Being an Ambassador

What two questions do I get asked most:

1) What do you think of my country?

2) Can you be an ambassador for Rwanda?

Of course without hesitation I let them know they live in a beautiful country, with people that are even more beautiful and resilient then the country itself. But I have been surprised by the ambassador question. Granted a lot of people in the States asked me if I had seen Hotel Rwanda before I came, and were worried for my safety. That is not the reality of the country, and although I passed the hotel that served as the basis of the movie, most Rwandan’s agree that it is an exaggerated version of controversial series of events. I am not surprised that people want to change the international perception of Rwanda, but I am taken aback that it is a universally shared concept. Not one person has forgotten to mention that I should become an ambassador. These words were uttered to me the first night with my host father, by the nice woman Sonya who drove me to school, from the survivors of the genocide, from perpetrators we visited in prison, government representatives and those who were courageous enough to rescue Tutsi’s during the genocide. They all want ambassadors to tell the world how Rwanda is charming, majestic, and transformed.

When I first decided to come to Africa I thought it felt so far away, “across the world.” Being here you see the same type of community, of support and of human interactions that you start to feel like you could be just minutes from your hometown. Kigali still appears to be the safest place I have ever been. People take care of strangers kids, are constantly offering you rides when the bus fails to show, or making sure you get on the right bus in the right direction. There is nothing individualistic about the culture, instead people look out for each other, and take care of one another. I can’t believe how quickly time is passing. I know that I need longer in Rwanda to appreciate the entirety of its beauty, and of course to master the new plumbing.

            As I wonder the streets I feel so at ease, there is always a new adventure. I went to the market in Kimironko last week, and it was better then I could imagine. A Paraguayan or Nicaraguan market is hard to beat, but this just might of succeeded. The market was organized into sections; women and men wondered the aisles with babies tied on their backs, baskets on their head, or large bags to carry their purchases. There was an incredible level of organization and purpose to the whole operation. Everyone had a place to go, or a thing to do, but they did it without rushing, with a sort of grace. Fruits stacked high, electronics lined displays, used kitchen utensils staked to the ceiling, but the most beautiful were the fabrics, rows and rows of beautiful fabrics. As women and men sat in the pathways with there’re sewing machines, waiting for a new order or something new to make. I resisted the urge to buy all the beautiful fabrics, but know that I will go back before I leave to make some serious investments. So if you need some new fabric, or have any special orders let me know!

This week’s educational lesson will be on the Murambi Memorial and women’s association. In class we have been focusing on memory, reconciliation and justice in the last few weeks. Clearly all the trips and homework has kept me from adequately updating my blog. Regardless Rwanda’s process of reconciliation and justice has been a unique one.

We started in Butare at the Murambi memorial. This memorial was built to be a school. Positioned on the top of a gorgeous hill, surrounded by rolling hills, houses and schools the area is pristine. The building with a main building and several separate buildings all dotting the top of the peak. Unfortunately, before the school could open Genocide broke out. Close to 50,000 Tutsi’s to refuge in the buildings from surrounding districts and areas. Initially they felt protected, but soon Hutu perpetrators cut off their water supply, with the intention of making them weak. Two weeks later the Hutu attack came, and after two days of straight grenades, guns and machetes the 50,000 were murdered and thrown into three mass graves. Few survived, in fact only five known survivors have stepped forward to share their stories. On this hill you can visit the site of the massacre known as the Murambi memorial. After the genocide ended the bodies were dug up and preserved with limestone, where you can still see them today. Classroom after classroom is filled with white, ashen bodies, some still sporting clothes, wedding rings, or a baby cupped in their arms. Their facial expressions represent the most unimaginable looks of fear and pain. Although it is easy to lose your self in the experience, and be overwhelmed by the sadness but the location itself is encouraging. From the top of this hill not only is the view incredible you here the mooing of cows across the valley and the giggles and screams of school children playing. You can’t ignore that life has continued in Rwanda, that people still carry around the trauma in those memories, but it is a country that is doing everything possible to heal.

Following the depressing memorial we went to visit a rural women’s association up around the hills of Butare. These are women who survived the genocide, and now are part of a unique organization:

            

After the genocide the surviving women lived in classrooms on the crest of the town. They had orphans and small children with them, but along with killing their families their homes were destroyed. They lived completely hopeless and distraught, without clothes, or food. The wives of those perpetrators that had killed their husbands and families lived on the hill across the way. On the way to the prison to visit their spouses or bring them food, they had to pass in front of these schools were the survivors were still living. These survivors harbored so much hate, resentment and chiefly fear that they would throw stones at the women. When a priest showed up he asked the women what they wanted, and they said two things. The first being clothes and food, and all the practical things necessary to survive. The second was to believe in god again, because they had been completely destroyed, and how could he of let that happen. So it began that a nun would preach to these survivors in the community on Thursday. Soon they discovered that the same nun was preaching to the wives of the perpetrators on Sunday. These survivors could not understand why they preached to these different groups of people the same things. They agreed to begin to try to preach together on the same day. First it was full of hostility, they did not talk, and they did not even want to look at each other. Soon they realized that they had things in common, and that they should help each other. The started an organization called Courage of Survivors in which both the perpetrators and the survivors worked together. In the first year it was re-building that trust, then they began doing microfinance projects of cows, chickens, goats and agriculture. Today they have 1701 members, and are some of the most beautiful strong women I have seen. Today they attend each other’s births, weddings and funerals. They take care of each other, and treat the sick in their community. They have begun micro-grant projects that have helped the community become more developed and determined. If you are interested in learning more about these women, or making a contribution yourself here is a link:

http://www.firstgiving.com/sparkrwanda

I know that these passionate women deserve every penny, and have my full support.

I hope everyone is well and healthy. Miss you all

La Tormenta, Memorials, and Church

I have only been here a week, but it feels like so much longer. I am learning to navigate the bus system, and conquering my weekly readings, assignments and general work. I appear to still be suffering from jet leg, as I seem to be unable to go through a day without getting exhausted.

Kigali is an interesting and mesmerizing city. Rwanda is described as the land of a thousand hills, and although I have most likely only seen ten of those hills I feel as if it must live up to its name. Kigali is a series of mini mountains, and from one vantage you can look across the valleys to downtown or other prominent neighborhoods. You never feel far from where you want to go, because it is over the next rolling peak or on the other side of the valley. In the morning a mist settles over the city, giving it a hazy look. Kigali is full of development, large houses, and a population of people that is making lots of money very quickly. New development is always a double-edged sword. The poverty levels may be decreasing, but many Rwandans I have spoken to acknowledge the increased rates of prostitution, child trafficking and more.

My host family is great, and I am finally into a routine. The house is always filled with someone singing or humming a tune. I know where to find the water to brush my teeth, my hygiene has improved via the bucket bath, and the food is nothing less then delicious. I have yet to locate the garbage can in our house, but I figure that will come with time. The weather is moderate, and nothing compared to the Paraguayan sun. You still sweat but at least it is a manageable amount, and it doesn’t feel as if someone has dumped a bucket over your head. March is the start of the rainy season, and my raincoat waits in anticipation, although the long, steep, dirt road may have different plans for me when the storms roll in. My family is oddly quite fond of Latin Soap Operas dubbed in English. If you thought soap operas were corny in Spanish, wait until you hear the English translation. The episodes crack me up and make me cringe at the same time. That being said I continue to watch nightly as currently blind Maria awaits her surgery to see again and once again end up with her one true love.

Memorials:

“Come back or your tears will judge me forever” ~Sifu

On Monday we went and visited our first two memorials in Rwanda, the first being the Belgian memorial. [I will not treat this blog as a history lesson so if your curiosity peaks I would pick up a book on the Rwandan genocide.] Eight Belgian UN peacekeepers were killed shortly after the President of Rwandan’s plane was shot down and violence broke out in Kigali. The Belgians were already disliked in Rwanda, having been colonizers of the country, and the perpetrators believed that by killing the Belgian soldiers they would prompt a withdraw of UN soldiers (which it did). We were taken to the old military barracks where they were shot and killed. The sides of the memorial were still showered with bullet holes, and the families of the soldiers had written notes to the perpetrators on the wall. Although we stood in the memorial, we were surrounded by the continuation of life. The military barracks were still full of energy and hustle and bustle, and birds whipped in and out of the nests they had created in the bullet holes.

From there we headed to the Gisozi memorial. This is a memorial that is based in Kigali and although there were no killings directly on the site it has become the mass gravesite of Kigali. As bodies continue to be uncovered they are moved to Gisozi to have a proper burial. Close to 250,000 people are buried in the memorial. To date this was the most in-depth memorial, and at times overwhelming. There were videos, examples of weapons used, testimonies, photos of the victims that the family had left behind, samples of clothing and photos of the young children who had died. It was insight into the healing power of memorials and the educational value behind them, but also how memorials run the risk of only telling one point of view.

Church: The 7^th Day Adventists

“God is good, Every Day; Every Day, God is good”

I have suffered from a series of bad bus luck. In the last few days my bus has been caught in terrible traffic, the same day we got rear ended, once our bus broke down and would not start again, and finally we ran out of gas so all the passengers ended up pushing the bus. It seems every bus I get in somehow has a defect. So today when my sisters suggested we go to church (for them it is a weekly practice) I agreed. Both my sisters are 7^th day Adventists, where my parents are Catholic. We put on our Sunday best (even though they go to church on Saturday) and headed for the long walk to church. Upon arriving I got to experience the Mzungu (white person) argue with the Rwandan devote churchgoer about clinical depression for an hour. The Mzungu believed that at some point you needed professional help in depression and could not rely on Jesus alone, where the devote Adventist believed you only become hopeless and depressed when you lost Jesus. We left for church at 8 in the morning and we did not get out until 1 in the afternoon. You cannot imagine the starvation or exhaustions I was feeling by the end of the afternoon. Although the service involved lots of singing, and pretty projections on the wall I decided 7^th day Adventism is not for me. Today’s service was enough religion until the next time I am in a foreign country and trying on another religion for size. I did appreciate the power of community and the importance of learning forgiveness, love and kindness, especially in Rwanda.

I am still struggling to find a place where I can put up pictures, the internet always seems just a tad slow. I promise to make an large attempt on Monday before we head off on our three day trip to Buture. I hope you are all well!

First Impressions of my New Home (Pictures to come soon)

It was close to thirty-two hours of travel, with very little sleep, and lots of interesting characters. We had a man dressed in complete cameo proselytizing about religion, and going window to window with binoculars peering out the airplane window. I sat next to man who worked in the Congo with the UN, a woman who had just finished fighting the Norwegian flu, and many missionaries. Brussels airlines provided me with mini bottles of wine, and a dreary selection of movie options. Apart from the tiring travel, I arrived in Rwanda all in once piece.

Starting Tuesday we had orientation in Kigali. The orientation began by busing us to the city center so that in 21^st century fashion we could all buy cell phones like they were another appendage. After long days of reviewing overwhelming syllabuses and practicing Kinderwanda we all realized that this semester is going to be a tough one. Each day we have class from 9am until 3pm, but on top of that we have large amounts of reading, writing, researching, presentations host family time and more. Although it is going to considerable work I look forward to being academically challenged and learning in a very hands on approach. After we all passed the drop-off  portion of the orientation, we graduated and were able to meet our host families. The drop-off is just how it sounds, without any prior knowledge of the city, bus system or layout we are dropped off at an undisclosed location in pairs of two. Our responsibility is to first research a topic we are assigned and second to navigate back to the office. There is no better way to learn then to be lost, after trial and error we made it back to the office and were passed onto our host families.

Each family is selected through an English speaking boarding school, and the family has at least one child attending full time. My father is a diplomat with the government, who is a big man with a commanding presence. Aside from pleasantries I know very little about his job, because he appears to be what I would call a workaholic. Working every day of the week (including Saturday and Sunday) until nine at night. My mother is a gorgeous woman, always presenting herself in gorgeous two-piece fabric ensembles and a large smile. Most of my time has been spent with my siblings. I share bunk beds with my sister Joyce, who is my age and studying tourism. Her English is incredible, and she has taught me how to cook on a charcoal stove; the beans taste better prepared over fire but the trade off is the copious amounts of mosquito bites I acquired.  I have spent my Sunday learning to wash my clothes with a series of buckets and with my sister’s valuable advice of how best to bend my back (I am not nearly flexible enough), vigorously rub the clothes together to create suds and mimic a washing machine, and then rinse them properly. The only thing I am missing are my bucket shower skills, I will either become a master, or have some questionable hygiene in the next three months. My laundry lesson was followed by a cooking lesson and finished when I was given a walking tour of the city. I learned with the correct series of taps required to make the bus stop near to my house. I am feeling confident that I will be able to navigate the city within no time.

It is hard to express the beauty of Rwanda in a few words. Before I left people told me that all poverty is relative and even Rwanda would surprise me compared to Latin America. Rwanda is the cleanest, most quickly developing, gorgeous city I have seen in all my travels. So far there are no cows wondering the street, or garbage lining the gutters. There are rules and people follow them, motorcyclists wear helmets, buses decline people when they have reached capacity, and stop in designated places. The food is delicious, very much starch based but very delicious. I feel safer wondering around Kigali at night then I do San Francisco. There are incredibly low rates of crime and violence and everyone is willing to offer a helping hand. Speaking of hands, the biggest surprise to me so far has been watching men hold hands. For a country that is very homophobic men have no qualms about physical touch. There is nothing more rewarding then watching two businessmen, police, or students holding hands and cuddling while wondering the streets of Rwanda.

So far I feel that I have abstained from any major cultural faux pas, and have quickly settled into my new life in Rwanda. I know the next weeks will fly by, and I will indeed make mistakes, have major misunderstandings and of course embarrassing stories which I can sure.