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.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
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!
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