Rambling Afterthoughts

Last night I watched the Rwanda genocide movie, Shooting Dogs.   Having just returned, I obviously found this film provocative as I searched for familiar images in scenes  - as if I needed proof I had actually been there.

Throughout the film I found myself increasingly drawn to the emotional struggles of the American main character. Prior to departing for Rwanda, I watched Hotel Rwanda and 'tsked' at the westerners who allowed themselves to be whisked away from harm by UN Peacekeepers. My heart cringed as I saw them board the buses, snapping the last -if not only existing photo- of those about to be slaughtered by machete.  Foreigners collecting souvenirs for their scrapbook to show their friends as they sit comfortably in their living rooms, boasting of their time in Rwanda. I clearly remember speaking to my mom on the phone and saying that I would not have left - that just because I was born into privilege - I would not turn my back on my Rwandese friends and colleagues.  

Shooting Dogs made me revisit my convictions.  Watching Joe sheepishly board the UN cargo truck - avoiding the looks of his students awaiting their fate to the Interhamwe who stood outside the fence brandishing their machetes. I found myself relating to the westerners who fled despite their full understanding as to what would happen to their colleagues, parishioners, students, or friends within minutes of their departure.  My self-righteous answer to the question, would you leave - now wavers….and that is an incredibly difficult admission to make.    

Since returning I have also given much consideration to, 'how did this happen?'.  A question that has been asked by the world over, but still one I wrestle with.  Many blame Belgium for the genocide.  However, I cannot myself believe the genocide came to exist because of this one intervention.  

Main stream discourse on the Rwanda genocide often neglects to acknowledge that prior to colonization, Rwandese had their own well developed hierarchical classification system. Whether you were Hutu or Tutsi was dependent on the number of cows you owned. There are different historical versions of what it means to be Hutu or Tutsi, but there seems to be some agreement that at one point the genetic origin of each tribe was different. Historians believe that Hutu's and Tutsi intermarried prior to colonization and then initiated the classification system based on economic status. I am not dismissing the role the Belgians played in fueling the genocide, but it should be more widely discussed that this classification system existed prior to colonization. The Belgians did fuel the genocide by encouraging the Hutus to fight for power on the eve of independence, initiating many decades of tribal murders in Rwanda. 

Perhaps this genocide also stemmed from more than an economic classification system that the Belgians were said to have exploited. Jared Diamond in his book, Collapse, applies the Malthusian theory of development to provide an alternative explanation of the genocide. His argument is based on the theory that population increases exponentially while food production only increases arithmetically. Rwanda is a country with a very high population density. Driving through Rwanda, you can see that very little  land is left unused. Diamond argues the genocide resulted from decades of mounting tension between an increasing population and decrease in available land. He sites areas in Rwanda that had the highest population density, smallest Tutsi population, but one of the highest death rates of both Hutu AND Tutsi.  Hutus were killed, based on the pretense of their support for the Tutsi, by fellow Hutu most often in areas where land and food were scarce.

It is difficult to truly pinpoint what fuelled the genocide. I believe there were many factors, which  when combined with economic and resource disparities, lead people to commit terrible acts fueled by propaganda and promise of riches. I am not sure that we will ever know, and by not knowing we will not be able to efficiently prevent future attempts of genocide. 

As a last note - Paris Hilton is going to Rwanda to increase the world's awareness of the region....has anyone told her she is 14 years too late? Neighbouring Congo continues to have internal violence (by both military and civilian members of the population) which results in rape, mutilation, and death on mass levels. Why are we and the media not interested in the DRC? Does it take 800,000 people to loose their lives in 100 days to make the news?

My last Butare posting

This is my last posting from Rwanda. We are leaving for Kigali tomorrow and then we fly out Sunday afternoon.

The last three months have gone by so quickly – yet when I reflect on our first week here – it feels like a year ago.

Last night the University held a “surprise” going away party for us. It was surprising as I really thought we would slip quietly into the night. I did not expect such fan fare over our departure. However, about 60 staff and students were at the party hosted at the bar conveniently located across the street from our house. Such gatherings complete with speeches, hugging, and tears, always make leaving more difficult. But it is good to leave with such fond memories…

During the party last night I had an interesting conversation with one of the students. He is an economics student at NUR and is interested in doing international work. He has great pride in his people yet is saddened by how little value Africans see in themselves. Eddie spoke about how many Africans see a foreigner and believe that the foreigner is better than them, but he sees a foreigner and believes that there can be an equal exchange of ideas. We discussed what it means to be “developed” and how the west, through out cast offs, are keeping Africa from progressing. He sees education as an essential role in the “development” of Africa - however they choose to define it - in order to teach people to be proud of their country and culture, value themselves as individuals, and recognize what they as a country/continent can contribute to the world.

I must admit that I was blown away by what Eddie was saying as resonated with a book I am reading right now that provides a critical analysis of development. I had just finished a chapter which spoke to the fact that by identifying a group of people as “underdeveloped” we are “deepening the disability” of that group of people. We cannot expect people to see values in themselves, or empower themselves, if the label the western world gives them is one that devalues their lives. When reading this chapter, I had thought about the role of critical pedagogy in such areas – of how essential it is for the empowerment of 2/3 of the world…..

And here Eddie, someone living and breathing something I am trying so hard to understand, reaffirmed my thoughts.

I will likely produce one more posting once I have landed as tomorrow morning I am going to watch the former prostitutes in their basket weaving training. I have a Polaroid camera and will take pictures of the women with their children. Many of these women are HIV positive and will not see their children grow. Maybe I am making assumptions about their values, but I think it might be nice for the families to have pictures of themselves with their loved ones – something they cannot afford on their own.

One final note before signing off – today the consultant gave his presentation of the business plan we put together for the University. In a previous posting I spoke about the deadlines the consultant had put on different tasks. Today was the University’s first deadline in a 5 year strategic plan….the task was to produce a list of names for the Project Management Team. Had the University done anything about this task?…..No…..I can’t even begin to start writing about this – it would open Pandora’s Box – and I don’t have the time right now. I need time to digest and reflect as I just cannot wrap my head around it…

Parting is such sweet sorrow....

This is our colleague/friend's wife and two children. Englebert's wife gave birth to their third child two weeks ago. The eldest boy is on my lap and the baby in Claudine's arms. This baby has been named Kalisa, apparently after me. Englebert had said they wanted to give the baby my name; however, were having a boy....guess they were lucky that my name is gender 'transferable' in Rwanda. The baby is absolutely beautiful. After holding Kalisa for some time and watching him in his perfection; I found it hard to say goodbye. It is always difficult to leave a place after an extended period of time, especially when you know that the chances of seeing eachother again is very slim. It was especially difficult to leave Kalisa - a new soul I have been tied to by name. I will not get the opportunity to watch this child grow and the likelyhood of knowing what this child's future will bring is limited. As with most of my goodbyes abroad, myself and my new friends throw around the idea of my return, but we all know that this goodbye is likely for good.

How often do 'locals' experience this? How many muzungo's come into their lives for short periods of time, force friendships with the locals and then leave...often without maintaining communication, let alone the return visit they promised? I know I am guilty of this. Is this difficult for them? And if so, how are they able to continuously open their hearts and homes as they have done for us?

Last Day of School

Today kind of feels like the last day of school before summer holidays...when you are expected to be present, but not really expected to do anything productive....I find that my heart and brain have disengaged from the University and the work we have been doing.

In order to prepare for our departure, we  left the consultant to work with the faculty and staff, collecting the necessary data for us to assist tomorrow in creating the business plan. As such, I have taken some time to do some reflecting - as is evident with the next two postings.

Through working with NUR staff on Phase II of the Strategic Plan, I found myself continually throwing the consultant questions about his role, as a western consultant, in the "development" process of the University. Often my thoughts steer to the relevance/importance of local cultural values in this planning and development process.

I place hope in the process I have witnessed this week at the University as it is likely one of the most inclusive processes in creating a business plan for strategic development at such a high level of institution.

I have watched the consultant work with the staff of NUR and it has been like watching a teacher set up a grade 8 class for an independent project in a student-centered classroom. With participation from staff, the consultant has established deadlines for decisions to be made and communicated with the project co-coordinator at CIDE, names were assigned to various tasks, locations for new offices were assigned, and detailed lists of necessary ICT equipment were created. Although I am optimistic, I am also conflicted as to what I think about this process. I was embarrassed for the staff at NUR as I saw them being treated like children, yet I recognize that this step was necessary to prevent the "shelving" of the Strategic Plan that it took a painful 3 months to develop. As the consultant asked the staff, "how many foreign consultants have stood before you, how many development plans have been shelved, and how much donor money has been spent on creating these plans?". And that is the reality...not only at NUR.

I am incessantly questioning what "development" means, what role I think I can morally and ethically play in the processes, what good existing projects/plans are doing, how the "systems" can be changed, how we can redefine development....and I am leaving with more questions than when I came.

However, I can make the following statements about development based on my very limited experience:

• the intricacies of the of the cultural context are pertinent to any type of development project
• human nature cannot be ignored
• all processes must be inclusive of those who will be affected by change
• language plays an integral role in understanding between the foreign and local institution/organization; even if both parties speak English, it does guarantee the same understanding of what words mean and this can greatly impact communication

"The idea of development stands today like a ruin in the intellectual landscape. Its shadow obscures our vision."

"Development is much more than just a socio-economic endeavour; it is a perception which models reality, a myth which comforts societies, and a fantasy which unleashes passions. Perceptions, myths and fantasies, however, rise and fall independent of empirical results and rational conclusions; they appear and vanish, not because they are proven right or wrong, but rather because they are pregnant with promise or become irrelevant."

~Wolfgang Sachs~

I have an affinity for these statements as it has been made evident time and time again that often imported development projects do not work yet, we (the west) continue to pour our guilt money into Africa without reflecting on whether or not what is being practiced is working. Our world seems to be at a loss for 'solutions' yet, does not take the time to stop and think. We pay for consultants to land for two weeks, impose a development plan, and fly out - all the while deep down having an inclination that the plan likely will never create the change intended.

Return to Faith

**I hope you don't mind D.V - but I decided to share my email to you because I had a couple of emails about my previous postings on Christianity and it is something I believe deserves to be addressed to all who raised questions. I also realize that is a personal entry to which some might take offence; however, I am choosing to post my emotional/spiritual journey in Rwanda because I think it is important to my growth as a human being**

I consider all of your responses/emails to my postings an important part of my personal analysis of my experiences here. Thank you for taking the time to reflect and add to the dialogue on the issues this journey has raised or reinforced in my consciousness.

I fear sometimes I offend people who have CHOSEN to be Christian. I believe there is a difference between those who have blind faith and those who take the time to consider - well maybe not consider- but, respect other religions. My thoughts on religion are quite basic - if it brings you comfort and permits the souls of humanity, of any faith, to belong to your "heaven" based on the merit of being a good human being - please, believe. I find it difficult to be told I am going to hell because I do not believe in Jesus when I know I live my life according to the ten commandments, perhaps more faithfully than some Christians I know.  To me - the values espoused by the commandments are reflective of my beliefs in what it means to be human, moral, and ethical. I do not mean to pick on Christians - it is simply the context through which this discussion began.

The reality is that I am envious of those who have chosen to believe - those who find comfort in one particular religion - whichever one that is. I sometimes wish I had faith in a system that was more concrete than the abstract collection of beliefs I have gathered from the different religions I have come across in my travels and life experiences. As  many,  I have experienced moments in life when I have had to examine my own mortality and I found it terrifying that I did not have a place to go - physically, mentally or emotionally - where I felt safe to really think about our purpose on this planet and selfishly, my own afterlife.

My life experiences have been such that I realized at a young age I could not believe in the religion in which I had been raised. I had too many questions and could not bring myself to accept the solutions my religion provided. Since, I have searched for answers in other religions and have not found one that fits my values/beliefs. So, I live my life with the comfort that my 'stolen' beliefs from many different religions/spiritual scholars, quilted together in my soul, may not be shared with others but they are mine and I know that I can remain true to them.

Countdown

I realize that I have not written in a while. My apologies. After a couple frantic emails from home I decided to write something, if for no other reason than to let the world know I am a.o.k.

Life abroad looses it's sense of excitement and wonder after a short period of time - when life becomes routine. It is not that I am not enjoying my life here - quite the opposite - I have come to fall in love with the town, country, and people.

The consultant for phase II of the University's Strategic Plan arrived on Monday. We have been contracted by CIDE to assist the consultant develop the business plan for the strategic plan. As things go here - we had been emailed an itemized list of information required for the second stage of developing the plan weeks ago. Despite attempts to facilitate the process, none of the information was gathered by Friday and most of it is still MIA (part of the problem being that a lot of the information doesn't exist). The entire process of preparing for this stage was part in parcel with what I have been saying since phase I of the strategy plan....the culture of business in Rwanda or at NUR is such that it is not prepared to initiate a 12 project strategy plan for development. The reasons for this are....many....some examples are that the University is essentially controlled by the government of Rwanda - it is very centralized, nationalized, .... dare I say communized (is that a word?). Even if the business plan mandates the creation of a project management unit with newly hired staff, it is next to impossible to implement because a. all NUR staff are paid by the government b. these salaries are dependent on an organizational chart determined by the government. Any extra staff or departments must be paid for by the University. However, to accompany this problem is the fact that 90% of students are publicly funded. The university has very little income generation and are essentially dependent on the government and donors. The university is expecting a double cohort next year due to the first year of language studies being cut - but there is no funding formula that states if student enrollment increases so does government funding to the university. I could go on and on and on...The only plus is that the consultant has heard these issues and is hoping to initiate change in the university over the next three months that will facilitate the implementation of the Strategic plan in January. However, there is so much here that has to be addressed to make this plan work...Regardless, again - it has been an interesting experience and I look forward to learning more about the economic end of development - I think it could integrate well with my research on culture, education, and values.

I wrote a while ago about the old soul - the little girl I pass each day. I went a few weeks without seeing her, but much to my delight - we seem to have matched our timing again. Our interactions have become longer. Starting a week or two ago, whenever we crossed paths on the side of the road we both stopped - she would play with something like my ring, bracelet or a hook on my bag....there isn't much conversation...but last week...as she was walking towards me she opened her arms and came in for a big hug....tears immediately welled in my eyes. It felt like something very pure and innocent had reached out to me - almost like she was cleansing parts of my soul. One thing they forget to tell you about being "away"  is how much you will crave human contact.  This precious child seemed to reach out to me, as if she knew my soul needed to be reached out to. I really wish I could bottle the moment and pull it out for times when I feel alone, sad, or overwhelmed.  The thought of leaving Lulu in 10 days tears my heart apart. I think that of all I take with me from Rwanda - I will forever feel connected to her soul and she will always be a part of me. Below is a picture of Lulu - she is on the left.

Cry Freedom

Last night we rented the movie Cry Freedom, based on the story of Steve Biko, founder of the Black Consciousness Movement in South Africa during apartheid and who died a suspicious death in the hands of the Afrikaan police. I found the dialogue in this film provocative as it concentrated on language to convey the struggle of the black people in South Africa (or anywhere colonialism existed) against their foreign oppressors. During the film Steve Biko asks the white reporter Donald Wood, who becomes his comrade in the struggle, whether or not he has black domestic workers. This question comes moments after we have given our Rwandan house guard a cup of coffee and a monthly salary that is the equivalent of four meals, six taxi rides to work, or one of the “antique” masks I bought in the market.

We were yet again reminded of the privilege our birthplace has provided when going to the bank this morning. Each time we enter the bank we pass a guard with a scanner (for weapons)….we pass the guard….all of the local people, men, women, and children are stopped and their bodies scanned. This morning I wanted to stop directly in front of the guard and force him conduct the same service me…but of course I didn’t…how far have we really come?


"Apartheid — both petty and grand — is obviously evil. Nothing can justify the arrogant assumption that a clique of foreigners has the right to decide on the lives of a majority" — Woods.

The Question of Faith

There are a few men in my office who declare themselves “saved” Christians. They came to our party on Friday night, sitting quietly sipping their Fanta’s. However; one boy came up to me at the end of the evening and asked for a glass of red wine – these men do not drink… Sometime later in the evening he “declared” his love. Since then we have engaged in discussions about marriage, during which time he stated that it was time someone (meaning him) put a proper ring on my finger. Later this week we discussed how ‘relationships’ work in North America. I was asked if people in North American “play sex” before marriage (this man is 28), and I felt ridden with guilt that I have either corrupted this person or that he thinks I am going to suffer terribly in my afterlife. The latter thought was confirmed when, as I was walking down the main street of Butare last night, I heard my name being called. It was my friend who wanted to take me to his Zionist Evangelistic Church. We sat quietly in the church that overlooks a beautiful valley – a testament to the existence of something great – and listened to the choir rehearse. Eventually my friend leaned over to ask me THE question, “why are you not a Christian?” This has become a common theme of my time here and no matter how well try to I articulate my beliefs, they are rarely understood. I explained about my travels and experiences with different faiths, all of which allow my soul to choose a path that brings comfort, peace, and encouragment to be true to myself. Afterward my friend shook his head and sucked on his teeth – the typical response. The discussion continued about the purpose of faith and as I attempted to draw parallels between faith systems, it yet again became obvious that because I do not believe in the one and only GOD – I did not have true faith.

The reason I chose to journal about these, specifically this, interaction is because the conclusion of this repeating conversation always leaves me anxious. Very few of the Christians I have met here acknowledge the goodness that can come from other faiths (even other forms of Christianity – my friend stated last night that Catholics “lie”) nor allow themselves to question anything about the faith to which they prescribe. It terrifies me because it demonstrates just HOW the genocide could have happened. When you have a country/culture of people who are not taught/encouraged/permitted to think critically about ANYTHING they have been told or to accept the beliefs of others – propaganda can be a VERY powerful tool. I am not saying that they should not be faithful to their religion. However, that faith should come after one has qusetioned how/why they believe. Many of the people I have met here enter their faith blindly and the intolerance of other faiths is something that could have detrimental effects to a community. I do understand a country that has embraced their faith after suffering such trauma; however, it is like a cyclical process...the unquestioning belief in yet another set of values. Yes their beliefs might focus on 'goodness'- but the behaviour of following the word of someone without challenging or determining exactly WHY or HOW that code fits with your values results from the same unquestioning faith that lead to genocide.

Chasing the Mice

We finally had the housewarming party we had been promising our friends since moving a month ago. We were informed that we needed to have a party in order to chase the mice from the new house (apparently a joke here in Rwanda). After finally discovering where (and how) to buy beer, ordering food to be catered, and getting a dj we felt quite proud of our accomplishments as nothing here is a small feat. Despite the torrential rains, we had a full-house. It took no time for furniture to be moved and a dance floor created...Late into the night we moved onto the club where the dancing continued until the early hours of the morning. In the end there was about 50 people - we were amazed at how many people have come into our lives in such a short time.

It was a beautiful night of celebrating, laughing, eating, dancing, drinking, and just being. I've just attached some pictures of our friends - I assume it helps paint a picture of how we live and with whom we are sharing this experience.

The last ones at home before leaving for the club - Claudine, myself, Yvonne, and Caroline - both of whom have been very good to us.Myself and Steven (our neighbour and head of security at the University). Friends - Juniour and Felix in the background - both students.

Lambert (shares and office with Claudine), Media and Sam (both in my office)

Jean Pierre (medical student who invited us to work with the Former Prostitute Group) dancing with Melissa (fellow Canadian lecturing in the School of Journalism and a fantastic woman).

My dear friend Innocent, future PhD holder (currently doing a sandwich program at a school in Belgium - he is here in Rwanda fulfilling his teaching requirements). Innocent spent many years living in Canada (Ottawa specifically) when completing his Masters. He works on a computer in my office as he does not have one of his own - which has lead to long discussions...he has been invaluable in "filling me in" on local cultural values.

Jennifer and Melissa (both also Canadians teaching in the School of Journalism), Englebert (the chief of our village and the man who got us our house), Felix, Steven (a student working as an intern in my office), and Claudine (the dear woman who cleans our office and makes coffee).

Murambi

I have been neglecting the blog for about a week now. Each time I tried to bring myself to write, the content seemed so trivial in comparison to my experience last week at Murambi - a genocide memorial where 45, 000 people were said to have been killed. However, I have also not been able to bring myself to write about Murambi as it was truly horrifying and deeply disturbed my soul.

I have struggled as to whether or not I would write about Murambi; however, having decided that this would be my last genocide memorial visit in Rwanda, I have chosen to write a personal account of the visit…mostly because I want to be able to remember my impressions and reflections many years from now. I will attempt to articulate my memories of the site in a way that brings dignity to the dead yet, reiterates the horror of what happened here – a difficult feat given the reality of genocide.

Murambi was a polytechnic school located in the town of Gikongoro. Claudine, Joel and I hired a driver to take us to the village as it is 28 km away from Butare. I felt awkward as we drove through the town, it being obvious to the local villagers who stared at the car of Muzungo’s, that we were going to gawk at their tragic history.

We were greeted by a man who bore the scar of genocide, not only in the bullet wound on his forehead, but in his eyes, his heart, his soul. He was one of four survivors at Murambi.

One of four survivors out of 45, 000.

After the President was killed in the plane accident, the radio told the local Tutsi to seek refuge at the polytechnic school – that they would be safe at the school. The school’s Rector was a moderate Hutu who had, for years, spoken out against ethnic cleansing in Rwanda. He was married to a Tutsi and had two young children who also sought refuge in the school’s walls. However, as the Rector provided protection for the Tutsi, he was also providing a service for the Hutu powers – collecting the Tutsi in one area so that the killing could be more efficient. After some time in the school, the soldiers came and continued their methodical killing within the walls of the school. The Rector’s wife and children were killed. The Rector was shortly thereafter whisked away to safety in the former Zaire by the French military for “protection”.

We were brought by our guide, to the rows of classrooms that overlook the breathtaking valleys of Gikongoro. He very deliberately opened the first door and I took a deep breath before entering, trying to mentally prepare myself. I couldn’t have…nothing could have prepared me.

Many of the bodies were exhumed shortly after the genocide and they now reside in the classrooms of Murambi. Most of the bodies are covered in limestone and lay quietly beside each other; row upon row, classroom upon classroom, as a clear reminder to the quote that appears at the top of my blog….”never again”.

These bodies are frozen in time, personalizing their final moments of genocide. The men, women, children, and babies – although silent –echo the horror of their final moments. Women lay in positions that suggest a dehumanizing death, fathers still clutch babies in their arms, hands were pulled up to the face for protection, skulls were crushed by machetes, limbs broken and missing, and jaws lay open as they express the final moments of torture. The smell of death hung in the air and handprints in blood and gunpowder stained the walls.

I cried. Not at the site. I couldn’t bring myself to shed a tear in the presence of our guide. What right did I have to express pain when he had suffered so much?  His watery eyes made it evading that he continued to suffer each time he unlocked one of those classroom doors for the foreigners to gaze upon his family, friends, and People.

Afterwards I cried deeply…unable to find any comfort. In the evening I came across a group of University students in prayer (incidentally they had been at the memorial that day for a field trip). As I walked past the group of ten students who bowed their heads and shared their grief, I wanted to join them. I wanted to experience the feelings of forgiveness and solace they received in their relationship with God.

I cannot imagine the pain this country has endured and the amount of forgiveness it has bestowed. I only hope that the display of the individual victims of genocide at Murambi can provide some type of comfort to those who survived and provide lessons to those who did not experience.

I have decided this will be my last memorial visitation as I realize I will never understand what happened and how this country has moved forward. I have grieved for those lost and now I need to celebrate with those who survived or returned to rebuild Rwanda.

Akagera

Last weekend we went to the east part of Rwanda to Akagara National Park. On Saturday we drove to a small town outside Akagera to stay for the night. We awoke at 4:00 am for a quick breakfast (the hotel manager had his poor staff awake at 3:30 am to serve us coffee and bread – the poor girl bundled in a winter jacket as we donned our t-shirts) and then made the hour drive into the National Park. Our guide was very knowledgeable on the park wildlife and had a very keen eye for spotting the various animals as we drove through. He had been sent by the park to train in Cameroon for two years on wildlife. We were able to get out of the jeep and trek for giraffes through the thorn bush – which was like trying to walk through barb-wire fence – our clothes were shred to pieces….we were much less agile than our experienced guide. It was surreal to take your eyes off the ground, as you watched for animal patties below your feet, to look up to see your childhood visions of Africa sprawled out in all directions.

We were able to see giraffe, water buffalo, impala, water buck, eagles, monkeys, baboons, and hippo’s. Apparently there are elephants in the park but we did not come across any. Upon return to school I was asked by my colleagues if I had seen the “crazy elephant”. Apparently one elephant had been shot during the genocide and since has not been ‘quite right’. It roams alone through the park and a few years ago when the University’s Faculty of Agriculture students went to the park, the elephant attacked the bus, making significant damage to the vehicle and terrifying the poor students.

This is definitely one of the many elements of Africa that will forever warm my heart.

Below a. hunting down some giraffe through the thorn bush, b. the tail end of some water buffalo, and c. the "Game Lodge" perched at the top of the hills overlooking the park. We chose not to stay here for the 65-100 American a night but stopped in for a drink after our "safari-ing".

Kibuye

On Saturday, we decided to head North to Lake Kivu, staying in Kibuye. Our original intention had been to head down to Burundi for the weekend; however, bus availability left us having to find an alternative. This region is absolutely beautiful and reminded us of northern Ontario - without the noisy water vehicles. Unfortunately, due to a truck in the ditch that blocked traffic on Saturday, we did not get to Kibuye until Sunday morning. The hotel was incredible; very clean, cheap, rustic in a cottagy way, balconies right on the lake, and a decent restaurant.

Incidentally, on Friday, a colleague of mine disclosed his very tragic story of genocide survival; a story that illuminates the strength and kindness of the human spirit. I have not yet decided whether or not I am going to publish his story as it is quite personal (obviously). However, his story took place in Kibuye, which was the hardest hit region during the genocide as 9 out of 10 Tutsi were killed. It was interesting to be in Kibuye two days after hearing my friend's story. It certainly brought the genocide to life as we visited another church were 4, 000 people died.

Hotel Bethanie (where we stayed)
Enjoying pre-dinner drinks from my balcony
View from my balcony. The D R Congo in the distance.

Imbabazi

Last weekend we went back to Kigali to spend some time with friends who were returning home this week. The time in Kigali was difficult as we spent time at two memorial sites and “Hotel Rwanda”.

On Saturday we drove for an hour into a village 30 km outside of Kigali called Nyamata. Within this village is a church where it is estimated 5,000 people who were seeking God’s shelter were killed in April, 1994. Upon arriving at the church, we were met by a gentle woman whose eyes told of the horror she has witnessed and sorrow she has experienced (genocide memorials generally employ survivors as guides). She spoke no English and very little French, but with the assistance of laminated guide cards in English, body language, and facial expressions she told a story that has deeply touched my soul. I forewarn that this entry contains descriptions that some might find difficult to read, but I don’t believe any part of this story should be censored.

Since being at Nyamata, I have come across some narrated accounts of individuals who had survived this particular assault. These accounts are entwined with my observations at the memorials.

In April 1994, within hours of the President’s plane being shot down, the Hutu powers launched a fastidious crusade against the Tutsi of Rwanda. Upon hearing propaganda calling for their demise, hundreds of thousands of Tutsi sought shelter in God’s homes all over the country hoping that the Hutu would not bring themselves to commit such violent crimes against humanity in the presence of the Lord. This was not the case. One boy’s testimony spoke about arriving at the church in Nyamata to find it packed wall to wall with people. The white priest in Nyamata made feeble attempts to feed the refugees, stating that it was futile to try and meet their physical needs as they would “be dead tomorrow”. The next day, the white priest drove away to catch his flight home; leaving the refugees behind to face their perpetrators, knowing that death was inevitable.

The first evidence at the church was damaged concrete under the steel grate door that had been bombed with grenades to force entry into the church. Immediately inside the church there was a small room where clothes belonging to the deceased were piled to the ceiling. The church had been built with many openings in the brickwork to allow for a breeze to cool the congregation during services. In personal accounts, people described how these openings gave way for bullets to enter and kill many inside the church walls. The tin roof of the church is riddled with bullet holes.

Once the civilian soldiers fought into the church, they moved swiftly through the Tutsi refugees with machetes. The guide showed us blood stains on the walls, making specific reference to places where babies had been intentially slammed against the walls. When at the Kigali Genocide Memorial a few weeks ago we walked through a room dedicated to the children who perished in the genocide. This gallery had photos of some children with a brief biography that included favourite food and drink, pastimes, last words, and how they died. There had been a few pictures which stated they had died by being slammed against a wall in a church. These images haunted me for days after leaving the Kigali memorial; however, flashed back to memory with vengeance when the blood stains were pointed out on the wall of the church in Nyamata. In a book I am now reading, one Hutu who was a member of the interahamwe explains how he taught his army to kill the children because thirty years ago, one small Tutsi child was missed during an attack. (as an aside – the ‘genocide’ started in 1959 when Rwanda gained independence from Belgium – this country has suffered many years of violence) He fled to Uganda and came back to lead the RPF against the Hutu’s, referring to the current President.
This picture was taken inside the church….I think of how many looked up at this Virgin Mary, praying to be salvaged from a brutal death. During the genocide, people would pay large sums of money to their killers to die quickly by bullet, instead of the slow tortuous death many victims suffered.

In the basement of the church is a glass case which houses many skulls. Our guide pointed out the cracked skulls where the machete had come down. Below the glass case is a coffin, occupied by a sole women (many coffins used to lay victims to rest contain more than one body due to the sheer number and dismemberment of bodies) who was pregnant when she suffered her humiliating and painful death.

Outside of the church are three more mass graves. Two had been constructed post-genocide to house bones found throughout the region. Both graves are approximately twelve feet deep and thirty six feet long with shelves that run floor to ceiling. One of the graves held coffins and the second, hundreds of skulls and bones lined perfectly on their wooden shelves in the damp coldness of the underground (picture below). The third grave was made during the assault at Nyamata. The victims had been told to dig a hole in the back of the church which would be used as a toilet. They were then told to get into the hole and were killed, left exposed in their own graves.

We went to a second church in the region which was also the site of thousands of Tutsi deaths. This church was much smaller and the evidence of a genocide was much more subtle (aside from the skulls). As a part of the memorial, they have left all of the belongings brought and worn by the refugees. I think that this was the most difficult part of the visit; seeing the books, toys and clothing of the children – packed with the hope that they would be safe in the church, to return to their lives once this ‘episode’ was over.

On Sunday we went to the infamous “Milles Collines Hotel” aka, Hotel Rwandaas a friend was staying there. The hotel was not as I had pictured; however, it was fascinating to sit in the grounds and imagine the hundreds of refugees who remained on the lawn for days on end, using the swimming pool as their source of water for cooking, washing, and drinking.

Joel has been going to the Gacaca ceremonies on Wednesday morning with local research interns working at the Center of Conflict Management. Yesterday morning there was a doctor ‘on trial’. A nurse gave testimony that the doctor had killed many people in the hospital by putting chemicals in their drips, removing their drips, and basically leaving people in dire need of medical attention to die. There is currently a case against a professor at the University whom I spoke about in a previous entry. Joel was told that because she is an “intellectual” they are taking their time with her case. Apparently those who are considered ‘lower class’ have very fast trials, being sentenced quickly without a lot of deliberation over their guilt or innocence. However, because intellectuals are considered intelligent, it is assumed that they can poke holes in the testimonies of witnesses and therefore, the elected judges take their time to ensure that they build a solid case. Gacaca is founded on the notion of restorative justice; however, as an oustider it seems void of due process or guarantee of a fair trial. Those accused are held at the mercy of the audience and if this individual is not well liked by the community, their fate can be pre-determined.

As an end note, Imbabazi means "have compasssion", a Rwandan name given to me by my Rwandan colleagues which is funny because Carissa is also a Rwandan name...for men it is spelled Kalisa (l's are pronounced as r's). However, I have seen a couple of women with the name spelled Carisa pronounced the same as mine.

Rituals

We have have discovered that our humble home comes with a Kinyarwanda tutor. Venant, the one guard out of the two who speaks VERY little English, has taken it upon himself to teach us the local langauge. When we return in the evenings it has become ritual for Venant to come to our back kitchen door with his notebook and pen. We make Venant some coffee and the three of us sit/stand in the kitchen using body language, sign language, and paper and pen to teach eachother language. He is a beautiful man, who from what we gather is 31 with three younger sisters. We laugh and laugh as he seems to 'forget' we don't understand him and will launch into rapidly strung together words in Kinyardwanda.

Yesterday on our way home from work, we met up with some friends in the street and talked for about 15 minutes. During this time a gathering of street children collected around us - poking and proding our pockets and bags. After we continued on our way - a young boy came running up behind me to tell me the small pocket of my bag was open...apparently one of the little ones had managed to slide open the pocket. All that was inside the pocket was gone.....so this little boy made off with a collection of feminine hygiene products and a twoonie...I hope they go to good use.

Celebration of Life - No Matter

On Saturday we were invited to a ceremony for the Association of Prostitutes who Agree to Change (APAC). This is an association of approximately 50 women who are former prostitutes, most of whom (if not all) are HIV positive. This association is in the process of finding alternative means for economic sustainability. I had mentioned in a previous entry of some English girls we met working with the women. They had been trying to initiate a basket weaving cooperative for the women. The women had received a contract with the department store, Macy’s; however, the local organization that was to export the baskets has refused because they are only to sign contracts with groups who are considered “survivors of genocide”. Apparently only Tutsi women are considered survivors of genocide and this group has a few women who are Hutu. What makes this especially frustrating is that Rwanda has declared themselves to be a nation without ethnic divide, referring to everyone equally as a Rwandan….guess this doesn’t apply to former prostitutes….

The difficulty also lies in that there is no support from the local politicians. The last encounter seeking support resulted in the women being berated by the politician who made claims that the women were still prostituting.

What we also found incredible was the fact that students of the University compose the largest portion of the prostitutes' clientele. It was discouraging to hear the medical students (who have good intentions) tell the prostitutes that they are putting "Rwanda's future at risk" by having unprotected sex with the male students of the University....a comment that provided more insight as to why the AIDS population is so high in Africa...the fact that men are given such little responsibility in the protection and prevention of the disease...the responsiblity lies with the women who are often forced into prostitution or are raped.

So, the English girls have finished their time here, without having helped the women secure any income. They have asked that we help facilitate the process as we are here for a few more months. We were taken to the ceremony on Saturday to meet the local organizers (mostly students from the Faculty of Medicine) and the women. The ceremony was held in a small classroom with about 25 women and their children. The ceremony included dancing, testimonies, speeches, and singing.

It is incredible to reflect on the lives of these women: on how these women, essentially dying as they are not taking retro-viral medication (due to myths about it causing deaths more quickly) and most of them leaving very young children behind, celebrated life. I won’t use words to describe how these women lost themselves in music as I think the pictures say enough.

I wanted to share the testimony of one very young girl. At the age of 14 this girl had been walking to get some water when she was raped by a local soldier – she was pregnant. She was ousted from her village because of the pregnancy so she came to Butare where she tried to find work as a domestic. It was very difficult to find work so in the meantime, at the age of 15 with a baby, she was taken in by local prostitutes. Due to her financial situation, she also began to prostitute. After a couple of years of prostituting, the birth and death of two children, and a test of being positive for HIV, she decided that she needed to find an alternative.

After the ceremony Joel and I discussed how one brief moment can change one's life forever…in a flash a girl can go from being an innocent child to a victim of rape turned prostitute who lost two of her children and has AIDS.

It was an incredible afternoon that yet again put into perspective what I might consider a ‘bad day’.

Welcome dance performed by women in the association. This little girl in the white danced beside her mother the entire time. Jean-Pierre (left) teaching us how to dance. My new friend dances beside me and Claudine offers suggestions to Joel.

I'm Joel from England...

We have FINALLY moved into a house. It has been quite an ordeal, having chosen a home and then being avoided by the landlady for 10 days. We eventually found another one, not as big as the first, but just as clean, and more than enough space for two people. The home is surrounded by a bricked wall that has large broken shards of glass sticking protruding from the top. We were pleasantly surprised by our landlord, who is a director at the local hospital, as he provided everything we needed; towels, bedding, dishes, a television, a DVD/VHS player, and furniture. It is amazing as you become accustomed to every process you go through in the day being drawn out and difficult; however, once we found the house it was a matter of two days of it being cleaned, equipped, and ready for us to move in. The house comes with two guards who tend the beautiful gardens during the day. Our first night we uncomfortable as we closed the door to our living room on the guard. He sat on a small wooden stool outside of my bedroom window. When we awoke in the morning he was working at cleaning the property. The second night we decided to offer the guard coffee (he is the only one of the two who speaks a LITTLE English – neither speak French – only Kinyarwanda). The guard took the coffee happily and returned the mug, teaching us a new Kinyarwanda word that means – I am happy.

We have a television with one channel and yesterday morning I was so happy to get half and hour with English BBC. However, this morning when I tried the channel, it was a local show in French.

The work is also improving at the University. The University has hired a consultant from Canada to map out a Strategic Plan. Last week we were involved in a two day workshop with the University staff that identified 10 goals for development and maps on how to achieve these goals. The Strategic Map being implemented by the consultant is based on a Scorecard system, where goals are identified and measures, targets and initiatives are determined. There were some very good ideas proposed by the staff; however, as dialogue ensued it was evident that the values and approaches of ‘what is education’ is very different in this country.

I have been hired by the Canadian consultant to develop the Scorecards that will create the long term Strategic Plan for the University. I feel unbelievably lucky to have come upon this opportunity to work at this stage of the University's planning. The work is MUCH more fulfilling than the secretarial work I had been assigned upon arrival. Once the consultant leaves at the end of the week I have been assigned to work with the Director of Planning and Development to develop policy and proposals for monies that will fund the 33 projects stemming from the Strategic Plan. There are very few women in leadership positions at this University and the woman I have been assigned to is an exceptional one. I look forward to learning from her. Working with the consultant has also been interesting as he has worked for the World Bank and CIDA on a number of projects around the world.

However, as I work on this Strategic Plan – based on Western concepts of development – I find myself wondering if this project will ever be implemented. The plan involves major restructuring of both administrative and academic systems – focusing in improving efficiency, productivity, and ICT infrastructure and capacity. This plan will need the implementation of time management and individual initiative – components that are missing with the staff currently employed at the University. My discussions with the consultant have broached this idea many times – the fact that development organizations pay money for consultants to come and implement development plans and expect the local population to execute the plan – a plan that counts on the values and ethics of western development models. I struggle to not be too cynical about this plan; however, I feel that without education around concepts of time management, work output, accountability, autonomy, transparency, efficiency, productivity – that these development plans will be all for naught. If I choose to do a PhD, I think that this school and a case study on the implementation of this plan would be very interesting.

We have also been fortunate to meet a lovely young man named "Joel...from England". He arrived in a frazzle on Friday (the University forgot to pick him up at the airport that is two hours away and arrange for accommodation for him) and has become a good companion. He is here as an intern working at the Center for Conflict and Management. I am looking forward to hearing what he learns about the genocide in this country. His internship started yesterday and over dinner he spoke about his experience working with two local interns who have been researching the genocide. I am very excited from him.

I came across this excerpt this morning and found it fitting and comforting....

"How is one to live a moral and compassionate existence when one is fully aware of the blood, the horror inherent in life, when one finds darkness not only in one's culture but within oneself? If there is a stage at which an individual life becomes truly adult, it must be when one grasps the irony in its unfolding and accepts responsibility for a life lived in the midst of such paradox. One must live in the middle of contradiction, because if all contradiction were eliminated at once life would collapse. There are simply no answers to some of the great pressing questions. You continue to live them out, making your life a worthy expression of leaning into the light."

~Barry Lopez

An old soul

Each day since our first walk to work, we have come across the same beautiful girl dressed in her red and white uniform on her way to school. She is about seven years old. On the first day our paths crossed she walked straight towards me, exuding confidence, stuck out her hand to shake mine and asked, "Hi, how are you?". Each day I see the same girl and our interactions have become more intimate and less complex. We see eachother from a distance and smile and wave. As we move closer together we each extend a hand. I reach down towards her small outreached palm. As we stride past eachother, our hands touch briefly in the typical Rwandese style. That is all. I look forward to this brief encounter every morning as it has become like meeting up with an old friend each day I walk to work....I suspect this young girl is an old soul.

A Weekend in Kigali

Hotel Castel. Relatively clean room overlooking the valleys in Kigali. It was actually a treat as it had hot water and a television - although we didn't really watch it - it was nice to hear the familiar background noise.
View from the hotel room, looking into the sprawl of Kigali. The city center is the opposite direction of our view.

Saturday night we were invited to a friend’s home for a traditional dinner of fufu (no idea on the spelling) cooked by his sister-in-law, brother, and an orphaned boy who recently moved into their home. The home was very simple, consisting of a bedroom and a sitting area with the food preparation area just outside the front door. Fufu is made from root vegetables and is served as a white, pasty, cold ball of what resembles dough. It does not have much flavour but is ripped off into small pieces and used with your hands to sop the sauces of the main dishes. We also had fish, cooked in a very nice, almost sweet, tomato sauce. Our friend’s siblings do not speak English and very little French so the communication between us was mostly smiles and laughs at one of the brothers who had come home slightly inebriated. The boy who had been taken in by our friend’s older brother was an absolutely beautiful twelve-year old with a smile that melted you heart. He was extremely shy as he had ever been in close proximity to a white person. Each time I looked over at him he would be caught staring and immediately look away. I desperately wanted to communicate with this boy but with my level of Kinyarwanda being less than sub par – it was difficult. However, we did manage to share some smiles by the end of the evening.

Our friend’s history has become somewhat of a mystery. I understand he was raised in the Congo as a Rwandase refugee. In a previous conversation he had mentioned that his secondary schooling had not been attended in consecutive years and that perhaps someday he would tell me about it. Last night, while he proudly displayed the pictures of his life we saw pictures of his mandatory ‘political training’; required of all Rwandese attending University. During this training, the students learn politics (my understanding is that they learn about the genocide during this time) and military skills. He bragged that he could magazine his gun (no idea what the correct terminology is here) in 16 seconds. I asked him if that had been the first time he had used a gun and he got very quiet, said no, and quickly changed the subject. During the course of the evening a cockroach appeared on the make-shift chess board being played by some people in the room. As Claudine reacted and pushed the board away, our friend said to us, “We cannot kill this creature because they are our grandfathers.” Prior to, and during the genocide, the Hutu’s labeled the Tutsi’s cockroaches (inyenzi), calling for their termination through radio and print propaganda. Our friend seems to have witnessed and experienced so much in his life, yet his laugh is one that comes from the soul. Before we even met him, I had heard him laugh as he sat at a table behind us, and I said to Claudine, that is an infectious and fabulous laugh.

We decided to treat ourselves to a nice meal on Sunday and after unsuccessfully navigating our way through the winding and hilly streets of Kigali with our map, which seemed to be wrong ;) (our theme has become "how many grad students does it take to..." - apparently it takes more than two to follow a map - ) ended up hopping in a cab to drive us the last four blocks. The restaurant was absolutely incredible - an open setting with a wooden shingled roof and beautiful Indian art. The food and service was better than anything I have experienced at home or when I was in India. I meant to take a picture of the restaurant, but only got as far as the food - we were ecstatic to not be eating rice, brochette, or cabbage. The Indian owners have what looks to be a very successful chain in Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, and soon Sidney, Australia.

Kigali Genocide Memorial

On Sunday morning we visited the Kigali Genocide Memorial. This was a very emotional experience. While inside the Memorial I was berated face bo face by an older local woman, who smelled and acted like she was intoxicated. I am not sure what she said as it was all in Kinyarwanda but assume it wasn't polite as another local woman who spoke English apolozied to me for the woman's behaviour. It was a very very disturbing moment, combined with the horrific visualizations offered at the Memorial. I am still processing the morning and will post my reflections at a later time.

A flame that burns for those killed during the genocide at the memorial. The hills of Kigali spread behind.
Eight mass graves that contain coffins of bodies found around Kigali. It is said that in each coffin there are parts of many different individuals as it was impossible to find full skeletal remains. The last grave in this row was open and you could see the many coffins covered with a sheet marked with a single purple cross.
Names of those killed in this region of Kigali.

In the Headlines

Some interesting articles/items in the local paper I thought I would share – I have added my own commentary/thoughts on selected pieces. My comments follow the news, which is in bold.

Maj. Ntuyahaga was sentenced to 20 years in prison by a Belgium court for the murder of 10 Belgian Peacekeepers early genocide. Belgium’s Prime Minister was quoted as saying, “Had the peacekeepers stayed, thousands of lives could have been saved”. [A brief review; the capture, torture, and murder of these ten Peacekeepers resulted in Belgium (Rwanda’s colonizers who were responsible for creating the ethnic divide between Tutsis and Hutus) pulling all of their troops out of Rwanda] This comment is completely ignorant of the reality in Rwanda, 1994. Peacekeepers in Rwanda were on a Level 6 mission, meaning that the Peacekeepers could not use any force. This Level stuck throughout the entire genocide despite the Canadian leader of UNIMAR, Romeo D’Allaire’s, NUMEROUS attempts to persuade the UN change the mission to a Level 7. There was nothing the UN Peacekeepers could do but watch the violence unfold around them. Here is yet another national leader who fails to acknowledge the cowardness and incompetence of the decision making processes within the UN.

“Renowned Pastor Rick Warren’s missionary team here”
….to fight “poverty, diseases, illiteracy, spiritual emptiness, and lack of servant leadership”….. I wonder if the fight against poverty, disease and illiteracy comes with the price of conversion in order to solve the ‘problems’ of spiritual emptiness?


Poverty last dictatorship in Rwanda
“In developed countries, poverty is a sin. Only in Africa states are the poor ‘blessed’. Such a saying should be discontinued. I’m not changing the Bible, but politically, economically, and socially, blessed are the rich because they enjoy the treasures of the world. I absolutely support the fight for richness and prosperity.” I am confused as to what this means….I am seeking clarification from anyone who has insight….

‘Good customer care will move Rwanda higher’;
This article is an editorial written by Josh Kron (who Iassume is an expatriate)….He complains about waiters ignoring him in restaurants and generators not ‘kicking in’. He expresses frustration with the overused disclaimer, “This is Africa” – apparently the solution to all of Africa’s problems –
“The happy-go-lucky phrase ‘This is Africa’ will be the downfall of this country….it is obnoxious for a Westerner to come in, plop down at a desk in the middle of everything that is happening in this country, and just start complaining,…but the thing is…this isn’t a capacity problem. Work ethic and state of mind have nothing to do with capacity…when Rwanda says it wants to be a leader in tourism, air-traffic, cinema and telecommunications, it really has to understand what that entails….when a Kigali internet café owner says proudly that Rwanda is an IT powerhouse, yet the Canadian at the table is slamming her hand over how slow the computer is, we know there is something missing”. We know this experience well as last Sunday it took 15 minutes for the Yahoo page to come up to check my email in a café...I ended up just paying and walking away without checking my email before my bloodpressure when through the roof. This topic is something I will write about more on a later date as I am still attempting to determine how work ethic is going to help/hinder this country's development.

Full page advertisement; picture of a child in black and white with the caption, “Sex with a child is not a cure for AIDS, it is murder”; this advertisement lead me to reflect on a teenage girl in town we see on a regular basis. Since our first interaction (she approached us and asked if we would take her home with us) with this girl we realized that she was a child with special needs; however, it wasn’t until Sunday that I realized she is also pregnant. So many questions about her situation entered my head: does she have family to support her; does she even know she is pregnant; did she contract HIV when she was impregnated; who would do this to her; how will she raise the child; will she raise the child…

Being an extra....

Cute story about this picture. Behind our friend Kenny in the black pants and blue sweater are the local extra's for the film, dressed in costume. Apparently the locals were complaining when they saw what they would be wearing, "We came in our nice clothes and you made us put on old dirty clothes".

Butare Night Life

At Safari Club late Friday night with Jean-Jacques (a young man from the Congo who played a French soldier in the film) and Kenny (a Rwandese responsible for casting). Kenny was the only one with energy at this point and put in a genuine effort to convince us to stay - we managed about half an hour more.

Our friend Jean-Pierre (brother of Jean-Jacques above and also playing a French soldier). He is one of the most genuine persons have ever met. Primus - the beer I am holding - is the locally brewed beer and costs about 1.50$ for a large bottle.

Home Sweet Home

I have had requests for more pictures so thought I would show were I am living. We are fortunate as we have very clean rooms in a nice compound. Just not a lot of space.

The road we walk everyday just outside of our compound.
My apartment is on the ground floor.
My room. The bathroom is behind the bed.

Reflections on a Sunday Morning

Another weekend and I feel guilt ridden that we have not left Butare. Our last two Friday nights have left us exhausted and without the energy to move very far the following day. We celebrated with the French film crew on Friday night as they finished their last day of filming. It was interesting to watch the crew, French and Rwandese, balance between the joys of being finished the grueling and emotional work of producing the film and the sadness in saying their goodbyes; both groups realizing that the possibility of seeing each other again is very slim. It was obvious that strong ties had developed over the course of the filming.

There are a couple of stories I would like to share that have touched me deeply over the course of the weekend. As I write this, I am struggling to justify sharing the personal stories of individuals on a public domain. However, these stories are my best illustrations of Rwanda’s catastrophic history and how the human spirit can triumph. One of the stories is about a French soldier posted here during the genocide, who came with the film crew to act as a French soldier. His story was published in the local paper and was explained in further detail by crew members. This soldier was quite young when he came to Rwanda in 1994. The paper described one day ‘in the field’. His crew came upon a roadblock made entirely of human bodies. Because he was the youngest, his commander instructed him to physically move the bodies from the road. The article describes the emotional damage such an experience left him with. Apparently, during filming there were many times he had to leave the set as it was overwhelming. I only hope that this experience helped him in the healing process.

Last night we met our friend Maurice (who I introduced in a previous posting) for dinner at the local “Chinese Restaurant” (where we waited OVER 2 hours for our food!!!!! And that is apparently normal). We learned more about his past during the course of the evening. I can’t even attempt to relate to the experiences this man has endured in his life. When Maurice was four his mother committed suicide, shooting herself while he was in the next room. He is not sure why she did it but spoke about the day openly. Apparently she had returned from being out that day, crying. Maurice mentioned that she was constantly upset that his father, who was British, was continuously traveling around the continent for his business. As the family sat in the living room they heard a shot, ran into her bedroom, and found her dead.

Later in the evening, Maurice spoke about his time with the RPF army. The story was disjointed without clear details; we did not ask many questions for clarification as we did not want to push him to speak about things he was not comfortable with. I will just outline the some of the things Maurice discussed. He spoke about hiding in the bush with the army for extended periods of time. During this period he spent much time with the current President Paul Kagame, who Maurice describes as ‘very serious and strong’. Maurice has a great love for this man; a man he claims his holding Rwanda together by his passion to rebuild a new Rwanda free of ethnic hatred. Maurice claims that as long as Mr. Kagame is President, Rwanda will be violence free; however, fears what will happen once his Presidency is finished (the next election will be in 2010 and most people here believe he will be reinstated). Maurice also described the Rwandese men who had been living abroad, returning to fight with the RPF. Maurice laughed as he described these young boys arriving with large backpacks and thinking that they would have the evenings and weekends free to party. He described the reality of their experience; lying quietly in the bush for days on end waiting for the enemy and then the periods of battle. Maurice, who lost his leg during the war, spoke about how some of these boys were here for only three or four days before being killed and how he doesn’t understand why he made it through the year alive. He concluded his story by simply stating, “I have seen a lot in my life- When I was in the forest hiding, I was an evil man - Now I am a good man”. I am not sure I have ever felt so humbled – and I am not sure that is the right word. His story and the innate goodness of this man’s soul, despite the tragedy he has experienced, left me feeling unworthy and embarrassed at how easy, safe, and privileged my life is. I think about flying into Rwanda, with my North American luxuries, knowing that I will be leaving the people of this country behind in two months to struggle with fear of the unknown as to what will happen in their future – and I feel ashamed. I realize that it isn’t my fault that I was born where I was – but at this point I feel I have nothing to offer these people and I am embarrassed to have thought that I did when I have absolutely no way of relating to the horrors they have witnessed and experienced.

I have read quite a bit about the genocide in Rwanda. The stories that I have read and now the first hand stories I have heard, are carried with me daily. Often, when I walk to work or lie in bed, I see and hear things that terrify me. Early this morning when I was lying in bed, I heard children outside. It didn’t sound like laughter, it sounded like screaming. Immediately I thought about the stories of the thousands of children, specifically those in an orphanage in Rwanda, who were violently slaughtered. Last week I walked by a restaurant that was blaring a local radio station in Kinyarwanda. I thought of those initial 100 days of the genocide when the government used the radio as propaganda, to instruct the Hutu to go out and slay the Tutsis. When I walk to school, I see the local farmers carry machetes too and from work and all I can think about is how this simple tool was used as an instrument to kill over 800 000 people. And I think, if these images and sounds emit such alarming emotions and fear within myself – an outsider who never witnessed any of the genocidal events – how do the people of Rwanda deal day to day? How do they go about their business with such reminders of the violence and hatred and remain peaceful, good, and kind?

This morning has been difficult as I write these words, reflect on the stories I have heard, and go back to my book, “We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families” about the genocide. I am full of anxiety and am fighting off tears. I have moments of wanting to know more – to hear more stories – to make an attempt at understanding; and then follow moments of feeling the need to walk away – of being afraid that the more I realize about this place and it’s history – the more I will change, and am again ashamed. The people here can’t walk away – they are not only physically trapped here by a government that tightly controls granting passport for travel but, they are also trapped by their memories – something they can never walk away from.

“WTF?”

I wondered how long it would take and the moment came…I had my first real “WTF?” (what the *#&*?) since being here – during which time I should really tell myself “TIA” (this is Africa).

I was asked this afternoon to edit a letter that has been written for the Rector of the University to the Minister of Education. The letter was terrible – sentences not making any sense. When I tried to make the necessary corrections I was told that I couldn’t and I was just to check for grammar. I told my co-worker you cannot put a band aid on a broken arm and expect it to be fixed – I cannot fix the grammar of sentences that make no sense. So – I had to edit a document which is an embarrassment to the University and sign my name to it.I hate these moments as they are completely frustrating and almost bring you to tears…usually how you react has a lot to do about how you are feeling about being away in that moment….guess I am having one of those afternoons when going home to my apartment would be a lot nicer than shuffling home to my insect ridden single bedroom….