I've migrated my blog to http://jenosborne.wordpress.com/
You'll find my posts on my travels to Rwanda, my Twitter feed, and Flickr stream.
I invite your comments.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Rwanda always on my mind
The Institutional Review Board for the Protection of Human Subjects at Texas Tech has approved my research for this summer. I'm looking forward to a month in my home-away-from-home, making more friends, and learning more.
Now begins the nitty gritty work of coordinating the details, including recruiting the women to participate in the study. Thank goodness for Never Again Rwanda, who will once again host my research in Rwanda.
Here's what's on tap: a five-day writing workshop for ten women who survived the 1994 Rwandan Tutsi Genocide and liberation war. The women and I will retreat from daily life to the Hotel Bethanie in Kibuye, on the shore of Lake Kivu. I'll have a Rwanda female trauma counselor at the workshop in case anyone needs to talk through issues.
We'll spend some time together developing camaraderie and writing one trauma narrative, the memory of one specific event of those "bad times." At the conclusion of the workshop, each participant will have her story to do whatever she likes with it.
Writing has demonstrated healing capacities, even though it may be painful during the writing process. Jamie Pennebaker's research has studied the effects of writing about painful subjects. But his research differs from mine in that the writers he works with write for themselves only. In my 13 years experience as a composition teacher, I've had, on average, one student choose to write a trauma narrative (all my students choose their writing subjects) in every section of every class of every year. They consistently say that, while they felt better after writing, that it was very important to them that I read it. In other words, they wanted a witness to their retelling of the trauma.
Writing trauma narratives can be useful to human rights workers who interact with traumatized populations, and perhaps this condensed workshop can be adapted for their use. Trauma narratives themselves have strong implications for writing teachers, too. There are structural and imagery issues, and it's not unusual for presentation issues such as grammar, mechanics, and usage to fall apart when writers perform the challenging cognitive and emotional work of writing trauma. Revision and assessment are especially touchy matters for some teachers, and they struggle with how to work sensitively with writers to improve the communicative capacity of these narratives.
But traumatized people need these stories. They need to tell them, and as much as it hurts to read them, to experience alongside another's terror, we too need their stories.
Now begins the nitty gritty work of coordinating the details, including recruiting the women to participate in the study. Thank goodness for Never Again Rwanda, who will once again host my research in Rwanda.
Here's what's on tap: a five-day writing workshop for ten women who survived the 1994 Rwandan Tutsi Genocide and liberation war. The women and I will retreat from daily life to the Hotel Bethanie in Kibuye, on the shore of Lake Kivu. I'll have a Rwanda female trauma counselor at the workshop in case anyone needs to talk through issues.
We'll spend some time together developing camaraderie and writing one trauma narrative, the memory of one specific event of those "bad times." At the conclusion of the workshop, each participant will have her story to do whatever she likes with it.
Writing has demonstrated healing capacities, even though it may be painful during the writing process. Jamie Pennebaker's research has studied the effects of writing about painful subjects. But his research differs from mine in that the writers he works with write for themselves only. In my 13 years experience as a composition teacher, I've had, on average, one student choose to write a trauma narrative (all my students choose their writing subjects) in every section of every class of every year. They consistently say that, while they felt better after writing, that it was very important to them that I read it. In other words, they wanted a witness to their retelling of the trauma.
Writing trauma narratives can be useful to human rights workers who interact with traumatized populations, and perhaps this condensed workshop can be adapted for their use. Trauma narratives themselves have strong implications for writing teachers, too. There are structural and imagery issues, and it's not unusual for presentation issues such as grammar, mechanics, and usage to fall apart when writers perform the challenging cognitive and emotional work of writing trauma. Revision and assessment are especially touchy matters for some teachers, and they struggle with how to work sensitively with writers to improve the communicative capacity of these narratives.
But traumatized people need these stories. They need to tell them, and as much as it hurts to read them, to experience alongside another's terror, we too need their stories.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Trajectories
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.
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.
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.
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