Perspective

When I was in Gihembe (one of the two camps) on Wednesday night, I stayed with a friend of Jessica, Père Maurice. Father Maurice, a Jesuit, is the Country Director of Jesuit Relief Services in Rwanda, which handles the education services for children in Gihembe camp. He is from the south of France, but has worked in different parts of Asia, Africa, and South America. His house was great, and the meals were refreshing; among other things, we ate pasta, pineapple, salami, cheese, and bread.

Anyway, on Wednesday night, Pere Maurice asked if we would like to watch a movie that he had purchased that day in Kigali, Shooting Dogs. It’s a British movie about a group of Catholic teachers and clergy in Rwanda during the genocide. He had also invited two neighbors to come over and watch the movie with us. The movie itself was okay; I think Hotel Rwanda is better and historically more accurate. It was what happened after the movie that blew me away.

After it was over, Pere Maurice said in French-accented English “Let’s talk about these things because sometimes these things are difficult to see and we can talk about them.” We had to speak in French because the neighbors were not comfortable in English, so I was lagging in the talk. After a bit of discussion, Pere Maurice turned to the two women (the neighbors) and said in French “I hope this wasn’t too difficult for you to watch.” They both pleasantly smiled and said it was not. Later, the woman on the right said “Oui, j’ai perdu mon père dan le génocide.” Then the other smiled just as politely, and said “Et j’ai perdu mon père, ma mère, et mes deux frères.” In English, the first said “Yes, I lost my father in the genocide,” and the second said “And I lost my father, my mother, and my two brothers.” We had basically just watched a reenactment of how their family members were killed.

At first I wasn’t sure if I had heard or translated correctly. But, fearing that I had, I covered my mouth and sat silently as the rest continued the discussion. Father Maurice wrapped up the conversation, and told us that he had to take the women home. They walked out first, and as Père Maurice lagged behind, I stopped him. When the women were out of earshot, I said to Père Maurice, in English to make sure that I understood, “Did they just say that they lost all those people; her father, and her father, mother, and two brothers?” Completely straight faced, he said “Yes, there are many people here like that. It is not…uncommon.”

I was speechless. I didn’t know what to say or think; I had read and studied the genocide, but it is so distant when it is just a part of your homework. I went to bed and thought firstly about how both of those women had spoken of their dead family members so candidly and openly, as if it were completely natural, and secondly, about how we can begin to reconcile what we consider pain with the pain these people have endured. I decided that it was a conversation to have with Père Maurice for another day. As he would say, we will sit and talk and drink whiskey.

PS – I have since realized that in my last entry I forgot to mention what Muzungu even means. It is the local word for “white person.” The kids are really yelling “white person! white person!” Not all the kids are happy to see me though; this past Thursday I waved to a baby a few feet away. It took a good look at me and started to cry uncontrollably. I am telling myself that it was just scared of me because I am white, not because I have an exceptionally hideous face.

Muzungu

Last week, it took us two hours to make it from Kigali to Nyabiheke, one of the two refugee camps I will work in. Nyabiheke camp is situated in a small town, called Nyabiheke, along a dirt road that seems impassable without a Land Rover (it takes us about 30 minutes to go 8 miles on this road). The town is northeast of Kigali, en route to Tanzania, and the camp in the town houses about 5000 refugees. I had seen pictures of the camp from Ann Kao before arriving, but even still, I had no idea what to expect.

It turns out it was difficult to notice anything on the way into the camp because I was so distracted by the kids. Almost every single one along the way leapt to his or her feet and ran after the car, waving to me, yelling “Muzungu! Muzungu!” I would just wave back to them and they would laugh or smile or jump up and down.

When I got out of the car, I met Jessica in the training room; she was running a session for the anti-AIDS club in the camp here on HIV/AIDS and reproductive health, something that I will be in charge of when she leaves in three weeks. After I was warmly welcomed by Jessica, and given lunch they had saved for me (rice, a green vegetable like spinach, cassava (a banana looking potato tasting thing), and goat), I got a tour of the camp. I saw the pharmacy, the consultation rooms, the female and male wards, the nutrition center, the training room, the isolation room, and the kitchen. All the buildings are made of basic wood with green plastic sheeting as the walls, issued by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). You will see all of those as soon as I can take pictures.

After the tour, I got to play a little soccer with the kids in the camp. They were laughing so hard at the Muzungu bouncing the ball on his head, but I don’t know why. I think it’s funny to see a Muzungu do anything around here. As I was walking away, the kids would not stop following me – I even tried to walk in circles, but that didn’t fool them. They were holding my hands and touching my arms, and I actually had to pull my hands away from them when it was time to leave. On the way back, I made sure to learn how to say “no more” in Kinya-rwanda for next time.

Unfortunately there is no word on my bag. And to make it even worse, I called the airport on Sunday to check, and the woman said “Oui, le baggage est la.” Yes, the bag is there. I thanked her and told her how glad I was that my bag had finally arrived. Oh yes, what a joyous occasion; we both rejoiced happily over the phone like two old friends. I have since thought a lot about this phone call, and even if I misunderstood her French, which I don’t think I did, we were clearly on the same celebratory wavelength regarding the arrival of my bag. Well, you guessed it, we went there to pick it up and it was not there. That meant back to not shaving and looking like a slob everyday when I meet new people, and back to applying Purell Hand Sanitizer to my armpits in lieu of deodorant (it doesn’t smell as nice and it burns a little bit, but it isn’t so bad).

Anyway, all is not lost here, and I am learning a lot already. I am starting to learn a lot about what it means to be a refugee - what do you think when you hear the word refugee? I thought of people as unfortunate, forced from there homes because of conflict, and that holds true here. But, what I didn’t realize is the lives these people led before they came here. Many, if not most, were self-sustaining individuals before they were pushed out by the rebel militias of the Congo. Last week at the training, I sat and talked with a nice guy named Felix. Back home, he told me, he was a teacher of science and technology at the local school. Now, I don’t know what he does, but he does not teach, as there is no school at which he could work in the camp. I mean, I think that we would be very similar to a lot of these people (in some ways, not all) if we were forced from our homes in the US (truthfully, I think that we would be less resilient). These people had pride, dignity, sustenance back home, and I think it is difficult for them to live in this place where those things are hard to come by.

Today I am in Nyabiheke again, but tomorrow I leave for Gihembe camp to have some meetings. I will be back in Kigali on Thursday night, so I can communicate Friday and this weekend. Thanks for reading.

PS – There is an ex-pats soccer team in Kigali that I might play on now. It’s called Muzungu United.

Welcome to Rwanda

To get to Rwanda, I had to fly through Nairobi, Kenya. I was there for only about two hours, so I didn’t get to see the city at all. But when you get on your plane to leave Nairobi, you walk onto the runway without escorts or anything. Next to the plane, all the passengers’ bags are lined up, and you have to point out which bags are yours. The bags you point out are moved onto the plane. I thought it was cool.

However, I didn't think it was cool when only one of my two bags was there for me to point out. The bag that is missing has a laptop, two cameras and ten rolls of film, a webcam for Skype, a cell phone, and a bunch of other small things. I filed a report at the Kigali International Airport and they are going to contact me when the bag arrives, but as you can imagine, I am a bit skeptical.

Despite the unfortunate fate of my bag, I have arrived in Rwanda safely. From the plane, the country seemed beautiful. Everywhere there were rolling hills with houses and buildings on the side and dirt roads. It is warm, but not hot. The temperature may be the same as in Boston, but it is not nearly as humid.

We drove by a lot of the places I have read about in books about Rwanda, like the National Assembly and the Ministry of Justice, as well as the huge Ministry of Defence. It's difficult for me to grasp that so much violence took place here years ago. It seems so small and peaceful. I asked Top, the Finance Administrator for ARC, on the way if people talk about the genocide at all, or if they prefer not to discuss it. He said they talk and are very open about it; even still, I would never ask somebody about it. At least not yet anyway. One piece of advice I received before coming is to never ask the Rwandan people about their families (which is considered casual conversation in the US) because of the genocide.

For now, I am staying with Top. His house is very nice, and I have my own room. Last night, I took a sitting shower using a bucket of warm water and a cup for the first time in my adult life; and this morning, I took a cold standing shower. When the shower works, I think the water is cold. It is hard to decide which shower I prefer right now.

Today I am off to meet with Jessica in the Nyabiheke camp, where I will meet and greet the staff and explore the camp. I will be driven by an ARC employee who happens to be going that way. It is only about two hours away.

I’ll take pictures of all the above as soon as I recover my suitcase. I hope you are all well at home.