—what a Dutch intern called princess dresses—little boys in nice clothes and sometimes even suits.
Julius goes on to say that representation is hugely important here, that if you are dressed shabbily for a meeting, then no matter what comes out of your mouth, it will be perceived as bullshit. That was his exact word, by the way—bullshit. Julius also said that this pride in dress is unique to Rwanda. In East Africa, where there is more colonial influence from the British, people dress…how should I say?...less carefully.
Normally I might have a problem with the importance of this “superficial” aspect of presentation, but I think that here in Rwanda, emphasis on dress is productive: better to attend to a person’s external presentation rather than to his or her falsely-constructed group identity, especially when that group identity is fraught with trauma, pain, and political danger. Or perhaps this emphasis on external representation is another way to define group identity according to class or economic levels. But at least with this form, some Rwandans can, like I have, occasionally change how they are perceived based on what they wear.
This Rwandan emphasis on cleanliness, neatness, beauty, pride helps me make sense of why victims’ clothes are hung in some of the Genocide memorials here.
In Nyamata, about 45 minutes south of Kigali, there is a church where 5,000 people gathered seeking sanctuary in the early days of the Genocide. They had brought mattresses, jerry cans of water, huge bags of beans and rice. And even in this fairly remote village, they were dressed. The men wore suits and leather shoes. The women wore the beautiful traditional flowing dresses that resemble saris, and dress pumps and sandals. The children were neatly dressed.
How do I know how they were dressed? These garments hang now on the walls of the bombed-out church, bloodstained, torn, stained with senseless violence. They hang multilayered on a long wall, between a shorter wall with tall racks of skulls that are cracked or have unnatural holes or even a piece of wood still embedded, the smallest skulls in the front. Next to these are rows and rows of femurs, pelvises and other bones. The opposite wall has another tall rack filled with approximately twenty coffins. Next to the clothes are all their shoes, dusty now. The cooking implements are there, too, as well as the food.
If you look carefully, behind the rice and beans, there are three pangas (machetes) and a huge, heavy metal ball like a cannonball or shot put. The pangas are crude, one fashioned from a badly cut piece of metal. The handles are gone; one had wire wrapped around its base. These were left after the grenades opened holes in the walls and the génocidaires entered the church, its Sunday school room, and the sacristy to murder their friends and neighbors.
The clothes also hang from the rafters of the church, ghostly witnesses.
There is a large trunk among the beautiful flowers and wreaths adorning the coffins and former altar. In this trunk are all the books and papers gathered from the church afterward, when there was finally peace. There are bibles, bloodied identification cards, a blue book filled with notes on choir activities, books of liturgy, a voting card.
The Memorial grounds are now sacred in a different way. There are gardens, neat rows of flowers bordering a wall that has the names of only about 130 of the 5,000 who died here. Purple ribbons adorn the walkways, and there is a contemplation bench of polished native brick.
And it is both beautiful and horrifying.
I suppose that I had thought that beauty was secondary or otherwise apart from the basic necessities of life. I’m reminded now of the old American union slogan, “Bread and roses.” Yes, we need food. We need peace, and we also need beauty.
The issues of how I represent myself physically have always been tangly for me. It seems to me that body image, class, gender, age, boldness or timidity, money, intellect, availability, values, rebellion, profession, authority, sexuality, and personal history all vie to take precedence and so throughout most of my life I have represented myself in many ways, some of which are contradictory. I can do the skirts and suits and high heels, but really, I’d rather be in jeans and a t-shirt. My own need for beauty now manifests itself mostly in my home. And like I’ve written in other posts, for this trip I brought…well, mostly shabby clothes. They are clean and mostly new, but absolutely not stylish. And not beautiful. To remedy this error, I’ve had a few outfits made so I can present myself more appropriately.
People here dress, as I’ve written before. Julius tells me it’s a vestige of colonialism. When I ask him how he stays pressed, he looks a bit shocked. I follow up by asking if his houseboy does his laundry and ironing. Julius tells me he does it himself; it takes just one minute to iron a shirt and pants. Julius describes the style here as descended from the Belgian (and the French, indirectly): ironed clothes, belted pants worn close to the body, women in very put-together outfits, little girls in party dresses—what a Dutch intern called princess dresses—little boys in nice clothes and sometimes even suits.
Julius goes on to say that representation is hugely important here, that if you are dressed shabbily for a meeting, then no matter what comes out of your mouth, it will be perceived as bullshit. That was his exact word, by the way—bullshit. Julius also said that this pride in dress is unique to Rwanda. In East Africa, where there is more colonial influence from the British, people dress…how should I say?...less carefully.
Normally I might have a problem with the importance of this “superficial” aspect of presentation, but I think that here in Rwanda, emphasis on dress is productive: better to attend to a person’s external presentation rather than to his or her falsely-constructed group identity, especially when that group identity is fraught with trauma, pain, and political danger. Or perhaps this emphasis on external representation is another way to define group identity according to class or economic levels. But at least with this form, some Rwandans can, like I have, occasionally change how they are perceived based on what they wear.
This Rwandan emphasis on cleanliness, neatness, beauty, pride helps me make sense of why victims’ clothes are hung in some of the Genocide memorials here.
In Nyamata, about 45 minutes south of Kigali, there is a church where 5,000 people gathered seeking sanctuary in the early days of the Genocide. They had brought mattresses, jerry cans of water, huge bags of beans and rice. And even in this fairly remote village, they were dressed. The men wore suits and leather shoes. The women wore the beautiful traditional flowing dresses that resemble saris, and dress pumps and sandals. The children were neatly dressed.
How do I know how they were dressed? These garments hang now on the walls of the bombed-out church, bloodstained, torn, stained with senseless violence. They hang multilayered on a long wall, between a shorter wall with tall racks of skulls that are cracked or have unnatural holes or even a piece of wood still embedded, the smallest skulls in the front. Next to these are rows and rows of femurs, pelvises and other bones. The opposite wall has another tall rack filled with approximately twenty coffins. Next to the clothes are all their shoes, dusty now. The cooking implements are there, too, as well as the food.
If you look carefully, behind the rice and beans, there are three pangas (machetes) and a huge, heavy metal ball like a cannonball or shot put. The pangas are crude, one fashioned from a badly cut piece of metal. The handles are gone; one had wire wrapped around its base. These were left after the grenades opened holes in the walls and the génocidaires entered the church, its Sunday school room, and the sacristy to murder their friends and neighbors.
The clothes also hang from the rafters of the church, ghostly witnesses.
There is a large trunk among the beautiful flowers and wreaths adorning the coffins and former altar. In this trunk are all the books and papers gathered from the church afterward, when there was finally peace. There are bibles, bloodied identification cards, a blue book filled with notes on choir activities, books of liturgy, a voting card.
The Memorial grounds are now sacred in a different way. There are gardens, neat rows of flowers bordering a wall that has the names of only about 130 of the 5,000 who died here. Purple ribbons adorn the walkways, and there is a contemplation bench of polished native brick.
And it is both beautiful and horrifying.
I suppose that I had thought that beauty was secondary or otherwise apart from the basic necessities of life. I’m reminded now of the old American union slogan, “Bread and roses.” Yes, we need food. We need peace, and we also need beauty.
Working for peace
July 20, 2008
You’ve been reading in various posts about Julius, who is the Administrative and Financial Manager of NAR. But what I haven’t written about yet is this man’s tireless work for peace and reconciliation.
Julius is one of the two full-time NAR staff members and like many of his compatriots, has other initiatives that he works on after hours. It’s hard to tell, though, what “after hours” means for NAR. Julius and the Executive Secretary, Ildephonse, work what seems like around the clock. The week before last, for example, both stayed late in the office working until at least eight in the evening then conducted a training workshop for young leaders the entire weekend.
Both were back in the office the following Monday, although Ildephonse left early because he wasn’t feeling well. Julius stayed late on several evenings again, and was running errands until ten Friday night. We met at the bus station at 6:15 on Saturday morning to go to Kibuye, and Julius was on the phone for almost an hour on the bus ride untangling various work-related details.
At one of the possible research sites for next summer, Julius shared that he has malaria; he found out on Friday afternoon. I asked him some version of what the heck was he doing trekking hither and yon with me when he should be in bed. He laughed and said that he would sleep in on Sunday, but I knew he would be cooking a celebratory supper on Sunday for the Dutch interns who are leaving Tuesday.
As we were leaving Kibuye around two, Julius started to fade a bit and even in the cool air, he was starting to break a sweat. At one point, Ildephonse called him as he himself was headed to the doctor because he was feeling very ill. (It turns out that Ildephonse also has malaria.) After making and taking a few more calls, Julius was able to sleep hard for a couple of hours on the way back to Kigali, and seemed a little more like himself when we returned.
He met me again, though, about 45 minutes later at my hotel, where my translator/guide for the Monday trip to Nyamata would meet us, and where Patrick’s sister also met up with us. Julius, Patrick’s sister, and I jumped in a cab and picked up Patrick and the headed to the sister’s house for a home visit.
After more than an hour there, I left Julius in his neighborhood and headed home. It was almost ten p.m.
How many hours a day does it take to make peace happen? Apparently many. As many as we have and more.
Julius and I don’t always see eye to eye on causes, effects, definitions, and processes. But I have the highest respect for him. I trust him. And I’ve never met anyone else who works as hard as he does.
You’ve been reading in various posts about Julius, who is the Administrative and Financial Manager of NAR. But what I haven’t written about yet is this man’s tireless work for peace and reconciliation.
Julius is one of the two full-time NAR staff members and like many of his compatriots, has other initiatives that he works on after hours. It’s hard to tell, though, what “after hours” means for NAR. Julius and the Executive Secretary, Ildephonse, work what seems like around the clock. The week before last, for example, both stayed late in the office working until at least eight in the evening then conducted a training workshop for young leaders the entire weekend.
Both were back in the office the following Monday, although Ildephonse left early because he wasn’t feeling well. Julius stayed late on several evenings again, and was running errands until ten Friday night. We met at the bus station at 6:15 on Saturday morning to go to Kibuye, and Julius was on the phone for almost an hour on the bus ride untangling various work-related details.
At one of the possible research sites for next summer, Julius shared that he has malaria; he found out on Friday afternoon. I asked him some version of what the heck was he doing trekking hither and yon with me when he should be in bed. He laughed and said that he would sleep in on Sunday, but I knew he would be cooking a celebratory supper on Sunday for the Dutch interns who are leaving Tuesday.
As we were leaving Kibuye around two, Julius started to fade a bit and even in the cool air, he was starting to break a sweat. At one point, Ildephonse called him as he himself was headed to the doctor because he was feeling very ill. (It turns out that Ildephonse also has malaria.) After making and taking a few more calls, Julius was able to sleep hard for a couple of hours on the way back to Kigali, and seemed a little more like himself when we returned.
He met me again, though, about 45 minutes later at my hotel, where my translator/guide for the Monday trip to Nyamata would meet us, and where Patrick’s sister also met up with us. Julius, Patrick’s sister, and I jumped in a cab and picked up Patrick and the headed to the sister’s house for a home visit.
After more than an hour there, I left Julius in his neighborhood and headed home. It was almost ten p.m.
How many hours a day does it take to make peace happen? Apparently many. As many as we have and more.
Julius and I don’t always see eye to eye on causes, effects, definitions, and processes. But I have the highest respect for him. I trust him. And I’ve never met anyone else who works as hard as he does.
Falling in love in Rwanda
July 20, 2008
What can I say? It happened. His name is Patrick.
But it isn’t what you may think.
He is fourteen, studying in the secondary 2 year at a school here in the Northern Province. He is a traditional intole dancer, an accomplished one, in fact—he is a member of the national troupe that danced at President Kagame’s brother’s wedding last night.
Patrick and I met on the street, where it seems all young people hang out to socialize in their free time. I, not being a young person, was on my way back to town after working in the office. He and I started talking, and it struck me immediately that Patrick is different from the other kids I’ve met on the street who want to sell me something or just ask straight out for money. I still can’t describe why he is different, but I definitely felt a connection with him.
Here was this young man—I asked his age even though I knew he is fourteen (being as I am quite familiar with that age)—who was tidy, polite, well-spoken. The best way I can describe Patrick is that he is open. He is calm, conducts himself with the same pride that is evident in the vast majority of Rwandans, and there is a transparency in his face and manner.
Oh, and did I mention his smile? It lights up his face.
Something just goes click.
You know what I’m talking about.
I met his family last night. Julius, coordinator extraordinaire, was our translator and facilitator. I met Patrick’s older sister and her young children, as well as her mother-in-law and (I think) sisters-in-law. So these are all the female members of his family. His sister is married, but I didn’t meet her husband last night.
If you’re reading carefully, you will have noticed two missing family members: Patrick doesn’t have a mother or father. His mother died in an accident and his father died of a heart attack while studying or working in India. Asking further about this story is not only inappropriate, but could traumatize Patrick, so that’s the story. So I’ve offered to be Patrick’s educational sponsor.
Already an orphan in a developing nation, Patrick faces increasing vulnerability, especially in terms of his education. Whereas 99% of Rwandan children attend primary school where the fees are low, less than 50% of young Rwandans attend secondary school. In a country whose only natural resource is its people, Rwanda desperately needs educated young people, especially people like Patrick, who is very bright.
However, in this culture that values the primacy of the group, often at the expense of the individual, Patrick will face increasing pressure to cede to the needs of the larger family group because he doesn’t have a mother or father to advocate directly for him. Patrick’s sister, who clearly values education and the opportunities it affords, pays for the education of not only her children, but some in the extended family as well. But my financing of his school fees ensures that Patrick can finish secondary school and focus his energies on winning a scholarship to the national university here in a few years. He now has an advocate.
When I was meeting Patrick’s family at his house last night, I realized how vulnerable his family feels. When both Patrick and his sister asked when I was leaving the country—now nine days—I saw worry flash across their faces. It must be terrible to have promises made but not kept. What if this muzungu got swept away while she was in the country and made all these promises, but then when she gets home, other priorities arise or she forgets or or or….
So Julius and I and Patrick’s sister will draw up a written agreement, a memo of understanding, in which I commit to paying Patrick’s school fees and related educational expenses, and his extended family will continue to advise him and provide continuing familial and cultural support. Julius will try to get Patrick placed in a better school and will scan and email me Patrick’s grade reports.
All this is made easier because Julius has a brand-new NGO called Help Life Rwanda that focuses on secondary school scholarships for Rwanda’s most at-risk youth. HLR will identify ten especially vulnerable young people (nine now) who are experiencing difficulty funding their secondary school education, particularly the school fees that are currently about US$100 a term, roughly $300 a year. Julius, who has a degree in management and accounting, will channel school fees from donors directly to the schools. The kids are easy to find, especially because NAR has youth clubs in all Rwandan provinces. Donors, on the other hand, are more difficult for Julius to find.
So you know what I’m going to ask next.
If you feel inclined to make an important difference in a kid’s life and you can afford to fund one of these scholarships—or even a part of one—please consider this program. I’m happy to email you with more information. Rwanda’s future rests on the creativity and critical thinking of its youth. The country has come so far in fourteen years. Its future is bright.
Consider it a good long-term investment in peace and reconciliation.
What can I say? It happened. His name is Patrick.
But it isn’t what you may think.
He is fourteen, studying in the secondary 2 year at a school here in the Northern Province. He is a traditional intole dancer, an accomplished one, in fact—he is a member of the national troupe that danced at President Kagame’s brother’s wedding last night.
Patrick and I met on the street, where it seems all young people hang out to socialize in their free time. I, not being a young person, was on my way back to town after working in the office. He and I started talking, and it struck me immediately that Patrick is different from the other kids I’ve met on the street who want to sell me something or just ask straight out for money. I still can’t describe why he is different, but I definitely felt a connection with him.
Here was this young man—I asked his age even though I knew he is fourteen (being as I am quite familiar with that age)—who was tidy, polite, well-spoken. The best way I can describe Patrick is that he is open. He is calm, conducts himself with the same pride that is evident in the vast majority of Rwandans, and there is a transparency in his face and manner.
Oh, and did I mention his smile? It lights up his face.
Something just goes click.
You know what I’m talking about.
I met his family last night. Julius, coordinator extraordinaire, was our translator and facilitator. I met Patrick’s older sister and her young children, as well as her mother-in-law and (I think) sisters-in-law. So these are all the female members of his family. His sister is married, but I didn’t meet her husband last night.
If you’re reading carefully, you will have noticed two missing family members: Patrick doesn’t have a mother or father. His mother died in an accident and his father died of a heart attack while studying or working in India. Asking further about this story is not only inappropriate, but could traumatize Patrick, so that’s the story. So I’ve offered to be Patrick’s educational sponsor.
Already an orphan in a developing nation, Patrick faces increasing vulnerability, especially in terms of his education. Whereas 99% of Rwandan children attend primary school where the fees are low, less than 50% of young Rwandans attend secondary school. In a country whose only natural resource is its people, Rwanda desperately needs educated young people, especially people like Patrick, who is very bright.
However, in this culture that values the primacy of the group, often at the expense of the individual, Patrick will face increasing pressure to cede to the needs of the larger family group because he doesn’t have a mother or father to advocate directly for him. Patrick’s sister, who clearly values education and the opportunities it affords, pays for the education of not only her children, but some in the extended family as well. But my financing of his school fees ensures that Patrick can finish secondary school and focus his energies on winning a scholarship to the national university here in a few years. He now has an advocate.
When I was meeting Patrick’s family at his house last night, I realized how vulnerable his family feels. When both Patrick and his sister asked when I was leaving the country—now nine days—I saw worry flash across their faces. It must be terrible to have promises made but not kept. What if this muzungu got swept away while she was in the country and made all these promises, but then when she gets home, other priorities arise or she forgets or or or….
So Julius and I and Patrick’s sister will draw up a written agreement, a memo of understanding, in which I commit to paying Patrick’s school fees and related educational expenses, and his extended family will continue to advise him and provide continuing familial and cultural support. Julius will try to get Patrick placed in a better school and will scan and email me Patrick’s grade reports.
All this is made easier because Julius has a brand-new NGO called Help Life Rwanda that focuses on secondary school scholarships for Rwanda’s most at-risk youth. HLR will identify ten especially vulnerable young people (nine now) who are experiencing difficulty funding their secondary school education, particularly the school fees that are currently about US$100 a term, roughly $300 a year. Julius, who has a degree in management and accounting, will channel school fees from donors directly to the schools. The kids are easy to find, especially because NAR has youth clubs in all Rwandan provinces. Donors, on the other hand, are more difficult for Julius to find.
So you know what I’m going to ask next.
If you feel inclined to make an important difference in a kid’s life and you can afford to fund one of these scholarships—or even a part of one—please consider this program. I’m happy to email you with more information. Rwanda’s future rests on the creativity and critical thinking of its youth. The country has come so far in fourteen years. Its future is bright.
Consider it a good long-term investment in peace and reconciliation.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Notes on posting
July 22, 2008
Posting is definitely getting harder. I’m feeling incredibly pressed for time as I enter my final week in Rwanda. Also, my formal research is in full swing; plus there’s a really interesting conference on reconstruction of identity going on this week in Kigali that a Canadian told me about. But it’s not just the time factor.
Things are just getting more complex.
There are several posts—clothing, annoyance, mini-buses, to name just a few—that I would very much like to revise in significant ways. Now that I’ve had more experience with the content and have continued thinking about these issues, there’s so much more to write about.
Other, newer posts are more challenging to write as well. There are so many people I can’t wait to write about, but they are coming along very slooooowly. I’ll probably be blogging about this time here for awhile to come.
Posting is definitely getting harder. I’m feeling incredibly pressed for time as I enter my final week in Rwanda. Also, my formal research is in full swing; plus there’s a really interesting conference on reconstruction of identity going on this week in Kigali that a Canadian told me about. But it’s not just the time factor.
Things are just getting more complex.
There are several posts—clothing, annoyance, mini-buses, to name just a few—that I would very much like to revise in significant ways. Now that I’ve had more experience with the content and have continued thinking about these issues, there’s so much more to write about.
Other, newer posts are more challenging to write as well. There are so many people I can’t wait to write about, but they are coming along very slooooowly. I’ll probably be blogging about this time here for awhile to come.
Kibuye, or the perks of research
July 20, 2008
Julius and I went to this incredibly beautiful town located on the shores of Lake Kivu on Saturday to scope out possible places for my (potential) research next summer.
Kibuye, pronounced like ch BOO yeh, is about two and a half or three hours north of Kigali, depending on how fast the bus driver chooses to go. We traveled up, up, through several small villages, into the Western Province, around countless hills to arrive at the dark turquoise lake surrounded by woods filled with what look like different varieties of cypress trees. Along the highway we saw see people carrying seemingly impossible loads of produce on their heads as they made their way to market, children toting water and long bunches of sugarcane, and even a bride and two bridesmaids heading toward a church. I also saw one of Rwanda’s traditional breeds of cow, the Ankole, with its graceful longish horns.
I was also thrilled to see a woman carrying one of the traditionally-shaped Rwandan baskets on her head. I’ve seen these everywhere—they are printed on one side of the 5,000 Rwandan franc note because of their cultural significance—but I hadn’t seen them used before in a practical way. The baskets are so beautiful. (Please indulge me if I’ve written about these before.) The round bottom section is tapered at the bottom; the base is perhaps twice as narrow as the mouth, and the tight-fitting lid fits over the bottom part and narrows to a point, like a Chinese hat. The point seems like an artistic detail rather than a practicality.
In the Western Province, we also saw the famous terraces that farmers cut into the hills so that they can grow as much as they can in this fertile soil. These terraces not only increase production but also cut down on soil erosion. One of my other favorite sights was the stairwells that are cut into these steep hills near the highway. These stairs are maybe three or four feet wide and are paved with local stones cemented into place. I saw one stair in particular that took my breath away. It was about 100 metres long and there was a short wall that acted like a handrail on the side closest to the hill, but on the open side of the stairs, there was nothing. I can’t imagine walking up the stairs and looking down the hill, which was, for all intents and purposes, straight down.
In the clear, cool air of Kibuye, Julius and I checked out two hotels on the southern side of the lake. The layout of the first hotel was a bit labyrinthine, with hallways leading off from strange areas. Built into the side of a hill—like most Rwandan buildings—it had oddly curved stairwells and low ceilings. At one point when we were on the outside of the hotel, we went down a long outside staircase, maybe 20 steps, where we reached a small landing that didn’t lead to anywhere but another long staircase that went up up up. I used to have dreams that I thought were Kafkaesque in that the stairs did strange things just like this, but now I think I was dreaming of Rwanda.
This first hotel would have been okay, but Julius and I decided to take a boat to the other side of this small part of this huge lake. There we could scope out one more place, although it was newer and nicer, and so probably more expensive. Julius arranged for us to ride in a boat maybe 20 feet long and maybe 4 feet wide. It was piloted by a man dressed in leather shoes, suit trousers, and a button-up shirt. (What did I tell you about men’s dress here?) We reached the other hotel in about fifteen minutes. The lake was so calm. It looked like there was some sort of current in it, but no big waves. It reminded me in a way of Lake Michigan from a few weeks back (although it feels like a lifetime ago).
This second hotel seemed impossibly out of price range. The buildings are spacious and sit on various terraces leading out to the lake. The restaurant was elegant and the hotel had mostly uniformed staff. As Julius and I walked up the many stairs to the office, all I could think was “$$$.” At the reception desk, Julius inquired about the types of rooms they have, prices, and the all-important meeting room where we will (potentially) gather to write.
Can you imagine our delight when the better-appointed rooms here turned out to be the same price as the rooms at the first hotel? Can you picture our faces when we were told that the meeting room was half the price of the first hotel’s? Just to be sure, Julius and I toured each of the types of rooms we will potentially book, and had a glance at the light-filled salle where the participants will write. Each room has an attached bathroom which was in good shape, and most have semi-private lawns or other places to relax. And we had a delicious lunch in the restaurant.
Julius, who first laughed at me when I asked if we could reserve a week for July 2009 because nobody here makes reservations a year in advance, suggested that we negotiate a reservation with the front desk. This place is so affordable, so beautiful; I know it books up fast. In those few minutes we were at the desk, the manager fielded requests for rooms from several people, but she had to turn them away.
In the end, we were able to get the receptionist to write the dates for the week of (potential) research, and set aside the rooms and salle. And that was that. No commitment, no money. Of course it all depends on me writing persuasive, successful grants for this project, as well as gaining approval from my dissertation committee and Tech’s Institutional Review Board.
But now I have a designated week, and a place filled with light and fresh air, steps away from the clear waters of beautiful Lake Kivu where next summer I can hopefully begin my work with writers and continue this journey into Rwandans’ lives and stories.
Julius and I went to this incredibly beautiful town located on the shores of Lake Kivu on Saturday to scope out possible places for my (potential) research next summer.
Kibuye, pronounced like ch BOO yeh, is about two and a half or three hours north of Kigali, depending on how fast the bus driver chooses to go. We traveled up, up, through several small villages, into the Western Province, around countless hills to arrive at the dark turquoise lake surrounded by woods filled with what look like different varieties of cypress trees. Along the highway we saw see people carrying seemingly impossible loads of produce on their heads as they made their way to market, children toting water and long bunches of sugarcane, and even a bride and two bridesmaids heading toward a church. I also saw one of Rwanda’s traditional breeds of cow, the Ankole, with its graceful longish horns.
I was also thrilled to see a woman carrying one of the traditionally-shaped Rwandan baskets on her head. I’ve seen these everywhere—they are printed on one side of the 5,000 Rwandan franc note because of their cultural significance—but I hadn’t seen them used before in a practical way. The baskets are so beautiful. (Please indulge me if I’ve written about these before.) The round bottom section is tapered at the bottom; the base is perhaps twice as narrow as the mouth, and the tight-fitting lid fits over the bottom part and narrows to a point, like a Chinese hat. The point seems like an artistic detail rather than a practicality.
In the Western Province, we also saw the famous terraces that farmers cut into the hills so that they can grow as much as they can in this fertile soil. These terraces not only increase production but also cut down on soil erosion. One of my other favorite sights was the stairwells that are cut into these steep hills near the highway. These stairs are maybe three or four feet wide and are paved with local stones cemented into place. I saw one stair in particular that took my breath away. It was about 100 metres long and there was a short wall that acted like a handrail on the side closest to the hill, but on the open side of the stairs, there was nothing. I can’t imagine walking up the stairs and looking down the hill, which was, for all intents and purposes, straight down.
In the clear, cool air of Kibuye, Julius and I checked out two hotels on the southern side of the lake. The layout of the first hotel was a bit labyrinthine, with hallways leading off from strange areas. Built into the side of a hill—like most Rwandan buildings—it had oddly curved stairwells and low ceilings. At one point when we were on the outside of the hotel, we went down a long outside staircase, maybe 20 steps, where we reached a small landing that didn’t lead to anywhere but another long staircase that went up up up. I used to have dreams that I thought were Kafkaesque in that the stairs did strange things just like this, but now I think I was dreaming of Rwanda.
This first hotel would have been okay, but Julius and I decided to take a boat to the other side of this small part of this huge lake. There we could scope out one more place, although it was newer and nicer, and so probably more expensive. Julius arranged for us to ride in a boat maybe 20 feet long and maybe 4 feet wide. It was piloted by a man dressed in leather shoes, suit trousers, and a button-up shirt. (What did I tell you about men’s dress here?) We reached the other hotel in about fifteen minutes. The lake was so calm. It looked like there was some sort of current in it, but no big waves. It reminded me in a way of Lake Michigan from a few weeks back (although it feels like a lifetime ago).
This second hotel seemed impossibly out of price range. The buildings are spacious and sit on various terraces leading out to the lake. The restaurant was elegant and the hotel had mostly uniformed staff. As Julius and I walked up the many stairs to the office, all I could think was “$$$.” At the reception desk, Julius inquired about the types of rooms they have, prices, and the all-important meeting room where we will (potentially) gather to write.
Can you imagine our delight when the better-appointed rooms here turned out to be the same price as the rooms at the first hotel? Can you picture our faces when we were told that the meeting room was half the price of the first hotel’s? Just to be sure, Julius and I toured each of the types of rooms we will potentially book, and had a glance at the light-filled salle where the participants will write. Each room has an attached bathroom which was in good shape, and most have semi-private lawns or other places to relax. And we had a delicious lunch in the restaurant.
Julius, who first laughed at me when I asked if we could reserve a week for July 2009 because nobody here makes reservations a year in advance, suggested that we negotiate a reservation with the front desk. This place is so affordable, so beautiful; I know it books up fast. In those few minutes we were at the desk, the manager fielded requests for rooms from several people, but she had to turn them away.
In the end, we were able to get the receptionist to write the dates for the week of (potential) research, and set aside the rooms and salle. And that was that. No commitment, no money. Of course it all depends on me writing persuasive, successful grants for this project, as well as gaining approval from my dissertation committee and Tech’s Institutional Review Board.
But now I have a designated week, and a place filled with light and fresh air, steps away from the clear waters of beautiful Lake Kivu where next summer I can hopefully begin my work with writers and continue this journey into Rwandans’ lives and stories.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Cuppa love
July 17, 2008
Call it African Tea; call it chai.
Strong black tea brewed with ginger and milk is love, period.
The instant it pours out of the pot, I’m transported to R’s kitchen, with friends in my dorm room at Tech, my own kitchen at home….
Call it African Tea; call it chai.
Strong black tea brewed with ginger and milk is love, period.
The instant it pours out of the pot, I’m transported to R’s kitchen, with friends in my dorm room at Tech, my own kitchen at home….
Deep Water
I thought I was capable, was sure of myself in deep water, as familiar as I am with my own pond. But this pond found an opening into larger water and I am in it, gurgling and trying to stay afloat as the powerful currents sweep me out and away. These unfamiliar waters are both warm and cold, a confluence of many, many small ponds. I can’t even begin to see where the water ends, either below me or around me. I swim around, thrashing, trying to explore. Is this ocean map-able? Often I am frightened. I thought I was a good swimmer. Have I fooled myself?
There is no place to rest my feet; these waters are unknowably deep, cavernous, and dangerous if one is not a strong, patient swimmer.
Me, I need to gain strength; I’m not yet used to these depths, the vast water.
Once in a while, either when a wave crashes over me or when I get brave and dive below, I try to look around under here, but it’s so hard to see. Slowly I guess my way through, backing out, going around, pushing through. Within these depths I gradually make out the most amazing structures. I thought I knew coral, but these jagged formations are massive, connecting in unimaginable ways. Gravity seems not to have influence under these waters; it is the currents of the water itself that shape what is below. When I can look hard, I try to examine the coral up close, close enough to see and touch, but careful not to get swept up into it where I’d be ripped up. When I can, I gently swim through tender deep-water plants, careful not to pull their roots. Are they, too, needing to surface?
I float sometimes, my back to the water, but it keeps pulling at me. Is that a siren song? I can’t resist. I turn over and kick into it, forcing my eyes open. How far down can I go today? There are places that are so dark. Are those really sunken boats there? Who else is here? Who tried to swim here and drowned instead? Just when I think my lungs will burst, I look for the sun, the moon, any light and shoot upward, gasping for breath as I break surface. I breathe, see where I come up, try to tell if I can see land.
Sometimes I really can’t see the shore and it seems there is no solid place to hold. Often my sight goes when I’ve been down too far or too long. I think I will never see land again, never feel it under my feet. But those are the times when I see a beacon, maybe a lighthouse, maybe just a glimmer of dawn. And then I can see in the distance there are places, maybe the shore, maybe islands, that I could get to if I need to. When I need to.
---
Thanks to E, who provided feedback on a very early version of this.
There is no place to rest my feet; these waters are unknowably deep, cavernous, and dangerous if one is not a strong, patient swimmer.
Me, I need to gain strength; I’m not yet used to these depths, the vast water.
Once in a while, either when a wave crashes over me or when I get brave and dive below, I try to look around under here, but it’s so hard to see. Slowly I guess my way through, backing out, going around, pushing through. Within these depths I gradually make out the most amazing structures. I thought I knew coral, but these jagged formations are massive, connecting in unimaginable ways. Gravity seems not to have influence under these waters; it is the currents of the water itself that shape what is below. When I can look hard, I try to examine the coral up close, close enough to see and touch, but careful not to get swept up into it where I’d be ripped up. When I can, I gently swim through tender deep-water plants, careful not to pull their roots. Are they, too, needing to surface?
I float sometimes, my back to the water, but it keeps pulling at me. Is that a siren song? I can’t resist. I turn over and kick into it, forcing my eyes open. How far down can I go today? There are places that are so dark. Are those really sunken boats there? Who else is here? Who tried to swim here and drowned instead? Just when I think my lungs will burst, I look for the sun, the moon, any light and shoot upward, gasping for breath as I break surface. I breathe, see where I come up, try to tell if I can see land.
Sometimes I really can’t see the shore and it seems there is no solid place to hold. Often my sight goes when I’ve been down too far or too long. I think I will never see land again, never feel it under my feet. But those are the times when I see a beacon, maybe a lighthouse, maybe just a glimmer of dawn. And then I can see in the distance there are places, maybe the shore, maybe islands, that I could get to if I need to. When I need to.
---
Thanks to E, who provided feedback on a very early version of this.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Let There Be Guacamole
July 15, 2008
Went back to Kimironko today. The money guys on the buses call out what sounds like “chimirango Kimironko” in a sing-song voice to attract riders. Will go back Thursday afternoon to pick up more Rwandan clothes. But I also shopped for produce. Managed to get a kilo of tomatoes, three small purple onions, three bell peppers, two limes, a small bag of garlic cloves, and the biggest avocado I’ve ever seen. It must weigh two pounds. The young guy who was negotiating with me (I say negotiating, but I just ask how much and pay that much—sorry RR.) was offering me this one and that one, but the lady sitting next to him shook her head until he picked one that met her approval. As they say here, thanks, sista.
As I was buying parsley and lettuce, another guy came over and spoke softly into my ear: “Coriander…rosemary….” When my brain worked out the translation of coriander to cilantro, I asked, “You have coriander?” Yes, he did.
I also bought a bottle of pilli pilli, and let me tell you that people here do not mess with their chiles. Straight habañeros. The tomato vendor wanted to sell me a small bag—about ten of the little explosions, but I laughed and said I knew about those. No thank you. But the bottled stuff is more easy to work with.
I also bought a little aluminum pot with a lid that will suffice for a salad bowl.
Everyone at the market kept offering the most beautiful veggies, pulling out the “special” ones—broccoli, and the anise-flavored bulb, as well as beautiful little beans. One of the vendors spoke English and I explained to him that I don’t have a kitchen here, but that the produce was beautiful. He said that I would come back, that this is a good market. And I agreed.
I also bought a couple of shopping bags. Here everything is recycled—reused really. Shopping bags are reused from the large ones in which food is shipped here. I’ve been looking for one that had something from Rwanda, and I found some good ones today.
BTW, if there are any conference organizers reading this, we want conference bags that we can use for groceries after the conference. Not fancy, but sturdy; not complicated, but useful.
Okay, so back to the food. I had lettuce and tomatoes for a quick lunch. It felt a little ana to count out lettuce leaves, but I was trying to keep track of the ones I washed with purified water.
So for dinner, I stopped by the little convenience store next to the inn and bought a dozen rolls, sort of like hotdog buns. Then I came back to my room and made awesome guacamole: three little garlic cloves and a third of an onion (I’m kissing no one, so what the heck, right?); two tomatoes, the entire avocado (what else could I do?); a small handful of coriander, and about a half-teaspoon of pilli pilli.
This deserves its own paragraph: when I opened the bottle of pilli pilli (which was bottled like soda), it fizzed just like thick, red Coke. Luckily, I was fairly close to the shower, and I held it over the tiles there. What a mess. About half a cup bubbled out. I thought about salmonella and other reasons that the stuff would fizz, but I took one tiny taste from my finger and decided that anything that might have been in there would surely be killed by the firepower in that bottle. I rinsed it off, being sure that no water got inside, and proceeded to try to clean up the shower. Remember that Rwanda is the land of a thousand hills? Well, my shower drain is in the uphill half of the basin, so I have to sweep the last of the water up into the drain with my feet. So after running the water for a sec, I rinsed off the huge thick puddle of pilli pilli and started pulling the water into the drain. So when all the red water was gone, I put back on my leggings (didn’t want them to get wet earlier), and the cuffs got a little damp. Which was fine, until it seeped into my legs that I had shaved this morning. I’ve heard of hot legs, but really.
Half a teaspoon of the pilli pilli in all that guacamole was almost too much. Almost.
Finally, I smooshed everything together in the little pot and broke open the rolls and had guacamole sandwiches. So good.
Went back to Kimironko today. The money guys on the buses call out what sounds like “chimirango Kimironko” in a sing-song voice to attract riders. Will go back Thursday afternoon to pick up more Rwandan clothes. But I also shopped for produce. Managed to get a kilo of tomatoes, three small purple onions, three bell peppers, two limes, a small bag of garlic cloves, and the biggest avocado I’ve ever seen. It must weigh two pounds. The young guy who was negotiating with me (I say negotiating, but I just ask how much and pay that much—sorry RR.) was offering me this one and that one, but the lady sitting next to him shook her head until he picked one that met her approval. As they say here, thanks, sista.
As I was buying parsley and lettuce, another guy came over and spoke softly into my ear: “Coriander…rosemary….” When my brain worked out the translation of coriander to cilantro, I asked, “You have coriander?” Yes, he did.
I also bought a bottle of pilli pilli, and let me tell you that people here do not mess with their chiles. Straight habañeros. The tomato vendor wanted to sell me a small bag—about ten of the little explosions, but I laughed and said I knew about those. No thank you. But the bottled stuff is more easy to work with.
I also bought a little aluminum pot with a lid that will suffice for a salad bowl.
Everyone at the market kept offering the most beautiful veggies, pulling out the “special” ones—broccoli, and the anise-flavored bulb, as well as beautiful little beans. One of the vendors spoke English and I explained to him that I don’t have a kitchen here, but that the produce was beautiful. He said that I would come back, that this is a good market. And I agreed.
I also bought a couple of shopping bags. Here everything is recycled—reused really. Shopping bags are reused from the large ones in which food is shipped here. I’ve been looking for one that had something from Rwanda, and I found some good ones today.
BTW, if there are any conference organizers reading this, we want conference bags that we can use for groceries after the conference. Not fancy, but sturdy; not complicated, but useful.
Okay, so back to the food. I had lettuce and tomatoes for a quick lunch. It felt a little ana to count out lettuce leaves, but I was trying to keep track of the ones I washed with purified water.
So for dinner, I stopped by the little convenience store next to the inn and bought a dozen rolls, sort of like hotdog buns. Then I came back to my room and made awesome guacamole: three little garlic cloves and a third of an onion (I’m kissing no one, so what the heck, right?); two tomatoes, the entire avocado (what else could I do?); a small handful of coriander, and about a half-teaspoon of pilli pilli.
This deserves its own paragraph: when I opened the bottle of pilli pilli (which was bottled like soda), it fizzed just like thick, red Coke. Luckily, I was fairly close to the shower, and I held it over the tiles there. What a mess. About half a cup bubbled out. I thought about salmonella and other reasons that the stuff would fizz, but I took one tiny taste from my finger and decided that anything that might have been in there would surely be killed by the firepower in that bottle. I rinsed it off, being sure that no water got inside, and proceeded to try to clean up the shower. Remember that Rwanda is the land of a thousand hills? Well, my shower drain is in the uphill half of the basin, so I have to sweep the last of the water up into the drain with my feet. So after running the water for a sec, I rinsed off the huge thick puddle of pilli pilli and started pulling the water into the drain. So when all the red water was gone, I put back on my leggings (didn’t want them to get wet earlier), and the cuffs got a little damp. Which was fine, until it seeped into my legs that I had shaved this morning. I’ve heard of hot legs, but really.
Half a teaspoon of the pilli pilli in all that guacamole was almost too much. Almost.
Finally, I smooshed everything together in the little pot and broke open the rolls and had guacamole sandwiches. So good.
“No Caffeine for You.”
July 15, 2008
Not sure exactly what happened this morning, but the ladies in the inn’s restaurant did not want to serve me breakfast. I asked for a cheese omelette anyway, and they brought me one, but no coffee. ”Thé? I asked. “C’est fini,” she answered, and then took coffee to another patron.
Hm.
I have a caffeine-withdrawal headache that you wouldn’t believe. Wah. I could go out and get a coke somewhere, but it’s a big thing; you can’t drink on the streets—it’s considered unhygienic and rude. Beside that, I want to sleep tonight.
I can tell you now that if I don’t get caffeine tomorrow morning, I might be a ferociously ugly American. The thing is, though, that you should never, ever, piss off anyone who has anything to do with your food. Remember “The Color Purple”? Well, that’s only the half of it. So if I don’t get coffee here, I’ll go up to Bourbon and pay American prices.
So I think I didn’t get served this morning because the ladies there might think I had something to do with the hotel personnel getting held overnight at police headquarters for questioning. Yes, there’s a story.
Most of this I heard through my open window. The Dutch interns next door sit on my porch, and it tends to be a congregation area for people in their 20s, so I end up hearing way more of their stories than I’d like.
But anyway, on Sunday, a woman from Kenya who was staying in No. 1 across the courtyard from us went to the restaurant to order some food. She locked her door, but she said that when she came back, she discovered her camera and money were stolen. One of the desk clerks, the one who has been nothing but helpful and kind, asked the intern sitting outside if she saw anyone enter No. 1. They went round and round for awhile, and that’s when we heard the story from the Kenyan woman. I came out to see if there was trouble, and since I couldn’t help, I went back inside to continue working.
There was more conversation for awhile, off and on, including the desk clerk asking to borrow an intern’s phone to call the supposed thief, a guy who works at the inn. The intern asked him to explain why he wanted to call, and he explained that if the guy had stolen, he would have turned off his phone (or something to that effect). The desk clerk wanted to call the guy from a number that the guy wouldn’t recognize. The intern told the desk clerk that was stupid and didn’t lend him her phone.
So when I got back to the inn very late yesterday, like 9:40, I was supposed to get a book back from the nice desk clerk. But instead of him behind the counter, it was some new guy, and he said my friend wouldn’t be there that night. When I got to my porch, one of the Dutch interns was sitting there, working on her laptop. I asked her if anything interesting happened and that’s when she told me that the police had come and taken both desk clerks, the gardener, and two cleaning boys and were going to hold them overnight so they could make a statement.
Tonight they are still not back. So things could be much worse than a caffeine-withdrawal headache.
Not sure exactly what happened this morning, but the ladies in the inn’s restaurant did not want to serve me breakfast. I asked for a cheese omelette anyway, and they brought me one, but no coffee. ”Thé? I asked. “C’est fini,” she answered, and then took coffee to another patron.
Hm.
I have a caffeine-withdrawal headache that you wouldn’t believe. Wah. I could go out and get a coke somewhere, but it’s a big thing; you can’t drink on the streets—it’s considered unhygienic and rude. Beside that, I want to sleep tonight.
I can tell you now that if I don’t get caffeine tomorrow morning, I might be a ferociously ugly American. The thing is, though, that you should never, ever, piss off anyone who has anything to do with your food. Remember “The Color Purple”? Well, that’s only the half of it. So if I don’t get coffee here, I’ll go up to Bourbon and pay American prices.
So I think I didn’t get served this morning because the ladies there might think I had something to do with the hotel personnel getting held overnight at police headquarters for questioning. Yes, there’s a story.
Most of this I heard through my open window. The Dutch interns next door sit on my porch, and it tends to be a congregation area for people in their 20s, so I end up hearing way more of their stories than I’d like.
But anyway, on Sunday, a woman from Kenya who was staying in No. 1 across the courtyard from us went to the restaurant to order some food. She locked her door, but she said that when she came back, she discovered her camera and money were stolen. One of the desk clerks, the one who has been nothing but helpful and kind, asked the intern sitting outside if she saw anyone enter No. 1. They went round and round for awhile, and that’s when we heard the story from the Kenyan woman. I came out to see if there was trouble, and since I couldn’t help, I went back inside to continue working.
There was more conversation for awhile, off and on, including the desk clerk asking to borrow an intern’s phone to call the supposed thief, a guy who works at the inn. The intern asked him to explain why he wanted to call, and he explained that if the guy had stolen, he would have turned off his phone (or something to that effect). The desk clerk wanted to call the guy from a number that the guy wouldn’t recognize. The intern told the desk clerk that was stupid and didn’t lend him her phone.
So when I got back to the inn very late yesterday, like 9:40, I was supposed to get a book back from the nice desk clerk. But instead of him behind the counter, it was some new guy, and he said my friend wouldn’t be there that night. When I got to my porch, one of the Dutch interns was sitting there, working on her laptop. I asked her if anything interesting happened and that’s when she told me that the police had come and taken both desk clerks, the gardener, and two cleaning boys and were going to hold them overnight so they could make a statement.
Tonight they are still not back. So things could be much worse than a caffeine-withdrawal headache.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Food
July 12, 2008
I went again to the Kimironko market today and after visiting a seamstress and buying more beautiful baskets from women vendors, I wandered into the food part of the market. There were mounds of flour on rows of tables, carefully shaped like great mountains; huge bags of rice on the floor, open and ready to be scooped; there were rows and rows of tiny little ripe bananas and huge bunches of green bananas that people somehow carry over their shoulders one at a time.
Then there were tables with beautiful little piles of ripe tomatoes, green beans, all sorts of onions, dried beans, green peas, garlic, habañero peppers, green bell peppers, leeks, carrots, beets, white potatoes, cassava, spinach-type greens, avocadoes, and probably more that I didn’t notice. There were some kiosks surrounding this part that sold fresh fish and chickens, and the most beautiful brown eggs. I could hear live chickens, too. They were behind stacks of vegetables ready to be prepared for sale. Oh, and there were smoked fishes too, great big flat ones and little tiny ones that looked almost like dried leaves.
One of my wishes as I was taking in that bounty was that I wished so much that I had a kitchen here. It would be so much fun to cook with these beautiful, fresh ingredients. Talk about eating local! This afternoon, I had to satisfy my hunger with a beautiful bunch of little bananas, which I later ate with peanuts. These will make a good snack tomorrow, too.
Tonight I ate at Bourbon, hoping to be able to access the internet (but that’s another post). I had what seems to be the national food of Rwanda, a brochette. A brochette can be made with any meat, but tonight, mine was beef tenderloin that had been rubbed with a reddish, rich spice. It was skewered and grilled with sections of white onion, tomato, and green bell pepper. It was incredibly delicious, a 10. And at 2300 RWF ($4.39US), an incredible bargain. It was served with French fries (huge serving) and a little garnish of lettuce, a slice of tomato, and a few thin rings of fresh white onion. Just about everyone says not to eat fresh produce, especially if it has been cup up, but I was so so so hungry for fresh food that I ate the tomato and onion anyway.
Delicious.
After visiting Kimironko and strolling through that market, I realize now that I simply have to buy a bowl, some tomatoes, onions, salt and pepper at the very least so that I can make salad in my room. Or tomato and onion sandwiches! If I can find vinegar, oil, some herbs, and a baguette, I can make some bread salad—panzanella—an Italian meal usually made from leftovers that is one of my comfort foods. Come to think of it, if I add pilli to the list, I could make really good guacamole. Hm.
I was surprised by the prevalence—dominance—of refined wheat and rice products here. White bread. White rice. White potatoes. White people food. Surely Rwandans would get more nutrients per calorie if they were eating whole wheat products and brown rice. And sweet potatoes. There isn’t rampant hunger here apparently, but the nutritional quality of the carbs could certainly be improved. I will say, though, that sugar here is somewhat unrefined. It’s cane sugar, like “Sugar in the Raw.”
Steph and Mike said the other night that there is a big market near the Never Again offices. I’ve seen the ingredients I’m hoping for at various places and I hear there are limes, too, so here’s hoping for yummy fresh goodness. And soon.
I went again to the Kimironko market today and after visiting a seamstress and buying more beautiful baskets from women vendors, I wandered into the food part of the market. There were mounds of flour on rows of tables, carefully shaped like great mountains; huge bags of rice on the floor, open and ready to be scooped; there were rows and rows of tiny little ripe bananas and huge bunches of green bananas that people somehow carry over their shoulders one at a time.
Then there were tables with beautiful little piles of ripe tomatoes, green beans, all sorts of onions, dried beans, green peas, garlic, habañero peppers, green bell peppers, leeks, carrots, beets, white potatoes, cassava, spinach-type greens, avocadoes, and probably more that I didn’t notice. There were some kiosks surrounding this part that sold fresh fish and chickens, and the most beautiful brown eggs. I could hear live chickens, too. They were behind stacks of vegetables ready to be prepared for sale. Oh, and there were smoked fishes too, great big flat ones and little tiny ones that looked almost like dried leaves.
One of my wishes as I was taking in that bounty was that I wished so much that I had a kitchen here. It would be so much fun to cook with these beautiful, fresh ingredients. Talk about eating local! This afternoon, I had to satisfy my hunger with a beautiful bunch of little bananas, which I later ate with peanuts. These will make a good snack tomorrow, too.
Tonight I ate at Bourbon, hoping to be able to access the internet (but that’s another post). I had what seems to be the national food of Rwanda, a brochette. A brochette can be made with any meat, but tonight, mine was beef tenderloin that had been rubbed with a reddish, rich spice. It was skewered and grilled with sections of white onion, tomato, and green bell pepper. It was incredibly delicious, a 10. And at 2300 RWF ($4.39US), an incredible bargain. It was served with French fries (huge serving) and a little garnish of lettuce, a slice of tomato, and a few thin rings of fresh white onion. Just about everyone says not to eat fresh produce, especially if it has been cup up, but I was so so so hungry for fresh food that I ate the tomato and onion anyway.
Delicious.
After visiting Kimironko and strolling through that market, I realize now that I simply have to buy a bowl, some tomatoes, onions, salt and pepper at the very least so that I can make salad in my room. Or tomato and onion sandwiches! If I can find vinegar, oil, some herbs, and a baguette, I can make some bread salad—panzanella—an Italian meal usually made from leftovers that is one of my comfort foods. Come to think of it, if I add pilli to the list, I could make really good guacamole. Hm.
I was surprised by the prevalence—dominance—of refined wheat and rice products here. White bread. White rice. White potatoes. White people food. Surely Rwandans would get more nutrients per calorie if they were eating whole wheat products and brown rice. And sweet potatoes. There isn’t rampant hunger here apparently, but the nutritional quality of the carbs could certainly be improved. I will say, though, that sugar here is somewhat unrefined. It’s cane sugar, like “Sugar in the Raw.”
Steph and Mike said the other night that there is a big market near the Never Again offices. I’ve seen the ingredients I’m hoping for at various places and I hear there are limes, too, so here’s hoping for yummy fresh goodness. And soon.
Meta-annoyance
July 13, 2008
If I hear one more Western woman says she’s annoyed…
Argh.
There are so many White women here who act like they don’t understand they are in a developing nation that has its own well-established, complex, beautiful, functioning culture—and that we are guests within this culture.
It’s not just Americans, either. I won’t mention names or countries, but familiar people as well as those I overhear in restaurants and cafés complain about cultural differences and almost invariably use the word “annoying.”
There is one to my right as I write this, for example, who is annoyed that she didn’t get her iced chai latté the way she wanted it, so she sent it back. When the waiter tried to clarify if she wanted an iced chai or an iced chai latté, she tried to explain that latté means milk. She and the waiter went back and forth for a moment or two about what she wanted and how to make it, and then she started to dismiss him by saying, “If it’s too complicated….” He very politely said that is was not too complicated; he just wanted to try to understand what she wanted.
So then her drink came out again—very quickly—and twenty minutes later, it sits untouched. It is not how she wants it.
In all fairness, these are almost all girls who have just graduated with their bachelors degrees and have the time and money to be in Rwanda, so they are relatively young and inexperienced. Another shared characteristic of these women is that they are stunningly beautiful. One of the ones on my right looks like Cameron Diaz.
Snippets of conversation reveal (easily, because they speak so loudly) the two years of college that they were on drugs; where they want to apply for law or medical school; that they don’t have Republican friends, or if they do, they are cool, ya know?; they wished their mom had mothered them more; that a friend’s insides are so squishy [yes, really]; that thinking about turning 26 just feels, like, so old….
As I consider the possibility of bringing some of my own college students over here next summer, I think about how to prepare them so that they can experience and participate in this culture with sensitivity and respect. There are many ways to respect the culture here, even if we’ll never fit in.
But it comes down to this recognition:
Rwanda may be a developing nation, but the culture here is older than almost any in the West.
I’m reminded now of one of Gandhi’s famous quotes, the one where someone asked him what he thought about Western culture, and Gandhi replied, “I think it would be a good idea.”
If I hear one more Western woman says she’s annoyed…
Argh.
There are so many White women here who act like they don’t understand they are in a developing nation that has its own well-established, complex, beautiful, functioning culture—and that we are guests within this culture.
It’s not just Americans, either. I won’t mention names or countries, but familiar people as well as those I overhear in restaurants and cafés complain about cultural differences and almost invariably use the word “annoying.”
There is one to my right as I write this, for example, who is annoyed that she didn’t get her iced chai latté the way she wanted it, so she sent it back. When the waiter tried to clarify if she wanted an iced chai or an iced chai latté, she tried to explain that latté means milk. She and the waiter went back and forth for a moment or two about what she wanted and how to make it, and then she started to dismiss him by saying, “If it’s too complicated….” He very politely said that is was not too complicated; he just wanted to try to understand what she wanted.
So then her drink came out again—very quickly—and twenty minutes later, it sits untouched. It is not how she wants it.
In all fairness, these are almost all girls who have just graduated with their bachelors degrees and have the time and money to be in Rwanda, so they are relatively young and inexperienced. Another shared characteristic of these women is that they are stunningly beautiful. One of the ones on my right looks like Cameron Diaz.
Snippets of conversation reveal (easily, because they speak so loudly) the two years of college that they were on drugs; where they want to apply for law or medical school; that they don’t have Republican friends, or if they do, they are cool, ya know?; they wished their mom had mothered them more; that a friend’s insides are so squishy [yes, really]; that thinking about turning 26 just feels, like, so old….
As I consider the possibility of bringing some of my own college students over here next summer, I think about how to prepare them so that they can experience and participate in this culture with sensitivity and respect. There are many ways to respect the culture here, even if we’ll never fit in.
But it comes down to this recognition:
Rwanda may be a developing nation, but the culture here is older than almost any in the West.
I’m reminded now of one of Gandhi’s famous quotes, the one where someone asked him what he thought about Western culture, and Gandhi replied, “I think it would be a good idea.”
Rwandan leadership, Ma’at, and identities
July 12, 2008
Two nights of good sleep!
Dinner last night with Justine and Florída, the sisters of my friend Mike who is studying in the US. Good Italian: pasta in butter, garlic, and pilli, a Rwandan hot sauce I think based on habañero peppers. [On a side note, Mike and Steph bought one of these little peppers from the women who set up baskets of produce on the street, not knowing what it was. They put a quarter of one in some marinera sauce, but it was too hot to eat.] The pasta at Chéz Robert was good, but I think they must prepare it for their perceptions of muzungu tastes. This muzungu misses her jalapeños. Justine’s face lit up when I shared this longing with her. Next time, she said, we will go to an Indian restaurant where the food is both delicious and spicy.
Oh, and Justine tells me that there is a pasteurized form of urwagwa. Sorry, Mike in the US: I’m going to have to try it at some point while I’m here. :-)
The conversation during dinner was terrific. We talked a long time about family as well as clothing and cultural expectations. Even better, Justine provided insights that begin to fill the gaps in my understanding of Rwandan life.
As we talked about the increasing prosperity of Rwanda, I asked if the benefits of development are reaching those in the lowest rungs of society. I was thinking here of the neighborhood where the interns Mike and Steph live, where conditions appear almost dire: streets are almost impassable, there is no running water, and people’s faces look a bit harder than those I’ve seen.
Justine said that in some ways, things are getting better for those people. She, for example, is working on women’s land rights initiatives. We didn’t get into the details of this, but she told me that some of the people on the colline I’m staying on, Muhima, were relocated from their houses to other areas outside the city. The houses they were told to leave were derelict. The mayor of Kigali relocated them outside the city in planned communities with water and electricity. At first, the people were upset about losing access to the Kigalli markets and their livelihoods. But a few months after the relocation, they realized they were better off.
This same leader (I asked Justine his name and even had her repeat it slowly, but I can’t remember it) was then asked to govern the Eastern province of Rwanda, a semi-arid area that had been a national park. This man told the people there that he didn’t want to see children barefooted nor animals running loose. He also made them put away some of their harvest into some kind of community storage place. Farming there is more risky than in the fertile areas of the country. Here, again, people were disgruntled about the initiatives, but the next period of drought came and crops failed, they had food in the community storage. I guess they “sold” it to the storage, because they bought it back at very low prices. The point is, though, that people didn’t go hungry, and now they have a process for managing the vagaries of nature and avoiding famine.
Another initiative involves, again, the concept of relocation villages. Apparently South Africa has them as well. These villages are of about 2200 people, with schools, markets, and other necessities. The idea here is of land management. Instead of letting houses stay on fertile land, houses are built in unproductive areas and the fertile land formerly used for housing is farmed by the community in economies of scale. When I asked if these are mixed communities (survivors and perpetrators), Justine answered yes, but that even those labels are discouraged in the interest of reconciliation. Farming together, though, creates a more intense interdependency, and they work together for their mutual survival and benefit.
[On another side note, Justine talked about Rwandans’ feelings about needing to move on with their lives. When I asked how the country can reconcile after the Genocide, she told me that Rwandans acknowledge what happened—they don’t forget—but they need to move on. Not want or think about moving on, but need to move on. Not dwelling on the past maybe promotes healing. I think of the Genocide orphans at the Memorial Centre, about their grief. This continues to generate big questions for me: What is the balance between grieving the past and moving on? What do Rwandans do when they have moved on, but then the past comes flooding back and they cry for their mothers and fathers? Will Rwandans teach the rest of us something new about healing from PTSD? What can Rwandan survivors teach us about trauma reconciliation?]
The Eastern province leader has now been promoted to the Minister of Education, and now people are looking forward to his initiatives because they trust that he will improve things based on his past successes.
I made several comments to Justine regarding this leadership. I imagined my friend and colleague back home, LH, and told Justine that if the American government tried to relocate its citizens or mandated even shoes on children, there would be outcries of individual rights and you-can’t-make-me-do-anything! There would be no way that these initiatives would be successful in the States. Justine raised an eyebrow.
I also told Justine that American knowledge of Rwandan leadership, based on William Kristoff’s reportage in the New York Times, as well as a new book, focuses exclusively on Paul Kagame. I’ve seen no information, no stories about mid-level leadership. And the portrayal of Kagame is that of a benevolent authoritarian. I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on about Rwanda for the past year, and the dominant Western image of government here is that Kagame drives this country, and that when his term as president is over, the country will be in danger of disintegrating into chaos.
Justine was surprised at this. She told me that, in contrast to the government pre-1994 (which was ruled from the top down), the government now is acting from the bottom up based on local and regional initiatives. All the work, the new initiatives—by both governmental and non-governmental organizations—must fulfill some area of the Vision 2020 plan. This visionary document is available on the web. It functions as a strategic plan for the country.
The metaphor that now comes to my mind is that Rwanda is governed as a well-run business might be in the US. I think of Malcolm Baldrige quality criteria, and many processes and forms of accountability look the same here. Justine said even she doubted in 2000 that progress could be made so quickly, but in five years, she saw the improvements to people’s lives, and since then, she has had hope. Many of my friends know that I’ve long been interested in intentional communities, and Rwanda seems to me an intentional nation.
I don’t think Westerners understand enough Rwandan culture to be able to judge fairly what is happening here. We have a difficult time with the concept of relinquishing individual rights for the good of the group. We have a more difficult time trusting our leaders. We believe in individual property rights. But if we interpret government initiatives here based on American values and we assume those values to be universal, then of course we would characterize leaders here as autocratic. How could we possibly see their actions as caring, when care is not a function of our concept of government?
Here, the group identity, the feeling of togetherness, dominates life. Afrocentrism presents a vastly different paradigm of reality than almost any of the Western approaches to life, particularly positivism and the overreliance on scientific reasoning and the agonism of us versus them or me versus you. Even feminists, especially those aligned with Carol Gilligan’s work who appreciate and work toward interdependence—that is to say, even I—struggle to understand the group dynamic here. Scholars describe Afrocentrism as predicated on the concept of Ma’at, a philosophy based on an ancient Egyptian goddess. This philosophy is based on the principles that not only are we all in this together, but that everyone also has a human obligation to do what is best for others. Ma’at is easily observable here in everyday life.
This group identity and obligation to act for the group’s benefit was, of course, twisted and abused by the planners of the Genocide. Bagosora and the other Genocide planners raped Ma’at.
I have so much to learn about this concept of group identity and how sub-groups identify themselves and interact with other sub-groups. The idea of delineation and marginalization must come into play somehow. I wonder whether the needs/idiosyncrasies of the individual are denied by the group or whether those needs or idiosyncrasies are met with/integrated into the group. I wonder what the implications are of this group identity for PTSD? Does the group help heal the trauma or do they marginalize the individual symptoms?
Two nights of good sleep!
Dinner last night with Justine and Florída, the sisters of my friend Mike who is studying in the US. Good Italian: pasta in butter, garlic, and pilli, a Rwandan hot sauce I think based on habañero peppers. [On a side note, Mike and Steph bought one of these little peppers from the women who set up baskets of produce on the street, not knowing what it was. They put a quarter of one in some marinera sauce, but it was too hot to eat.] The pasta at Chéz Robert was good, but I think they must prepare it for their perceptions of muzungu tastes. This muzungu misses her jalapeños. Justine’s face lit up when I shared this longing with her. Next time, she said, we will go to an Indian restaurant where the food is both delicious and spicy.
Oh, and Justine tells me that there is a pasteurized form of urwagwa. Sorry, Mike in the US: I’m going to have to try it at some point while I’m here. :-)
The conversation during dinner was terrific. We talked a long time about family as well as clothing and cultural expectations. Even better, Justine provided insights that begin to fill the gaps in my understanding of Rwandan life.
As we talked about the increasing prosperity of Rwanda, I asked if the benefits of development are reaching those in the lowest rungs of society. I was thinking here of the neighborhood where the interns Mike and Steph live, where conditions appear almost dire: streets are almost impassable, there is no running water, and people’s faces look a bit harder than those I’ve seen.
Justine said that in some ways, things are getting better for those people. She, for example, is working on women’s land rights initiatives. We didn’t get into the details of this, but she told me that some of the people on the colline I’m staying on, Muhima, were relocated from their houses to other areas outside the city. The houses they were told to leave were derelict. The mayor of Kigali relocated them outside the city in planned communities with water and electricity. At first, the people were upset about losing access to the Kigalli markets and their livelihoods. But a few months after the relocation, they realized they were better off.
This same leader (I asked Justine his name and even had her repeat it slowly, but I can’t remember it) was then asked to govern the Eastern province of Rwanda, a semi-arid area that had been a national park. This man told the people there that he didn’t want to see children barefooted nor animals running loose. He also made them put away some of their harvest into some kind of community storage place. Farming there is more risky than in the fertile areas of the country. Here, again, people were disgruntled about the initiatives, but the next period of drought came and crops failed, they had food in the community storage. I guess they “sold” it to the storage, because they bought it back at very low prices. The point is, though, that people didn’t go hungry, and now they have a process for managing the vagaries of nature and avoiding famine.
Another initiative involves, again, the concept of relocation villages. Apparently South Africa has them as well. These villages are of about 2200 people, with schools, markets, and other necessities. The idea here is of land management. Instead of letting houses stay on fertile land, houses are built in unproductive areas and the fertile land formerly used for housing is farmed by the community in economies of scale. When I asked if these are mixed communities (survivors and perpetrators), Justine answered yes, but that even those labels are discouraged in the interest of reconciliation. Farming together, though, creates a more intense interdependency, and they work together for their mutual survival and benefit.
[On another side note, Justine talked about Rwandans’ feelings about needing to move on with their lives. When I asked how the country can reconcile after the Genocide, she told me that Rwandans acknowledge what happened—they don’t forget—but they need to move on. Not want or think about moving on, but need to move on. Not dwelling on the past maybe promotes healing. I think of the Genocide orphans at the Memorial Centre, about their grief. This continues to generate big questions for me: What is the balance between grieving the past and moving on? What do Rwandans do when they have moved on, but then the past comes flooding back and they cry for their mothers and fathers? Will Rwandans teach the rest of us something new about healing from PTSD? What can Rwandan survivors teach us about trauma reconciliation?]
The Eastern province leader has now been promoted to the Minister of Education, and now people are looking forward to his initiatives because they trust that he will improve things based on his past successes.
I made several comments to Justine regarding this leadership. I imagined my friend and colleague back home, LH, and told Justine that if the American government tried to relocate its citizens or mandated even shoes on children, there would be outcries of individual rights and you-can’t-make-me-do-anything! There would be no way that these initiatives would be successful in the States. Justine raised an eyebrow.
I also told Justine that American knowledge of Rwandan leadership, based on William Kristoff’s reportage in the New York Times, as well as a new book, focuses exclusively on Paul Kagame. I’ve seen no information, no stories about mid-level leadership. And the portrayal of Kagame is that of a benevolent authoritarian. I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on about Rwanda for the past year, and the dominant Western image of government here is that Kagame drives this country, and that when his term as president is over, the country will be in danger of disintegrating into chaos.
Justine was surprised at this. She told me that, in contrast to the government pre-1994 (which was ruled from the top down), the government now is acting from the bottom up based on local and regional initiatives. All the work, the new initiatives—by both governmental and non-governmental organizations—must fulfill some area of the Vision 2020 plan. This visionary document is available on the web. It functions as a strategic plan for the country.
The metaphor that now comes to my mind is that Rwanda is governed as a well-run business might be in the US. I think of Malcolm Baldrige quality criteria, and many processes and forms of accountability look the same here. Justine said even she doubted in 2000 that progress could be made so quickly, but in five years, she saw the improvements to people’s lives, and since then, she has had hope. Many of my friends know that I’ve long been interested in intentional communities, and Rwanda seems to me an intentional nation.
I don’t think Westerners understand enough Rwandan culture to be able to judge fairly what is happening here. We have a difficult time with the concept of relinquishing individual rights for the good of the group. We have a more difficult time trusting our leaders. We believe in individual property rights. But if we interpret government initiatives here based on American values and we assume those values to be universal, then of course we would characterize leaders here as autocratic. How could we possibly see their actions as caring, when care is not a function of our concept of government?
Here, the group identity, the feeling of togetherness, dominates life. Afrocentrism presents a vastly different paradigm of reality than almost any of the Western approaches to life, particularly positivism and the overreliance on scientific reasoning and the agonism of us versus them or me versus you. Even feminists, especially those aligned with Carol Gilligan’s work who appreciate and work toward interdependence—that is to say, even I—struggle to understand the group dynamic here. Scholars describe Afrocentrism as predicated on the concept of Ma’at, a philosophy based on an ancient Egyptian goddess. This philosophy is based on the principles that not only are we all in this together, but that everyone also has a human obligation to do what is best for others. Ma’at is easily observable here in everyday life.
This group identity and obligation to act for the group’s benefit was, of course, twisted and abused by the planners of the Genocide. Bagosora and the other Genocide planners raped Ma’at.
I have so much to learn about this concept of group identity and how sub-groups identify themselves and interact with other sub-groups. The idea of delineation and marginalization must come into play somehow. I wonder whether the needs/idiosyncrasies of the individual are denied by the group or whether those needs or idiosyncrasies are met with/integrated into the group. I wonder what the implications are of this group identity for PTSD? Does the group help heal the trauma or do they marginalize the individual symptoms?
Clothing
July 9, 2008
Okay, finally—a post on clothing.
People here wear so many styles of dress. Many of the women dress traditionally: a longish skirt, a short-sleeved top and a head wrap. Some wear a bou-bou, like a mumu, a one-piece shift. I’ve seen several pregnant women wearing this style. Some women wear professional Western dress—suit pants, a nice blouse, and jacket.
The combinations are particularly interesting: Western-style suiting, but made with Rwandan-style cloth patterns or even a chemise normally worn with the formal sari-type of dress, but worn with dress pants and a scarf draped over to echo the traditional style.
In any case, there are no shorts here and no short skirts. A few young women wear capris, but when a woman exposes her thighs here, it would be like walking around topless in Texas. Some young women wear tank tops, but not many. No bellies are exposed. Generally, skirts are knee-length and tops are short-sleeved.
Women wear mostly dressy sandals, flats, or low heels.
The colors and the patterns in the fabrics here are really interesting. Very vibrant. They make my fuschia tie-dye t-shirt look boring by comparison. I don’t get to indulge very often in my enjoyment of bright colors and crazy patterns, so I’m having a blast!
My favorite part of women’s dress is how mothers wear their babies: the baby (or even a three-year-old) is on the mother’s back (but sometimes grandmother’s or sister’s) and cloth wraps around and around and around the baby and carrier. The sling holds the baby from just above the knees all the way to his or her neck. On the mom, the sling wraps around her upper torso, just under the arms, to about the sternum. I want to ask one of them how they hold the baby on their back as they wrap them so tightly. Is it a two-person job? Not likely.
And the men? Mostly Western dress, but I’m surprised about the relative formality of professional wear. Men here, if they work in an office, wear dress slacks, a button-up shirt, and sometimes a tie. If it’s business casual, then short sleeves and no tie; however, if there is a meeting, then long sleeve and tie. Sometimes the Western-style shirts are made of Rwandan cloth, which I think looks terrific. The colors and patterns are bold! And come to think of it, the shirts all look pressed. Hm. How do they manage not to be wrinkly, even at the end of the day?
And the shoes!!! Beautiful men’s shoes. Professional men all wear leather shoes. I don’t know how they walk the hills without sliding, but somehow they manage. I’ve noticed a preference for shoes with extended toes—very European. And the shoes are always clean, although at the end of the day, obviously they’re dusty. Oh—and white socks, usually.
Now that I’ve been out to some of the neighborhoods far from city centre, I recognize that I see more professionals in the downtown area. Rwandans are dressed more casually in the outer neighborhoods: young men and boys in t-shirts and pants; women in traditional wear or simple skirt and top.
These are the types of clothes I chose to bring to Rwanda. Luckily, my good friend Michael, who is from here, advised me about suit pants and jackets—basically professional dress for women. I’m so glad he did. The day before I left, I bought a couple of pair of slacks and a travel jacket.
Next time I come, though, I’ll know to bring real business attire.
Okay, finally—a post on clothing.
People here wear so many styles of dress. Many of the women dress traditionally: a longish skirt, a short-sleeved top and a head wrap. Some wear a bou-bou, like a mumu, a one-piece shift. I’ve seen several pregnant women wearing this style. Some women wear professional Western dress—suit pants, a nice blouse, and jacket.
The combinations are particularly interesting: Western-style suiting, but made with Rwandan-style cloth patterns or even a chemise normally worn with the formal sari-type of dress, but worn with dress pants and a scarf draped over to echo the traditional style.
In any case, there are no shorts here and no short skirts. A few young women wear capris, but when a woman exposes her thighs here, it would be like walking around topless in Texas. Some young women wear tank tops, but not many. No bellies are exposed. Generally, skirts are knee-length and tops are short-sleeved.
Women wear mostly dressy sandals, flats, or low heels.
The colors and the patterns in the fabrics here are really interesting. Very vibrant. They make my fuschia tie-dye t-shirt look boring by comparison. I don’t get to indulge very often in my enjoyment of bright colors and crazy patterns, so I’m having a blast!
My favorite part of women’s dress is how mothers wear their babies: the baby (or even a three-year-old) is on the mother’s back (but sometimes grandmother’s or sister’s) and cloth wraps around and around and around the baby and carrier. The sling holds the baby from just above the knees all the way to his or her neck. On the mom, the sling wraps around her upper torso, just under the arms, to about the sternum. I want to ask one of them how they hold the baby on their back as they wrap them so tightly. Is it a two-person job? Not likely.
And the men? Mostly Western dress, but I’m surprised about the relative formality of professional wear. Men here, if they work in an office, wear dress slacks, a button-up shirt, and sometimes a tie. If it’s business casual, then short sleeves and no tie; however, if there is a meeting, then long sleeve and tie. Sometimes the Western-style shirts are made of Rwandan cloth, which I think looks terrific. The colors and patterns are bold! And come to think of it, the shirts all look pressed. Hm. How do they manage not to be wrinkly, even at the end of the day?
And the shoes!!! Beautiful men’s shoes. Professional men all wear leather shoes. I don’t know how they walk the hills without sliding, but somehow they manage. I’ve noticed a preference for shoes with extended toes—very European. And the shoes are always clean, although at the end of the day, obviously they’re dusty. Oh—and white socks, usually.
Now that I’ve been out to some of the neighborhoods far from city centre, I recognize that I see more professionals in the downtown area. Rwandans are dressed more casually in the outer neighborhoods: young men and boys in t-shirts and pants; women in traditional wear or simple skirt and top.
These are the types of clothes I chose to bring to Rwanda. Luckily, my good friend Michael, who is from here, advised me about suit pants and jackets—basically professional dress for women. I’m so glad he did. The day before I left, I bought a couple of pair of slacks and a travel jacket.
Next time I come, though, I’ll know to bring real business attire.
It’s the fucking keys (Rwandan version)
July 10, 2008
My absolute favorite book about writing is Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. If you don’t have a copy, you should rush out this minute and buy one. Or at least borrow it from your local library. I use BbB in my Freshman Composition I course to keep students focused primarily on the process of writing, and only secondarily on the products. Plus, it’s hilarious. And I always know if students have read the first chapter because they will mention the key story.
My copy of the book happens to be on the other side of the world, so I’m going to retell a small part of it as accurately as I can from memory (sorry Annie). In a few brief paragraphs, Lamott tells a story about her son Sam, who was then very young—maybe four?—and his set of oversized, plastic keys. She writes that one day Sam went outside their front door and locked himself out of the house, and then proceeded to try to unlock the door with his toy keys. When he couldn’t fit the keys in the lock, she heard him say, “Shit.” She made the silent Munch painting scream and then opened the door and told Sam that both of them absolutely had to stop using that word right away. He said, “Okay,” but then asked, “Mom, do you want to know why I said ‘shit’?” Lamott said, “Yes,” and Sam replied, “It was because of those fucking keys.”
I know just how he felt.
Today I was given the keys to the offices here because others would be gone and three of us would need it on Friday. Well. Here’s the thing about your key ring: it is the picture of your life. A long time ago when a secretary friend told me that, I looked down at my key ring and it held not only my keys but the entire key ring of a friend who was out of town. When I explained that to her, she said, “Well, there you are.” I’ve known people who carry like 20 keys on their key ring, even for locks they don’t own anymore. Me, I try to keep it simple. Usually there are four: house, family member’s house, office, car.
I brought one key to Rwanda: my house key. That’s it. Simple.
Ya, right.
So now I have office keys of another sort. Some Rwandan keys are very cool—very big, but cool. Two of the office keys are skeleton keys. Really. They have modern tops, but it’s basically the long shaft and a little doohickey at the end that turns the mechanism. And I have two! There are two other regular keys, but the thing is, when I left for dinner with Steph and Mike, I thought that someone who was still at the office had keys to lock up. But no.
Shit.
Dr. Joseph called me at dinner to tell me about my transgression and I offered to go to the office to remedy my error. But Dr J said Albert would lock up. Whew. But then awhile later, one of the office staffers called me to tell me that one of the house boys was at my hotel and could I please give him the keys so that he could lock up? Steph and Mike had just ordered a take-away pizza, and the taxi driver who we had negotiated with to pick us up at a designated time wasn’t there, so I was pretty much stuck. I told the staffer that Albert was locking up, but after some more time, Steph began to get phone calls about the situation. Three calls later, she established what Dr. Joseph originally told me: Albert will secure the office. There is one more call at my hotel letting me know someone will fix my error. I know there were many more phone calls among the other actors in this story, and I will ask when I see them.
Can’t wait to be down to one key again.
But The Key Incident is a good example of how complex and complicated Rwandan communication patterns are, which is fundamentally what my abbreviated summer study focuses on. But instead of becoming more clear to me, these patterns are becoming more difficult to identify, understand, figure out, use, and ultimately, communicate about.
My absolute favorite book about writing is Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. If you don’t have a copy, you should rush out this minute and buy one. Or at least borrow it from your local library. I use BbB in my Freshman Composition I course to keep students focused primarily on the process of writing, and only secondarily on the products. Plus, it’s hilarious. And I always know if students have read the first chapter because they will mention the key story.
My copy of the book happens to be on the other side of the world, so I’m going to retell a small part of it as accurately as I can from memory (sorry Annie). In a few brief paragraphs, Lamott tells a story about her son Sam, who was then very young—maybe four?—and his set of oversized, plastic keys. She writes that one day Sam went outside their front door and locked himself out of the house, and then proceeded to try to unlock the door with his toy keys. When he couldn’t fit the keys in the lock, she heard him say, “Shit.” She made the silent Munch painting scream and then opened the door and told Sam that both of them absolutely had to stop using that word right away. He said, “Okay,” but then asked, “Mom, do you want to know why I said ‘shit’?” Lamott said, “Yes,” and Sam replied, “It was because of those fucking keys.”
I know just how he felt.
Today I was given the keys to the offices here because others would be gone and three of us would need it on Friday. Well. Here’s the thing about your key ring: it is the picture of your life. A long time ago when a secretary friend told me that, I looked down at my key ring and it held not only my keys but the entire key ring of a friend who was out of town. When I explained that to her, she said, “Well, there you are.” I’ve known people who carry like 20 keys on their key ring, even for locks they don’t own anymore. Me, I try to keep it simple. Usually there are four: house, family member’s house, office, car.
I brought one key to Rwanda: my house key. That’s it. Simple.
Ya, right.
So now I have office keys of another sort. Some Rwandan keys are very cool—very big, but cool. Two of the office keys are skeleton keys. Really. They have modern tops, but it’s basically the long shaft and a little doohickey at the end that turns the mechanism. And I have two! There are two other regular keys, but the thing is, when I left for dinner with Steph and Mike, I thought that someone who was still at the office had keys to lock up. But no.
Shit.
Dr. Joseph called me at dinner to tell me about my transgression and I offered to go to the office to remedy my error. But Dr J said Albert would lock up. Whew. But then awhile later, one of the office staffers called me to tell me that one of the house boys was at my hotel and could I please give him the keys so that he could lock up? Steph and Mike had just ordered a take-away pizza, and the taxi driver who we had negotiated with to pick us up at a designated time wasn’t there, so I was pretty much stuck. I told the staffer that Albert was locking up, but after some more time, Steph began to get phone calls about the situation. Three calls later, she established what Dr. Joseph originally told me: Albert will secure the office. There is one more call at my hotel letting me know someone will fix my error. I know there were many more phone calls among the other actors in this story, and I will ask when I see them.
Can’t wait to be down to one key again.
But The Key Incident is a good example of how complex and complicated Rwandan communication patterns are, which is fundamentally what my abbreviated summer study focuses on. But instead of becoming more clear to me, these patterns are becoming more difficult to identify, understand, figure out, use, and ultimately, communicate about.
Far away…
July 12, 2008
…ugh…the internet is still down. Two days now.
I was fooled into thinking that I’m not really that far away, but now it feels like I’m on the other side of the world, which, of course, I am. Just a few years ago, this would have been normal, but now….
At least I got my phone to work. Somehow the volume had been turned all the way down, which on my Rwandan phone is done through a series of intricate steps. It must have happened while being jostled around in my purse. (There was no bandanna used in this fix.)
So I got a call from my mom (the first time I’ve been able to talk to her for awhile since she was traveling too) and then I called the kids.
Connection! Yay!
…ugh…the internet is still down. Two days now.
I was fooled into thinking that I’m not really that far away, but now it feels like I’m on the other side of the world, which, of course, I am. Just a few years ago, this would have been normal, but now….
At least I got my phone to work. Somehow the volume had been turned all the way down, which on my Rwandan phone is done through a series of intricate steps. It must have happened while being jostled around in my purse. (There was no bandanna used in this fix.)
So I got a call from my mom (the first time I’ve been able to talk to her for awhile since she was traveling too) and then I called the kids.
Connection! Yay!
So tired
July 10, 2008
I’m pretty tired of writing, sorry to say. Recent posts and writing for my projects have me at a loss for coherent strings of ideas.
I do want to say thanks for all the IMs, emails, and phone calls. I do promise not to tweet at y’all until a decent hour, say, 7 a.m. This morning’s tweet though, I have to say, was especially productive! Thanks!
I had dinner tonight with two interns at Never Again who deserve a loud shout-out: Mike and Steph are two energetic, bright, and knowledgeable people who are looking for internships/jobs/graduate programs with TAships in the field of human rights. Email me (fedbycuriosity@gmail.com) if you see anything interesting, and I’ll pass it on.
We had dinner at an Italian restaurant before they set off on a two-week excursion to Tanzania hiking Kilimanjaro and then a safari! What a fantastic opportunity! Dinner was tasty: thin-crust pizza. Mine had a different cheese on each quarter, including some local cheeses. So goooooooooood. I have been staying at the offices til 7 p.m. then picking up dinner in the form of a small bag of peanuts and some baked goods on my way home. So a big dinner was an extra treat.
Before you start emailing me reminding me to eat enough calories, please know that I eat breakfast at the inn—coffee so strong it’s almost opaque, two rolls with butter and jam, and a banana—and then eat lunch at the office, where a cook prepares Rwandan food every day. We eat lunch between 1 and 3, so dinner really is an afterthought. So yes, I’m eating enough.
I’m pretty tired of writing, sorry to say. Recent posts and writing for my projects have me at a loss for coherent strings of ideas.
I do want to say thanks for all the IMs, emails, and phone calls. I do promise not to tweet at y’all until a decent hour, say, 7 a.m. This morning’s tweet though, I have to say, was especially productive! Thanks!
I had dinner tonight with two interns at Never Again who deserve a loud shout-out: Mike and Steph are two energetic, bright, and knowledgeable people who are looking for internships/jobs/graduate programs with TAships in the field of human rights. Email me (fedbycuriosity@gmail.com) if you see anything interesting, and I’ll pass it on.
We had dinner at an Italian restaurant before they set off on a two-week excursion to Tanzania hiking Kilimanjaro and then a safari! What a fantastic opportunity! Dinner was tasty: thin-crust pizza. Mine had a different cheese on each quarter, including some local cheeses. So goooooooooood. I have been staying at the offices til 7 p.m. then picking up dinner in the form of a small bag of peanuts and some baked goods on my way home. So a big dinner was an extra treat.
Before you start emailing me reminding me to eat enough calories, please know that I eat breakfast at the inn—coffee so strong it’s almost opaque, two rolls with butter and jam, and a banana—and then eat lunch at the office, where a cook prepares Rwandan food every day. We eat lunch between 1 and 3, so dinner really is an afterthought. So yes, I’m eating enough.
Genocide Research
July 10, 2008
Morning meetings at the Kigali Memorial Centre to begin to establish a research relationship between the centre and my research partner.
While I am there, a young lady who works at the centre as an executive secretary chatted with me while I waited for the meetings to begin. She told me how much she loves her country and how other Africans from the Great Lakes region—Tanzania, Uganda, Burundi—don’t believe it is safe here.
On Tuesday, when I visited the centre for the first time, a young man who was there on a field trip with his university asked me questions on a similar riff. After he found out I am American, he wanted to know what I knew about Rwanda before I came, then wanted to know what was different after I experienced the country firsthand. Then he wanted to know what Americans think of his country—and he politely pressed me for details.
To both of these proud, young Rwandans, I said the same things: The Genocide is the dominant image the Americans have of Rwanda and when I mention this country to people at home, they think of “Hotel Rwanda.” And Americans have a difficult time understanding how Rwandans can live together peacefully after such bad history. This living together, this peace, is what young Rwandans need to teach to the world.
That’s what Research Partner and I are trying to learn to do as well. And after I’ve described what we are studying here and hoping to communicate to a larger audience, more than one Rwandan has extended thanks for doing Genocide research.
Thank you. It’s so good to be part of this big team.
Morning meetings at the Kigali Memorial Centre to begin to establish a research relationship between the centre and my research partner.
While I am there, a young lady who works at the centre as an executive secretary chatted with me while I waited for the meetings to begin. She told me how much she loves her country and how other Africans from the Great Lakes region—Tanzania, Uganda, Burundi—don’t believe it is safe here.
On Tuesday, when I visited the centre for the first time, a young man who was there on a field trip with his university asked me questions on a similar riff. After he found out I am American, he wanted to know what I knew about Rwanda before I came, then wanted to know what was different after I experienced the country firsthand. Then he wanted to know what Americans think of his country—and he politely pressed me for details.
To both of these proud, young Rwandans, I said the same things: The Genocide is the dominant image the Americans have of Rwanda and when I mention this country to people at home, they think of “Hotel Rwanda.” And Americans have a difficult time understanding how Rwandans can live together peacefully after such bad history. This living together, this peace, is what young Rwandans need to teach to the world.
That’s what Research Partner and I are trying to learn to do as well. And after I’ve described what we are studying here and hoping to communicate to a larger audience, more than one Rwandan has extended thanks for doing Genocide research.
Thank you. It’s so good to be part of this big team.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Kigali Memorial Centre, part 2
[Caution: tough reading ahead]
This post is dedicated to Mark.
I was pretty much okay, shedding a few tears here and there, until the children’s room. In a small corner in the second golden room, I couldn’t help but cry, really cry. I thought about my own children, about all of those children and babies who were murdered, and the more I tried to fight the tears back, the more intense they became, so I quietly, alone, cried until I was done for while.
I tried to focus on each child, each set of eyes, all the way through.
As I was leaving the building, a few steps after the end of the children’s exhibit, I heard wailing coming from the first floor. I didn’t know Rwandan schoolchildren were on a tour there, but I fled as quickly and quietly as I could outside the building, down the stairs to the terraces of mass graves. As I was descending, I really questioned whether I can do this research, this work with survivors. There is so much pain.
It felt like I was opening, being pulled in half, and that I would break apart. I remember this feeling.
As I concentrated on that pain, the abominable loss, the fear that I might be unable to do the work, the shame of inadequacy, and I let myself cry hard, I started to notice that even though I felt like I would separate into parts, something was holding. It took awhile. The parts seemed to want to come apart, but they held at the base.
Slowly, slowly, it seemed to me to be like a flower, the base of which held not only two halves, but many petals—an electrifying red. And when those petals opened, oh god.
After more time and more tears, I slowly noticed that this flower didn’t have just a base; it was attached to a strong stem; then a branch came into focus, and eventually, to my amazement, a tree with an enormous, broad, reassuring trunk. When I could gaze into the distance, I could see that I was in the middle of many other trees, some also blossoming with enormous, bright flowers.
I kept this visualization throughout the next few hours as I walked the grounds and thought about how to prepare myself to help survivors write their stories next summer. Today, in those gardens, I couldn’t help but notice how life insists on just being.
After awhile, I heard more schoolchildren wailing, and instead of avoiding them, I walked into the lobby and waited for them to come out, supported by friends or staff. One was sobbing, calling for her mother and father; one boy was sniffling but I could see he needed to cry. There was nothing I could do, except be calm, dig way down with my toes into the roots of the tree.
I think about the possibility—inevitability—of deep emotion at my writing retreats next summer. Even for those who are not in active trauma, for those who have developed coping skills, sometimes all you can feel is the opening, the breaking apart. It’s all too easy to forget the tree, the roots, the forest of other trees. When this connection is lost, it seems to help to have someone near who is calm, who is capable of blossoming, but is living at the roots.
My writing students taught me this very quickly. My friends have also helped me learn about this, this emotionally intimate connection.
But I don’t think that I would be able to do this work—and I will be able to do it—had it not been for the trauma I survived throughout the second five years of my life and the healing work during another five years in my thirties. Traumatologists often write that survivors can ultimately become grateful for their particular terror, the terror that changes everything. And I’ve known for a long time that I wouldn’t be who I am without my particular terrifying experiences, but grateful? No way.
Until now. Now I get it: I can do a good job here, can be effective, not only because I know how it feels to open and feel like I might break apart, but also because I’ve learned how to move from blossom to trunk to root to forest and back. And I know how writing can help create a map for that journey.
This post is dedicated to Mark.
I was pretty much okay, shedding a few tears here and there, until the children’s room. In a small corner in the second golden room, I couldn’t help but cry, really cry. I thought about my own children, about all of those children and babies who were murdered, and the more I tried to fight the tears back, the more intense they became, so I quietly, alone, cried until I was done for while.
I tried to focus on each child, each set of eyes, all the way through.
As I was leaving the building, a few steps after the end of the children’s exhibit, I heard wailing coming from the first floor. I didn’t know Rwandan schoolchildren were on a tour there, but I fled as quickly and quietly as I could outside the building, down the stairs to the terraces of mass graves. As I was descending, I really questioned whether I can do this research, this work with survivors. There is so much pain.
It felt like I was opening, being pulled in half, and that I would break apart. I remember this feeling.
As I concentrated on that pain, the abominable loss, the fear that I might be unable to do the work, the shame of inadequacy, and I let myself cry hard, I started to notice that even though I felt like I would separate into parts, something was holding. It took awhile. The parts seemed to want to come apart, but they held at the base.
Slowly, slowly, it seemed to me to be like a flower, the base of which held not only two halves, but many petals—an electrifying red. And when those petals opened, oh god.
After more time and more tears, I slowly noticed that this flower didn’t have just a base; it was attached to a strong stem; then a branch came into focus, and eventually, to my amazement, a tree with an enormous, broad, reassuring trunk. When I could gaze into the distance, I could see that I was in the middle of many other trees, some also blossoming with enormous, bright flowers.
I kept this visualization throughout the next few hours as I walked the grounds and thought about how to prepare myself to help survivors write their stories next summer. Today, in those gardens, I couldn’t help but notice how life insists on just being.
After awhile, I heard more schoolchildren wailing, and instead of avoiding them, I walked into the lobby and waited for them to come out, supported by friends or staff. One was sobbing, calling for her mother and father; one boy was sniffling but I could see he needed to cry. There was nothing I could do, except be calm, dig way down with my toes into the roots of the tree.
I think about the possibility—inevitability—of deep emotion at my writing retreats next summer. Even for those who are not in active trauma, for those who have developed coping skills, sometimes all you can feel is the opening, the breaking apart. It’s all too easy to forget the tree, the roots, the forest of other trees. When this connection is lost, it seems to help to have someone near who is calm, who is capable of blossoming, but is living at the roots.
My writing students taught me this very quickly. My friends have also helped me learn about this, this emotionally intimate connection.
But I don’t think that I would be able to do this work—and I will be able to do it—had it not been for the trauma I survived throughout the second five years of my life and the healing work during another five years in my thirties. Traumatologists often write that survivors can ultimately become grateful for their particular terror, the terror that changes everything. And I’ve known for a long time that I wouldn’t be who I am without my particular terrifying experiences, but grateful? No way.
Until now. Now I get it: I can do a good job here, can be effective, not only because I know how it feels to open and feel like I might break apart, but also because I’ve learned how to move from blossom to trunk to root to forest and back. And I know how writing can help create a map for that journey.
Kigali Memorial Centre, part 1
July 8, 2008
[Caution: some graphic descriptions follow]
Julius set up a private tour of this country’s main Genocide memorial, and I was to meet its coordinator, Claudien, at 9:00 am. I arrived early and the armed guards, military men, confiscated my pocket knife. It hadn’t occurred to me not to bring it, but it makes sense. [On my way out late in the afternoon, I asked for “mon couteau petit” and it was given back to me. One of the soldiers was keeping it in his pocket for me.]
Claudien began my tour by walking me through the outside areas: the mass graves and the gardens.
There are about ten mass graves here, and when I ask how many bodies, Claudien replies, “Right now, about 258,000.” Right now. They are still locating mass burials throughout Kigali and as bones are discovered, they are reburied here. He showed me the area that is being prepared for more mass graves, three terraces down the hill from the main building.
I pretty much held it together, although I couldn’t help but wipe some tears away when Claudien wasn’t looking. (What I read about Rwandan etiquette is that public displays of emotion are not “polite.”) Claudien hears my voice struggling, so I know he knows I’m not insensitive.
The mass graves are anywhere between five by five meters across to about seven by seven meters across. I’m not sure how deep they are, but several layers, I think. (Rwanda is the most densly-populated country in Africa and land is used efficiently.) Several mass graves lie next to each other, each one a few feet below its neighbor. Each is covered in concrete and beautiful plantings surround the graves. There are no signs or other markings on the burials. The concrete slabs are remarkably clear of debris, and little birds and small lizards scurry over them.
There is one mass grave that has a glass-topped chamber that demonstrates how the bodies—often only bones—are consecrated. There are wooden coffins, and sometimes they hold one body if it is found intact; sometimes when many bodies are recovered together, the families choose to bury the bones together. Thus, some coffins contain the remains of up to ten people. Each coffin is draped with a purple “flag” of what I surmise is Christian significance.
There are beautiful gardens at the Memorial, several fountains, small pools, and many plants and small wildlife. In the center courtyard, there is a fountain in a pool, and at the center is an abstract sculpture of six human figures, a pair at each of three heights. Each of the pairs is touching foreheads, a traditional greeting of friendship here. On the heads of the two tallest figures, there is a metal bowl shaped as a traditional woven bowl made here. From April 7 to July 17 of every year, fire burns in this bowl to signify the 100 days of the 1994 Genocide.
The broad steps leading to the main building are shiny black granite. Across from these is a sort of amphitheatre, with a lawn and benches composing the other two sides.
As I was sitting on a bench looking out to this central courtyard, a child of about four years ran up to the fountain and studied it hard. After a few minutes, the child ran back to her mother and said very emphatically, “It doesn’t make sense! How can fire and water be together?” Indeed. That is a very apt metaphor for the Rwandans. The complexity of the continuing trauma here makes peace and reconciliation seem impossible, yet Rwandans live in peace.
Also from this bench, I notice the Kigali Memorial Centre signage on the building. It’s very beautiful. The letters are cut from metal and are offset a few inches from the building wall. The color of the metal shifts from a silvery grey to a warm cream depending on the angle from which you view it. But it’s the “k” that commands my attention. I don’t know the font exactly and Doc Design seems like a million years ago, but it is a serif font, all lower case. But that “k”. The downstroke, the part that sweeps down and to the right—normally the last stroke of the letter—is the shape of a panga, a machete. It is subtle, but clearly an adaption to the font. In Western eyes, this traditional farming implement seems to be the symbol of the destruction and bloodshed of those terrible days.
After the outside tour, Claudien pointed me toward the beginning of the self-paced tour through the interior exhibits. There are two floors: the first presents Rwandan history and then proceeds through the Genocide; the second presents information about other genocides, and there is a memorial to the children who were lost in the Genocide.
The exhibits are Western style, with large images that dominate a wall which is overlaid with visual and textual information. There are some artifacts as well as some brief videos. All the information is in Kinyarwandan, French, and English. The sections were divided by Rwandan history, both pre-colonial and colonial. (I hadn’t read yet that prior to Western influence, Rwanda had 11 clans, with Hutu and Tutsi signifying fluid economic status across clans. Interesting.) Other sections included the lead-up to the Genocide, several panels on the events of those 100 days, the aftermath, the long-term consequences (which focused mainly on Genocidal rape against women and HIV/AIDS as a weapon of genocide), propaganda, the world’s reaction to the Genocide, resistance, heroes who hid and otherwise protected Tutsis, and justice. Interestingly, the material did not single out the United States in any part, not did the material include anything about Paul Kagame, the leader of the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) which engaged in a war with the Hutu government to end the Genocide; Kagame is now the Rwandan president.
Also on the first floor are the two stained glass windows made by the son of a Holocaust survivor. They depict the descent into Genocide and the aftermath. At several points in the exhibit, there are places to exit to a sunny balcony outside and then re-enter.
At several points during my slow progress through the exhibits, Claudien finds me to ask if everything is clear. I answer that it is. He does not ask if I understand, and I do not. He does not ask if I have any questions, and I have many, most of which are unanswerable.
The second floor presents the concept and origins of the word “genocide.” (In Kinyarwandan, this word is spelled “jenocide.” I am thankful that Julius added the íe to my name.) The other genocides included in this exhibit are Cambodia, Bosnia, the Holocaust, Armenia, and the Hereros of Namibia. This material does not attempt to be all-inclusive; rather, it provides a sampling of mass tragedies. There is also a panel on genocide prevention.
The last of the inside exhibits is in several small, connecting rooms that are painted a deep, golden yellow. The exhibits in these rooms memorialize just a few of the many children who were killed in the Genocide.
In the first few rooms, there are large photographs, maybe three by five feet, of one or two children with his or her name across the top. Near each photo are a few facts about that child.
The plaques read like this:
--Name
--Age (15 months to 15 years)
--Favorite food, drink, toy (chips with mayonnaise, meat, chocolate; mother’s milk, Fanta, tea; doll, truck)
--Best friend (sister, friend’s name, father, auntie)
--Personality (liked to talk to her older brother; liked to play with his friends; good in school; a small, weak baby who cried a lot)
--Last words (“UNAMIR will come for us”; “Mum, where can I run?” and “Pray”) or last sight (his mother dying)
--And the last fact is how the child died (gunshot to the head, machete, torture, grenade thrown into the child’s bathroom, machete in his mother’s arms, crushed against a tree)
The exhibit concludes with a place to hang other children’s photos.
The Memorial Centre is run on donations and it has a terrific web site: http://www.kigalimemorialcentre.org/
[Caution: some graphic descriptions follow]
Julius set up a private tour of this country’s main Genocide memorial, and I was to meet its coordinator, Claudien, at 9:00 am. I arrived early and the armed guards, military men, confiscated my pocket knife. It hadn’t occurred to me not to bring it, but it makes sense. [On my way out late in the afternoon, I asked for “mon couteau petit” and it was given back to me. One of the soldiers was keeping it in his pocket for me.]
Claudien began my tour by walking me through the outside areas: the mass graves and the gardens.
There are about ten mass graves here, and when I ask how many bodies, Claudien replies, “Right now, about 258,000.” Right now. They are still locating mass burials throughout Kigali and as bones are discovered, they are reburied here. He showed me the area that is being prepared for more mass graves, three terraces down the hill from the main building.
I pretty much held it together, although I couldn’t help but wipe some tears away when Claudien wasn’t looking. (What I read about Rwandan etiquette is that public displays of emotion are not “polite.”) Claudien hears my voice struggling, so I know he knows I’m not insensitive.
The mass graves are anywhere between five by five meters across to about seven by seven meters across. I’m not sure how deep they are, but several layers, I think. (Rwanda is the most densly-populated country in Africa and land is used efficiently.) Several mass graves lie next to each other, each one a few feet below its neighbor. Each is covered in concrete and beautiful plantings surround the graves. There are no signs or other markings on the burials. The concrete slabs are remarkably clear of debris, and little birds and small lizards scurry over them.
There is one mass grave that has a glass-topped chamber that demonstrates how the bodies—often only bones—are consecrated. There are wooden coffins, and sometimes they hold one body if it is found intact; sometimes when many bodies are recovered together, the families choose to bury the bones together. Thus, some coffins contain the remains of up to ten people. Each coffin is draped with a purple “flag” of what I surmise is Christian significance.
There are beautiful gardens at the Memorial, several fountains, small pools, and many plants and small wildlife. In the center courtyard, there is a fountain in a pool, and at the center is an abstract sculpture of six human figures, a pair at each of three heights. Each of the pairs is touching foreheads, a traditional greeting of friendship here. On the heads of the two tallest figures, there is a metal bowl shaped as a traditional woven bowl made here. From April 7 to July 17 of every year, fire burns in this bowl to signify the 100 days of the 1994 Genocide.
The broad steps leading to the main building are shiny black granite. Across from these is a sort of amphitheatre, with a lawn and benches composing the other two sides.
As I was sitting on a bench looking out to this central courtyard, a child of about four years ran up to the fountain and studied it hard. After a few minutes, the child ran back to her mother and said very emphatically, “It doesn’t make sense! How can fire and water be together?” Indeed. That is a very apt metaphor for the Rwandans. The complexity of the continuing trauma here makes peace and reconciliation seem impossible, yet Rwandans live in peace.
Also from this bench, I notice the Kigali Memorial Centre signage on the building. It’s very beautiful. The letters are cut from metal and are offset a few inches from the building wall. The color of the metal shifts from a silvery grey to a warm cream depending on the angle from which you view it. But it’s the “k” that commands my attention. I don’t know the font exactly and Doc Design seems like a million years ago, but it is a serif font, all lower case. But that “k”. The downstroke, the part that sweeps down and to the right—normally the last stroke of the letter—is the shape of a panga, a machete. It is subtle, but clearly an adaption to the font. In Western eyes, this traditional farming implement seems to be the symbol of the destruction and bloodshed of those terrible days.
After the outside tour, Claudien pointed me toward the beginning of the self-paced tour through the interior exhibits. There are two floors: the first presents Rwandan history and then proceeds through the Genocide; the second presents information about other genocides, and there is a memorial to the children who were lost in the Genocide.
The exhibits are Western style, with large images that dominate a wall which is overlaid with visual and textual information. There are some artifacts as well as some brief videos. All the information is in Kinyarwandan, French, and English. The sections were divided by Rwandan history, both pre-colonial and colonial. (I hadn’t read yet that prior to Western influence, Rwanda had 11 clans, with Hutu and Tutsi signifying fluid economic status across clans. Interesting.) Other sections included the lead-up to the Genocide, several panels on the events of those 100 days, the aftermath, the long-term consequences (which focused mainly on Genocidal rape against women and HIV/AIDS as a weapon of genocide), propaganda, the world’s reaction to the Genocide, resistance, heroes who hid and otherwise protected Tutsis, and justice. Interestingly, the material did not single out the United States in any part, not did the material include anything about Paul Kagame, the leader of the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) which engaged in a war with the Hutu government to end the Genocide; Kagame is now the Rwandan president.
Also on the first floor are the two stained glass windows made by the son of a Holocaust survivor. They depict the descent into Genocide and the aftermath. At several points in the exhibit, there are places to exit to a sunny balcony outside and then re-enter.
At several points during my slow progress through the exhibits, Claudien finds me to ask if everything is clear. I answer that it is. He does not ask if I understand, and I do not. He does not ask if I have any questions, and I have many, most of which are unanswerable.
The second floor presents the concept and origins of the word “genocide.” (In Kinyarwandan, this word is spelled “jenocide.” I am thankful that Julius added the íe to my name.) The other genocides included in this exhibit are Cambodia, Bosnia, the Holocaust, Armenia, and the Hereros of Namibia. This material does not attempt to be all-inclusive; rather, it provides a sampling of mass tragedies. There is also a panel on genocide prevention.
The last of the inside exhibits is in several small, connecting rooms that are painted a deep, golden yellow. The exhibits in these rooms memorialize just a few of the many children who were killed in the Genocide.
In the first few rooms, there are large photographs, maybe three by five feet, of one or two children with his or her name across the top. Near each photo are a few facts about that child.
The plaques read like this:
--Name
--Age (15 months to 15 years)
--Favorite food, drink, toy (chips with mayonnaise, meat, chocolate; mother’s milk, Fanta, tea; doll, truck)
--Best friend (sister, friend’s name, father, auntie)
--Personality (liked to talk to her older brother; liked to play with his friends; good in school; a small, weak baby who cried a lot)
--Last words (“UNAMIR will come for us”; “Mum, where can I run?” and “Pray”) or last sight (his mother dying)
--And the last fact is how the child died (gunshot to the head, machete, torture, grenade thrown into the child’s bathroom, machete in his mother’s arms, crushed against a tree)
The exhibit concludes with a place to hang other children’s photos.
The Memorial Centre is run on donations and it has a terrific web site: http://www.kigalimemorialcentre.org/
Practicalities
July 7, 2008
Lots of you are wondering about some of the more practical matters regarding a month in Rwanda.
First, let me say that I am back in my Rwandan home, Auberge La Caverne, after a couple of nights at a hotel up the street. Apparently the Auberge double-booked my room and so I moved. (BTW, I thought that “auberge” meant eggplant, but a quick check in my handy French-English dictionary clarifies that eggplant is “aubergine;” auberge is “inn.” Strange etymological coincidence.)
The other room was where my electrical near-fiasco occurred. The nearby bar was really loud, and I just couldn’t sleep there, so I’m happy to be back. When I told Julius of Never Again that the Auberge wanted to move me out of my room again later this month, that did not sit well at all, and after some phone conversations, I was told that I will be moving, but only to another room here at the Auberge. It pays to have someone look after your practical matters here.
So this room has two double beds with intact, ample mosquito netting, a large shelf to accommodate suitcases, a little table between the beds, a phone (for the front desk to call you up), a little TV that picks up three channels: Spanish weather, international business news, and Rwandan news. There is also a big attached bathroom with a large shower area, a sink that doesn’t leak, and a toilet that flushes (a definite improvement over the other room). It helps to have basic knowledge of plumbing, preferably toilets, when you travel. And at home, for that matter. I have yet, though, to be able to get hot water in this nice room. That was the only redeeming quality of the other place. Oh well. I’ll pretend I’m at the dorms for May Seminar (haha).
The water throughout Rwanda is iffy, a highly technical term. I’ve seen floaters and sinkers in it only once, but otherwise I’ve been using my SteriPen and things have been fine. I have to say that it looks like something else in its case, though, so I definitely don’t whip it out in public.
Come to think of it, I still haven’t figured out if drinking water on the street is polite. Smoking or eating food on the street is considered vulgar and slovenly, but I’m not sure about swigging water. Something to ask Julius. The thing I worried about and knew I’d do eventually actually happened last night: as I was getting ready to brush my teeth, I stuck my toothbrush under the tap. I’d been so careful about using only purified water, but damnit! I just didn’t think. Quickly, I dried the toothbrush on my favorite grey t-shirt which I hoped had magical protective qualities, took a swig of Pepto just to be sure, and then proceeded with purified water. No troubles 24 hours later (knock on wood). Oh, and BTW, when liquid Pepto travels, it gets gloopy, like Pepto pudding. Ick.
Other practicallities? Oh yes—travelling alone at night. I left Never Again at 7 p.m. tonight after an exciting, productive day. But that meant that I had to find my way to the mini-bus stop in the dark. And it was the first time I took that route. But luckily, I’m awake, and my spatial sense has kicked back in, so I made it just fine. I was carrying a little flashlight (thanks, Thomas!) in my purse, but couldn’t find it, so I sort of stumbled along. Lots of chuckling from the neighbors, but that’s fair.
The Nyamirambo neighborhood is busy by day, but at night, wow! Literally, the sidewalks are filled with people, and not just here and there, but everywhere! All the little shops have lights in them and people are socializing.
Because Rwanda is almost on the equator, day and night are just about equal. But as I was riding the bus back to mumuji (town center), I had the same feeling that I had when I was about seven and that I recognize in my younger son as we drive through town at night: All the lights! All the activity!
More practicalities? Most Westerners don’t wear make-up here, unless they are tourists. Those of you who know me know that I struggle with issues about make-up. Frankly, I can’t stand it, so I wear as little of it as possible to fit the stereotype of a woman who has access. Here, I wear make-up or not, with no difference in perception.
Oh, and the weather. It’s very pleasant here, what I guess would be the 80s. There are lots of hills to traverse and lots of people crowding into small spaces, so even people who don’t sweat much sweat a lot here. There was rain on Sunday and it was a bit cooler, maybe the low 70s. Rwandans broke out their sweaters. Really. And the moto drivers were in heavy jackets.
Send me more queries, and I’ll try to answer them. And yes, I’ll blog more about clothing. And food. Later.
Lots of you are wondering about some of the more practical matters regarding a month in Rwanda.
First, let me say that I am back in my Rwandan home, Auberge La Caverne, after a couple of nights at a hotel up the street. Apparently the Auberge double-booked my room and so I moved. (BTW, I thought that “auberge” meant eggplant, but a quick check in my handy French-English dictionary clarifies that eggplant is “aubergine;” auberge is “inn.” Strange etymological coincidence.)
The other room was where my electrical near-fiasco occurred. The nearby bar was really loud, and I just couldn’t sleep there, so I’m happy to be back. When I told Julius of Never Again that the Auberge wanted to move me out of my room again later this month, that did not sit well at all, and after some phone conversations, I was told that I will be moving, but only to another room here at the Auberge. It pays to have someone look after your practical matters here.
So this room has two double beds with intact, ample mosquito netting, a large shelf to accommodate suitcases, a little table between the beds, a phone (for the front desk to call you up), a little TV that picks up three channels: Spanish weather, international business news, and Rwandan news. There is also a big attached bathroom with a large shower area, a sink that doesn’t leak, and a toilet that flushes (a definite improvement over the other room). It helps to have basic knowledge of plumbing, preferably toilets, when you travel. And at home, for that matter. I have yet, though, to be able to get hot water in this nice room. That was the only redeeming quality of the other place. Oh well. I’ll pretend I’m at the dorms for May Seminar (haha).
The water throughout Rwanda is iffy, a highly technical term. I’ve seen floaters and sinkers in it only once, but otherwise I’ve been using my SteriPen and things have been fine. I have to say that it looks like something else in its case, though, so I definitely don’t whip it out in public.
Come to think of it, I still haven’t figured out if drinking water on the street is polite. Smoking or eating food on the street is considered vulgar and slovenly, but I’m not sure about swigging water. Something to ask Julius. The thing I worried about and knew I’d do eventually actually happened last night: as I was getting ready to brush my teeth, I stuck my toothbrush under the tap. I’d been so careful about using only purified water, but damnit! I just didn’t think. Quickly, I dried the toothbrush on my favorite grey t-shirt which I hoped had magical protective qualities, took a swig of Pepto just to be sure, and then proceeded with purified water. No troubles 24 hours later (knock on wood). Oh, and BTW, when liquid Pepto travels, it gets gloopy, like Pepto pudding. Ick.
Other practicallities? Oh yes—travelling alone at night. I left Never Again at 7 p.m. tonight after an exciting, productive day. But that meant that I had to find my way to the mini-bus stop in the dark. And it was the first time I took that route. But luckily, I’m awake, and my spatial sense has kicked back in, so I made it just fine. I was carrying a little flashlight (thanks, Thomas!) in my purse, but couldn’t find it, so I sort of stumbled along. Lots of chuckling from the neighbors, but that’s fair.
The Nyamirambo neighborhood is busy by day, but at night, wow! Literally, the sidewalks are filled with people, and not just here and there, but everywhere! All the little shops have lights in them and people are socializing.
Because Rwanda is almost on the equator, day and night are just about equal. But as I was riding the bus back to mumuji (town center), I had the same feeling that I had when I was about seven and that I recognize in my younger son as we drive through town at night: All the lights! All the activity!
More practicalities? Most Westerners don’t wear make-up here, unless they are tourists. Those of you who know me know that I struggle with issues about make-up. Frankly, I can’t stand it, so I wear as little of it as possible to fit the stereotype of a woman who has access. Here, I wear make-up or not, with no difference in perception.
Oh, and the weather. It’s very pleasant here, what I guess would be the 80s. There are lots of hills to traverse and lots of people crowding into small spaces, so even people who don’t sweat much sweat a lot here. There was rain on Sunday and it was a bit cooler, maybe the low 70s. Rwandans broke out their sweaters. Really. And the moto drivers were in heavy jackets.
Send me more queries, and I’ll try to answer them. And yes, I’ll blog more about clothing. And food. Later.
Nitwa Jeanníe.
July 7, 2008
Just as I was drifting—finally, finally—to sleep last night, “nitwa” popped into my head.
I thought, “What?! Is that even Kinyarwandan?”
So this afternoon, I asked Julius if “nitwa” means anything. He smiled and said that I am learning Kinyarwandan. I asked what the word means, and it means “I am called.”
Combine that with my name here, Jeanníe: Nitwa Jeanníe (NEET wa zhen EE). I am called Jen.
Just as I was drifting—finally, finally—to sleep last night, “nitwa” popped into my head.
I thought, “What?! Is that even Kinyarwandan?”
So this afternoon, I asked Julius if “nitwa” means anything. He smiled and said that I am learning Kinyarwandan. I asked what the word means, and it means “I am called.”
Combine that with my name here, Jeanníe: Nitwa Jeanníe (NEET wa zhen EE). I am called Jen.
First big work day
July 7, 2008
Woke up early and went to work today at the Never Again office, my first full day completely focused on research. I arrived there about 9 a.m. and started in on emails, posting, and internet research. The wireless connection was up and down, especially in the afternoon, but was sufficient.
Web site designers who are sensitive to global audiences should keep in mind the speed of internet connection in places like Rwanda. The “standard” settings for Google Mail, for example, won’t load here. Luckily, there is a link to plain HTML for slower connections.
The office was quiet in the morning; two Dutch interns arrived about 9:30 and left in the early afternoon; two American interns were writing and editing their peace-building curriculum in the back room. The other American intern attended the workshop presentation with the Never Again staff.
At maybe 3:00 or 4:00, shortly after lunch, Julius returned to the office and we ended up in an hours-long meeting about how to shape my research next summer, how to locate other technical documents, and where all this research is headed. But mostly we talked about trauma, reconciliation, stigma, and healing.
This is the counterbalance that I needed for all the talk during the previous days about economic prospects and the positive forces in the country. Don’t get me wrong: Rwanda has done so much work, has come so far, and the prospects for the country are hopeful.
But that’s not why I came here.
I came to Rwanda, was drawn here, because of the very familiar patterns of human pain that are PTSD. And Rwandans continue to be traumatized and to suffer from PTSD. The Genocide provoked mass trauma on a scale perhaps not seen before in one culture. It’s like a volcano that continues to erupt; just when you think it’s done, another unctuous flow threatens every living thing in its path.
The children of perpetrators are now traumatized. Some have lost parents due to the war that ended the Genocide, some to prisons. There are no government programs for these children, no places reserved in schools as there are for Genocide orphans and children of survivors.
The children borne of Genocide rape are mostly street children. They are now 12 and 13 and some now have children of their own. The government has tried to put these children in orphanages, but the children escaped; now they are trying to settle and support the children in constructed communities that are composed of children only, but they need more support.
Survivors face social stigma because of their intrusive memories and sometimes-erratic behavior. Survivors who were raped have no chance of marriage or committed relationship.
Surviving mothers face the double burden of raising children on their own and managing their traumatic reactions (or not).
So why am I here? I am only one person, but I am one person who can listen to their stories, a few at a time, and say that yes, this happened to them. As a writing teacher, I listen to these stories on paper and help writers explore different aspects of the story in a structured, safe way.
As a new friend at Alverno said, these stories, called trauma narratives, “can let light and air into memory.”
I’m not trained in psychology, but my students at SPC have taught me how to help them write these types of narratives. Judith Herman’s Trauma and Recovery has been my guide about how to help these stories come into being without treading in potentially dangerous emotional territory. On an ethical note, I don’t assign trauma narratives as any part of any level of the writing curriculum. At the Freshman Composition level, though, I ask students to identify essential questions that will drive their writing for the semester. These questions must be something that the writer doesn’t know the answer to and something that is of vital importance to him or her.
Over the last twelve years, many students have chosen—needed—to write about terrible events in their lives that have changed their identity in important ways and because they are still on some type of journey to understand or at least make sense of their lives. After a couple of years, I thought I’d better learn more about this type of writing because it was evident to me that students needed to write these stories. I friend recommended Herman’s work, and now here I am.
Julius thinks that there will be many who would like to participate in my writing retreat next summer. His initial idea is for Never Again to develop sign-up sheets in each of the five sectors of the country, and then let three from each province attend. I wish I could do a larger workshop, but 15 really is the maximum number of writers I can attend to with the individual attention that each deserves. But perhaps I will be able to conduct two retreats next summer.
If Never Again and the participants like the outcome, I can repeat the retreats and/or train others to conduct them on an ongoing basis.
We also talked about how traumatized populations can develop online communities of support. Rwanda has made a strong commitment to ICT, or internet connection, for all its people; its people are Rwanda’s only natural resource.
More than anything, I hope that Rwandans come to understand that trauma and PTSD are not fatal, nor do they signify character flaws. People can recover from trauma, even the worst events imaginable.
Writing your story and having someone take it in, witness it, is one small step in that long, long process.
Woke up early and went to work today at the Never Again office, my first full day completely focused on research. I arrived there about 9 a.m. and started in on emails, posting, and internet research. The wireless connection was up and down, especially in the afternoon, but was sufficient.
Web site designers who are sensitive to global audiences should keep in mind the speed of internet connection in places like Rwanda. The “standard” settings for Google Mail, for example, won’t load here. Luckily, there is a link to plain HTML for slower connections.
The office was quiet in the morning; two Dutch interns arrived about 9:30 and left in the early afternoon; two American interns were writing and editing their peace-building curriculum in the back room. The other American intern attended the workshop presentation with the Never Again staff.
At maybe 3:00 or 4:00, shortly after lunch, Julius returned to the office and we ended up in an hours-long meeting about how to shape my research next summer, how to locate other technical documents, and where all this research is headed. But mostly we talked about trauma, reconciliation, stigma, and healing.
This is the counterbalance that I needed for all the talk during the previous days about economic prospects and the positive forces in the country. Don’t get me wrong: Rwanda has done so much work, has come so far, and the prospects for the country are hopeful.
But that’s not why I came here.
I came to Rwanda, was drawn here, because of the very familiar patterns of human pain that are PTSD. And Rwandans continue to be traumatized and to suffer from PTSD. The Genocide provoked mass trauma on a scale perhaps not seen before in one culture. It’s like a volcano that continues to erupt; just when you think it’s done, another unctuous flow threatens every living thing in its path.
The children of perpetrators are now traumatized. Some have lost parents due to the war that ended the Genocide, some to prisons. There are no government programs for these children, no places reserved in schools as there are for Genocide orphans and children of survivors.
The children borne of Genocide rape are mostly street children. They are now 12 and 13 and some now have children of their own. The government has tried to put these children in orphanages, but the children escaped; now they are trying to settle and support the children in constructed communities that are composed of children only, but they need more support.
Survivors face social stigma because of their intrusive memories and sometimes-erratic behavior. Survivors who were raped have no chance of marriage or committed relationship.
Surviving mothers face the double burden of raising children on their own and managing their traumatic reactions (or not).
So why am I here? I am only one person, but I am one person who can listen to their stories, a few at a time, and say that yes, this happened to them. As a writing teacher, I listen to these stories on paper and help writers explore different aspects of the story in a structured, safe way.
As a new friend at Alverno said, these stories, called trauma narratives, “can let light and air into memory.”
I’m not trained in psychology, but my students at SPC have taught me how to help them write these types of narratives. Judith Herman’s Trauma and Recovery has been my guide about how to help these stories come into being without treading in potentially dangerous emotional territory. On an ethical note, I don’t assign trauma narratives as any part of any level of the writing curriculum. At the Freshman Composition level, though, I ask students to identify essential questions that will drive their writing for the semester. These questions must be something that the writer doesn’t know the answer to and something that is of vital importance to him or her.
Over the last twelve years, many students have chosen—needed—to write about terrible events in their lives that have changed their identity in important ways and because they are still on some type of journey to understand or at least make sense of their lives. After a couple of years, I thought I’d better learn more about this type of writing because it was evident to me that students needed to write these stories. I friend recommended Herman’s work, and now here I am.
Julius thinks that there will be many who would like to participate in my writing retreat next summer. His initial idea is for Never Again to develop sign-up sheets in each of the five sectors of the country, and then let three from each province attend. I wish I could do a larger workshop, but 15 really is the maximum number of writers I can attend to with the individual attention that each deserves. But perhaps I will be able to conduct two retreats next summer.
If Never Again and the participants like the outcome, I can repeat the retreats and/or train others to conduct them on an ongoing basis.
We also talked about how traumatized populations can develop online communities of support. Rwanda has made a strong commitment to ICT, or internet connection, for all its people; its people are Rwanda’s only natural resource.
More than anything, I hope that Rwandans come to understand that trauma and PTSD are not fatal, nor do they signify character flaws. People can recover from trauma, even the worst events imaginable.
Writing your story and having someone take it in, witness it, is one small step in that long, long process.
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