"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all." Emily Dickinson
I came across this quote last week and it reminded me of my Nana. She was a big Emily Dickinson fan. Sometimes I think God sneaks little messages in at various points in our journey just to reassure us we are in His care. This gave me a big swooping "Nana-vibe" like a warm breeze or a strong wave.
I'm not one for defending or justifying my faith but I need to share a few cool moments about my journey over here. I met a girl at the airport in Toronto who was heading to Turkey for a year with no plans to return. She had lost "everything" in the Calgary floods and all she had as evidence of her life in Canada was a blanket that had been salvaged. She caught my eye because her mother was with her saying goodbye and was a little weepy. I watched the precious interaction and smiled a bit as the girl kept saying "Go Mom, it's fine. I'm fine." And the mom did a bit of a prolonged exit, the way mothers do when they leave you at university for the first time. It was very sweet.
We chatted for awhile, she had worked in the Congo. I was instantly reminded of how much I like meeting other travelers. It is a bit of a badge of honor to say you've lived or worked in rare places. You get to speak a common language of understanding when you meet other people who have worked in similar environments. Long story short, I met up with her again by chance at the Amsterdam airport. Millions of people, thousands of choices about where to walk and which way to turn. I liked bumping into the same person twice. It made me realize the world is not so big; we are all interconnected.
Then, 26 hours into my trip and just thirty minutes from landing in Rwanda, I got up to stretch my legs and started a conversation with Douglas. Turns out, Douglas is visiting his home of Rwanda- specifically Rwamagana- and he knows the Headteacher of the school that we built! Now, this is the kind of goosebump moment when I connect strongly with my faith and remind myself that the decision to come at this time was right and that God goes before me, equipping me for the journey. Douglas offered me a ride to my hotel. Minutes after landing and picking up my bags I put my nerves to the test by getting into a car with four strange men that I didn't know- you'd never do that in Toronto! I've decided that every time a fear bubble pops up, I will speak over it firmly with the confidence that a) almost anything bad that can happen to someone re: illness, accident, trauma has already happened to me and I've dealt with it and b) and more importantly and precisely B)! the majority of people do not wish us harm. Hostile people live in a hostile world. Gentle people live in a gentle world. "Rebekah" in Hebrew means "gentle".
Incidental travel notes: flying over the Sahara looks like butterscotch ripple ice cream. I kept wondering if the "chocolate chips" of speckled dots were wildebeast or elephants!
We traveled over Khartoum. My good friend Khartoum. Anyone who has heard my travel drama about accidentally going to Khartoum in 2010 and not being to happy about it will laugh along with me.
The Amsterdam airport has a meditation room on the 2nd floor. I read the book of Job chapters 1-20 for an hour during my layover. It's an awesome place to regroup when you travel.
Upon arrival in Rwanda:
Gecko count: one
Spider in the tub count: one
Random man stopping me for a sweet handshake and a chat: one
Complete lack of fear or threat of malice while walking down the street: priceless
Yet to be heard: "amafaranga or mzungu"
Soon to be enjoyed: laughing children doing the run up, run away, run back up again game. (Lifts my spirit when I think of it).
So...hope floats right? Hope is the one thing that you can't ever take from someone; like a trick candle that keeps relighting after you try to blow it out.
Tomorrow, I am scheduled to visit the school that the RCP built. I am hopeful for finding it, we have a picture and a town but not the exact location. I am hopeful for connecting with the Headteacher and seeing the school in action. School is in session right now. And I am hopeful for a sense of peace or "closure" with regards to the past 3 years, which have been high on the intensity level and hard on the heart. I think ultimately I believe in redemptive hope. A good friend chatted with me on the phone in Toronto while I was waiting at the airport. He reminded me that this was a time to reap the rewards of hard work. I don't think I believe in "rewards"- that we are owed something for working hard or are entitled to good things because we try. I do, however, like the parable of Mustard Seed Faith. There is a time to plant and a time reap. I am happy to be in Rwanda without expectation and open to the joys of seeing children in a school that wasn't built before we decided to initiate a charity. I am hopeful for other future seasons in my life and feeling as though "my cup runneth over". That is a seed (an idea) I'm willing to plant today.
Thanks Nana.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Bye bye Broccoli...and other reverse culture shock-isms
I am about to board a plane to Africa and I am cognizant of leaving the "land of plenty" for the "land of a thousand variables". I remember the first time I traveled to Africa with Habitat for Humanity and I packed like a Boy Scout for every potential outcome. This is my 4th trip back to Africa- (Ghana, Rwanda, Ethiopia, Rwanda) and I want to approach this trip as a wise veteran traveler.
While I was waiting to board, I watched an expat family in line. They were heading back to Rwanda after a summer at home in the U.S. The woman's 8 year old son was quite hyper and impatient with the lineup, so he was chomping his gum obnoxiously. After dad gave him a stern look with no effect and mom tried to reason with him about the "time for being silly"...(when is that by the way, for kids, noon? 6pm? Clearly it's not during the airport lineup)...mom resorted to telling him that "because there is no First aid "here", he had better stop chewing his gum like that because when he chokes he will need a tracheostomy". I kinda looked at her dumbfounded and then closed my jaw as she continued with this line of discipline by pushing on his throat and telling her son that a doctor would jab a knife there, etc. etc. In my head I made a mental note. This is "white woman fear", a socially conditioned response. The teacher in me also thought that such an extreme threat as a response to silly behavior was a bit inappropriate. The boy was a bit startled by the information and he spat his gum out when mom turned away. Problem solved? Fear bug planted. As I was battling my own nerves about coming back to Africa, I asked myself not "What do I fear?" but rather "Where did I learn my fear and is it accurate?"
I had a nice chat with a Serbian lady on the first leg of my trip. We talked about the CNN High Alert Code Orange mentality and how living in Canada- one of the most prosperous, safe and supportive countries in the world-means that 99% of our fears are unjustified. I chatted with her about my return from living in Ireland and how astonished I was in 2010 (when Ireland had a difficult year fiscally) to see the knee-jerk reaction and subsequent despair of the people there. As Canadians we have the boom and bust economy and while the recession is intimidating we can relax in the knowledge that the pain is temporary and employment is always available but compromises must be made. Where does this desperate fearfulness come from? In the Western world, we are not destitute, we are not impoverished, we have access to medical care, education (university level in Ireland!) and unlimited choices. Yet we don't seem to think it's enough.
In stark contrast, my memories of Rwanda include industrious, grateful, joyful people who definitely had stories of hardship to speak of but did not wear their trauma. It was behind their eyes, it was in the hesitant first few minutes of interaction when eyes get downcast but it was not the first and most prominent point of discussion. "My poverty is evident by my clothes, by my lack of adequate shelter, by my lack of employment but you will not get a sense of loss from my spirit" is what most comes to mind when I think of Rwandans. How much we have to learn about priorities.
So, as I get ready to board the plane, I'm reminded of the basic human needs for survival: food, shelter, clothing, love. The rest is just luxury. I took one last spin around the No Frills before leaving Canada. No broccoli, no 17 brands of cereal, no Epson salts for 2 weeks. Oh...and thinking of turning my cable off once I get home. Herbal Magic ads about the perfect body, PRIUS commercials about how a car makes my life better in an existential sense and the umpteenth ad for an illness I don't have that I need to take medication for are really grating at my spirit. Like cheese grater on cheddar!
Fear can take a hike.
"And I said to the one who stood at the gate of the year,
"Give me a light that I may tread safely into the Unknown."
And he replied, "Go out into the darkness and put your hand in to the hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way." Minnie Huskins.
See you in Rwanda!!!
While I was waiting to board, I watched an expat family in line. They were heading back to Rwanda after a summer at home in the U.S. The woman's 8 year old son was quite hyper and impatient with the lineup, so he was chomping his gum obnoxiously. After dad gave him a stern look with no effect and mom tried to reason with him about the "time for being silly"...(when is that by the way, for kids, noon? 6pm? Clearly it's not during the airport lineup)...mom resorted to telling him that "because there is no First aid "here", he had better stop chewing his gum like that because when he chokes he will need a tracheostomy". I kinda looked at her dumbfounded and then closed my jaw as she continued with this line of discipline by pushing on his throat and telling her son that a doctor would jab a knife there, etc. etc. In my head I made a mental note. This is "white woman fear", a socially conditioned response. The teacher in me also thought that such an extreme threat as a response to silly behavior was a bit inappropriate. The boy was a bit startled by the information and he spat his gum out when mom turned away. Problem solved? Fear bug planted. As I was battling my own nerves about coming back to Africa, I asked myself not "What do I fear?" but rather "Where did I learn my fear and is it accurate?"
I had a nice chat with a Serbian lady on the first leg of my trip. We talked about the CNN High Alert Code Orange mentality and how living in Canada- one of the most prosperous, safe and supportive countries in the world-means that 99% of our fears are unjustified. I chatted with her about my return from living in Ireland and how astonished I was in 2010 (when Ireland had a difficult year fiscally) to see the knee-jerk reaction and subsequent despair of the people there. As Canadians we have the boom and bust economy and while the recession is intimidating we can relax in the knowledge that the pain is temporary and employment is always available but compromises must be made. Where does this desperate fearfulness come from? In the Western world, we are not destitute, we are not impoverished, we have access to medical care, education (university level in Ireland!) and unlimited choices. Yet we don't seem to think it's enough.
In stark contrast, my memories of Rwanda include industrious, grateful, joyful people who definitely had stories of hardship to speak of but did not wear their trauma. It was behind their eyes, it was in the hesitant first few minutes of interaction when eyes get downcast but it was not the first and most prominent point of discussion. "My poverty is evident by my clothes, by my lack of adequate shelter, by my lack of employment but you will not get a sense of loss from my spirit" is what most comes to mind when I think of Rwandans. How much we have to learn about priorities.
So, as I get ready to board the plane, I'm reminded of the basic human needs for survival: food, shelter, clothing, love. The rest is just luxury. I took one last spin around the No Frills before leaving Canada. No broccoli, no 17 brands of cereal, no Epson salts for 2 weeks. Oh...and thinking of turning my cable off once I get home. Herbal Magic ads about the perfect body, PRIUS commercials about how a car makes my life better in an existential sense and the umpteenth ad for an illness I don't have that I need to take medication for are really grating at my spirit. Like cheese grater on cheddar!
Fear can take a hike.
"And I said to the one who stood at the gate of the year,
"Give me a light that I may tread safely into the Unknown."
And he replied, "Go out into the darkness and put your hand in to the hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way." Minnie Huskins.
See you in Rwanda!!!
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Return to Rwanda
On Saturday, I will board a plane in Toronto to return to Rwanda for the first time in 3 1/2 years. I have mixed emotions. I can't wait to walk down the streets in Gitarama and I hope to see some of the children from my former Art Club. I am anxious to see Jean-Pierre, the boy who cooked me Christmas dinner but I don't have his contact information. I have been in touch with Marie and Jean-Paul and have a small gift for him. He is now a little boy heading to school and not the baby I remember strapped to his mother's back. My last memory of them is watching her walk from town to my house, determined to set up the business loan, with dusty feet and an eager stride. And of course, our memorable goodbye in her shop when she sent me back to Canada with an Agaseke basket overflowing with beans.
I plan to visit the RCP school right away. I have added some photos to the blog to try and account for what has happened in my life during the 3 1/2 years. It has been very eventful to say the least! There are photos of the fundraisers we held in Ireland during the 10 months I spent working with the RCP charity. I can remember discussing the logo design, naming the school, buying the plot of land, seeing the building take shape, sourcing out places to host events and the passionate work of all those involved with a start-up charity. I can't wait to stand in front of the school and see the children relishing their opportunity at an education. I am looking forward to seeing the Headteacher Eric Platini and getting an update on the progress (and potential needs) of the school. It was always our plan to hand over full control to the Rwandan organisation within 5 years. I pray they have what they need to become independent.
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I am attaching some photos of different fundraisers I have done in Canada. Once I returned from Ireland, I wanted to maintain a connection with Rwanda even though I wasn't going to be working with the RCP anymore. It was unclear how I could accomplish that. I decided to have my students send care packages and in this way I could educate them in a global context while still keeping something very important to me alive and ticking. There is a photo of the package we received in 2011 from the RCP school and my students enjoying the gifts that were sent to them. There is a photo of my students this past school year, preparing 4 shoebox donations for the school in Rwanda. I told them they could send anything representative of Canada and so we sent lacrosse balls, a Raptors shirt and lots of letters with stickers on them :)
Finally, another way in which I have kept Rwanda current is by speaking about it at different forums. I have spoken at InterFaith Youth Conferences in Dublin, at VSO recruiting centres in Ireland and Canada and I have told my stories at speaking events such as MoMondays in Toronto and Oakville. I love retelling some of the adventurous anecdotes involving spiders, motorbike rides and rafting on the Nile. Mostly I love the feeling of remembering the interactions between myself and strangers on the bus, teachers I did workshops with and people in my neighbourhood who treated me like family. As Ben Harper often sings in his repetitive ode to gratitude: "I am blessed, I am blessed, I am blessed to be a witness."
Prayers for the journey. Next post: from Rwanda!!!
I plan to visit the RCP school right away. I have added some photos to the blog to try and account for what has happened in my life during the 3 1/2 years. It has been very eventful to say the least! There are photos of the fundraisers we held in Ireland during the 10 months I spent working with the RCP charity. I can remember discussing the logo design, naming the school, buying the plot of land, seeing the building take shape, sourcing out places to host events and the passionate work of all those involved with a start-up charity. I can't wait to stand in front of the school and see the children relishing their opportunity at an education. I am looking forward to seeing the Headteacher Eric Platini and getting an update on the progress (and potential needs) of the school. It was always our plan to hand over full control to the Rwandan organisation within 5 years. I pray they have what they need to become independent.
.JPG)
Finally, another way in which I have kept Rwanda current is by speaking about it at different forums. I have spoken at InterFaith Youth Conferences in Dublin, at VSO recruiting centres in Ireland and Canada and I have told my stories at speaking events such as MoMondays in Toronto and Oakville. I love retelling some of the adventurous anecdotes involving spiders, motorbike rides and rafting on the Nile. Mostly I love the feeling of remembering the interactions between myself and strangers on the bus, teachers I did workshops with and people in my neighbourhood who treated me like family. As Ben Harper often sings in his repetitive ode to gratitude: "I am blessed, I am blessed, I am blessed to be a witness."
Prayers for the journey. Next post: from Rwanda!!!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
A bang not a whimper
What's it like to leave Rwanda? Bittersweet. For the past few weeks I've been saying goodbyes. There was the party at EP-Rubona where I gave five speeches. Each teacher spoke, the sector head and pastor spoke, the Headteacher gifted me an Agaseke basket and I shared that day with Emmanuel who had come with me to start painting the mural. Cyriaque had the reference letter, the evaluation and the goal setting chart completed which is a really positive development. My 22 posters and bags of didactic math material were in a box in the corner of the staffroom. Bittersweet. I had a very good meeting with the Country Director last week where we debriefed about a lot of things- most of which never saw airtime on this blog. I gave a binder of handover notes to my co-worker so that the next volunteer in Kamonyi will have some reference material. The Art Club t-shirts arrived, a few sizes too big but I like knowing that someday down the line, those shirts'll end up in the market or recycled around Rwanda. Even though it won't be continuing in the manner I'd hoped, it's a good feeling that it existed and the t-shirt can attest to that. Leaving means doing everything "one last time"; last mzungu dinner, last moto ride, last trip into Kigali to run errands, last visit with VSO staff, last moments with JeanPierre, Emmanuel, Media, Marie.. I had a wonderful experience last night at Procar's alimentation. Procar and Methode are pictured at right. Since day one in Gitarama, Procar was the kindest storeowner and he soon became my go-to shop and then my friend. He hosted a party for me last night and in attendance were all my favorite local friends. Kate, who wrote her book with me, Alphonse, my moto teacher, Deus my kinyarwanda tutor, Destin and his family-our neighbours, the 20 or so Art Club favourites, Denise- Karen's friend, Louise and Bruno and Joseph- Christi's friends, Eric and Cadette from the bar, my mzungu friends, Emmanuel and JeanPaul and Scholastique and my former domestique Delphine, Marie and little JeanPaul...it was a moving an emotional evening. Speeches and gifts were given, there were hugs and a few tears. I have to recount what Destin said to me: "Go home and greet your father, Rebecca. Tell him thank you for putting you into this world." When I went this morning to pick up some groceries, Procar gave me a DVD with pictures from last night's events set to music. It was really touching.
This morning I visited Marie at her store and gave her some clothes. She gave me an Agaseke basket (if you're counting that's 5 so far). I visited JeanPierre one last time, he had two Cokes ready for me and I gave him my fuzzy blanket and a globe to show him where Toronto is in comparison to Gitarama. Bittersweet; hard to walk away from that one. Hopefully I can correspond through letters and packages but realistically it will be difficult to keep in touch- language barriers and time won't be kind to our relationships. I do envision returning to Rwanda one day and I picture walking down my old street- maybe it will be a few years from now and the children will have grown (and learned English!) I have given my guard Emmanuel strict instructions to check in on the boys from time to time and see if Marie needs anything. (I know he'll do it.) She actually filled the basket with beans for me. I felt like telling her "No, save them. Sell them. Don't give them to me" when Emmanuel patiently pointed out that she was giving me a blessing and I should let her.
Maybe when I visit EP-Rubona Emmanuel will still be teaching- he has taught for 40 years and in fact used to teach the Headteacher Cyriaque at one point. Will Daniel be training others in methodology? Will Claude and Francois and Fils and JeanPierre still be the polite, sweet and kind boys and will the next few years be kinder to them? Will Marie's shop still be running and will JeanPaul have started to speak? It hurts to leave but I know it would hurt six weeks from now, six months from now- whenever.
On the whole, I look back at my pre-departure and realize I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I reviewed the first few months with a friend the other day and we memory-walked through the experiences. I'm glad to have kept somewhat of a record by blogging, but there are tons of stories which didn't make it to air. In the VSO evaluation we're asked what has changed for us professionally. Answer: I really enjoy methodology training and hope that I can continue to work in education within this dynamic context. (FYI: I got offered a job as an English Language Teacher Trainer in Ethiopia but I won't be pursuing it). We're also asked what's changed personally. Answer: EVERYTHING. The community I found here in Rwanda is like no other place I've lived. People depend on, care about, rely on and look after one another. I hope that wherever I choose to live next, I can find a similar environment. I hope that my family and I come to learn how to look after one another as well. I hope I never take my friends, or my health or my belongings or my good fortune for granted, EVER.
When Evelyn comes running up the street in her school uniform, her bright, full smile and glowing eyes greeting me with pure love- it's a rush like no other. She doesn't want anything from me, she's just an eight year old girl who enjoys my company and I hers. The little Art Club that began with just one boy and some paints has become something and I am a little disappointed I couldn't put enough in place for it to continue. Perhaps it will anyway, informally.
Looking back on the work, I'm glad for it. Looking back on the relationships, I'm blessed for it. It would be neglectful to not look back also on the fantastic opportunities I've had to experience East Africa. There was the weekend in Kampala by myself last August school break. The two weeks in Zanzibar during November school break. The impromptu trip to Nairobi over Christmas break, the 24 hour "let's go to Bujumbura so I can say I've been to Burundi" trip last weekend and finally- the ultimate adventure this past weekend: WHITEWATER RAFTING DOWN THE NILE in Jinja, Uganda!! Before coming to Rwanda, I knew very little of Africa and was downright intimidated by the dark continent. Now I feel able to handle just about any situation and am quite certain there's a whole world out there to explore, cultures to learn from, unmet friends and a world of new experiences. I recall Robert Frost's poem about choosing the road less travelled and being better for it. And then there's the cartoon on my wall with a little guy standing in front of a crossroads sign entitled "Your life" and one arrow points to AVERAGE and one arrow points to MEMORABLE.. which path would you choose?
I'll sign off now, perhaps a few more pictures will get posted but I think this'll be my final blog. Thanks for accompanying me on this journey. Be well,
Becky
This morning I visited Marie at her store and gave her some clothes. She gave me an Agaseke basket (if you're counting that's 5 so far). I visited JeanPierre one last time, he had two Cokes ready for me and I gave him my fuzzy blanket and a globe to show him where Toronto is in comparison to Gitarama. Bittersweet; hard to walk away from that one. Hopefully I can correspond through letters and packages but realistically it will be difficult to keep in touch- language barriers and time won't be kind to our relationships. I do envision returning to Rwanda one day and I picture walking down my old street- maybe it will be a few years from now and the children will have grown (and learned English!) I have given my guard Emmanuel strict instructions to check in on the boys from time to time and see if Marie needs anything. (I know he'll do it.) She actually filled the basket with beans for me. I felt like telling her "No, save them. Sell them. Don't give them to me" when Emmanuel patiently pointed out that she was giving me a blessing and I should let her.
Maybe when I visit EP-Rubona Emmanuel will still be teaching- he has taught for 40 years and in fact used to teach the Headteacher Cyriaque at one point. Will Daniel be training others in methodology? Will Claude and Francois and Fils and JeanPierre still be the polite, sweet and kind boys and will the next few years be kinder to them? Will Marie's shop still be running and will JeanPaul have started to speak? It hurts to leave but I know it would hurt six weeks from now, six months from now- whenever.
On the whole, I look back at my pre-departure and realize I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I reviewed the first few months with a friend the other day and we memory-walked through the experiences. I'm glad to have kept somewhat of a record by blogging, but there are tons of stories which didn't make it to air. In the VSO evaluation we're asked what has changed for us professionally. Answer: I really enjoy methodology training and hope that I can continue to work in education within this dynamic context. (FYI: I got offered a job as an English Language Teacher Trainer in Ethiopia but I won't be pursuing it). We're also asked what's changed personally. Answer: EVERYTHING. The community I found here in Rwanda is like no other place I've lived. People depend on, care about, rely on and look after one another. I hope that wherever I choose to live next, I can find a similar environment. I hope that my family and I come to learn how to look after one another as well. I hope I never take my friends, or my health or my belongings or my good fortune for granted, EVER.
When Evelyn comes running up the street in her school uniform, her bright, full smile and glowing eyes greeting me with pure love- it's a rush like no other. She doesn't want anything from me, she's just an eight year old girl who enjoys my company and I hers. The little Art Club that began with just one boy and some paints has become something and I am a little disappointed I couldn't put enough in place for it to continue. Perhaps it will anyway, informally.
Looking back on the work, I'm glad for it. Looking back on the relationships, I'm blessed for it. It would be neglectful to not look back also on the fantastic opportunities I've had to experience East Africa. There was the weekend in Kampala by myself last August school break. The two weeks in Zanzibar during November school break. The impromptu trip to Nairobi over Christmas break, the 24 hour "let's go to Bujumbura so I can say I've been to Burundi" trip last weekend and finally- the ultimate adventure this past weekend: WHITEWATER RAFTING DOWN THE NILE in Jinja, Uganda!! Before coming to Rwanda, I knew very little of Africa and was downright intimidated by the dark continent. Now I feel able to handle just about any situation and am quite certain there's a whole world out there to explore, cultures to learn from, unmet friends and a world of new experiences. I recall Robert Frost's poem about choosing the road less travelled and being better for it. And then there's the cartoon on my wall with a little guy standing in front of a crossroads sign entitled "Your life" and one arrow points to AVERAGE and one arrow points to MEMORABLE.. which path would you choose?
I'll sign off now, perhaps a few more pictures will get posted but I think this'll be my final blog. Thanks for accompanying me on this journey. Be well,
Becky
Sunday, February 7, 2010
All that you can't leave behind...
As I wind down my time here in Rwanda, there are a lot of thoughts crowding my mind. I’m ready. I may or may not live in Africa again. How do I keep in touch with the Art Club kids? I am planning my future but also reminiscing a fair bit about this very challenging year. I wouldn’t trade it for anything but it’s been quite hard.
My last little project’s name is Roger. He is my three and a half year old neighbor and today I met his mother Francoise. Roger appears to be blind, or atleast his eyes are clouded over and grey. I want to take Roger to meet Piet, the Belgian eye surgeon friend of ours. Today Roger tried to follow me home. When I tried to send him back to his mum, he toddled after me again. Finally, picking him up and taking him over to his mum, Roger did the most touching and trusting thing- he laid his head on my shoulder. Some logistical questions: does Piet have time to meet him? Is his condition correctable? Do I have enough Kinyarwanda to convince Francoise to come with me to Kabgayi Hospital? Can this happen in the short amount of time I have left here?
Yesterday in the market, Karen and I met a young woman with a very deformed baby. He looked like half of a Siamese twin as his head was caved in down the middle and his eyes very wideset. As per all the handicapped people here, she was begging for money on his behalf. My response hasn’t changed since day one. I spoke with her, asked her questions, shook her hand, patted the baby’s arm and the most touching thing happened. For a moment, she stopped being a desperate beggar and turned into a loving mother. I asked her the baby’s name. Tomas, she said, and with that reponse a flicker of pride or love or something flashed from behind her eyes. Karen and I discussed this interaction afterwards and had differing views. How tragic it was to have such an enormous deformity and probably no hope for a normal life. Or… how amazing that this very young mother is choosing to care for him, love him and has decided not to leave him somewhere, abandoned.
I have a busy couple of weeks. After a goal-setting meeting at my model school, I will try and draft a strategic chart in hopes that the staff can set towards accomplishing some of these goals after I go. Emmanuel will buy the paints and I will take him to the school where I have decided that my farewell gift to them is to have Ema paint a mural on the wall of the school. The previous short-term volunteer bought them a cow. I don’t have that kind of cash but 20 years from now- especially if I pick the right paints- the cow’ll be gone and perhaps the mural will still be there.
Kate’s book is finished. A colleague from the Program Office, Noel (he is in fact the janitor and has offered me nothing but kindness since day one) helped me to bind three copies. I’ll meet Kate later this week and give her what we started out creating back in July- her completed memoir.
We are going to make a sign that reads “Chez Marie” for the front of Marie’s store. If you scroll back to my earliest photos you can see Marie, looking very disheveled and dusty with a little JeanPaul in her arms last May, standing in front of her previous address; a rundown home. The Marie of today is a glowing, youthful entrepreneur and has taken ALL the initiative to get her store up and going. It is such a pleasant sight. JeanPaul is walking and mischevious as ever, never venturing more than 2 feet from mum’s side, but still doesn’t speak. He is almost one and a half years old.
I have started to tell my friends about my leaving date. It’s harder than I thought. Take me with you, Fils says. I tell him it’s cold in Canada and he’d have to speak English. He says he doesn’t mind the cold and tells me his English is good. (Which it is by the way- in a strange twist he is the brightest of the Art Club kids but has befriended some local mechanics who are training him to be a mechanic. He is an orphan, his aunts are away at school year-round so I think the positive adult attention is what he craves and it’s unfortunate that a bright, young mind may not be seeking higher education. The mechanic’s job however will allow him to make a living…here in Rwanda, not in Canada with me.)
I attended my last church service at the Urukundo Home for Children last Sunday. Gatete, my basketball buddy who still hasn’t opened his Christmas gift yet, strikes me as the ideal candidate for sponsorship. I might follow up with Mama about that later on. This is the hard part. When the Headteacher of my model school cries to me in his office that his school fees are due in two weeks and he is 130,000 francs short, I know I can help him. When my co-facilitator brings his three children over to visit- the two darling daughters and the one son who is not his but came to live with them after his mother died- and asks me to help him with school fees, I know I can help him. When Emmanuel asks me to fund his AutoEcole dream, I know I can help him. When the staff of my model school tells me they want to build a kindergarten room so that the little ones that greet me every morning on my drive in can come to school, I know I can help them. When they also ask me to photocopy more resources for them, I know I can-d (although I do point to the bag in the corner wherein lies all the didactic material I have given them upon completion of my trainings and inquire why they are not using them daily. If even the co-facilitator of the three workshops chooses to teach his lesson on Thursday in the “chalk and talk” fashion after ALL the methodology training we’ve done together- I don’t know how I can help them! )When the two one-legged men in town panhandle or Eggboy asks me to buy something or the streetkids tell me they’re hungry, I know I can help them. When the Director of Education in Kamonyi District asks me to sit down with him to organize his office and help him with this new overwhelming job of his, I know I can help him. When the Headteacher of the new sector I’m training in insists that all 26 of his teachers be allowed to participate in my workshop instead of the allotted 3, I know I can do this. I can help Cadette pay her university fees, I can help Media go back to school, I can give JeanPierre and his father a leg to stand on and perhaps a small contribution will get them out of that impoverished atrocity they call a home. There’s only one problem: I can’t. It’s not that I won’t give money but part of me feels that what I came here to give, I’ve given already. I traded ideas, I shared resources, I made friends, I gave in kindness, I collaborated professionally, I made connections personally, I gave away most of my clothes and belongings and I gave my time- almost an entire year! If I throw money at the problems, then the next time a mzungu comes to work with them (with a bank full of ideas, friendship and goodwill), the expectation will be just as it always is: eventually, they’ll give us money. On top of which, after two years off work (the first year being the Habitat for Humanity trip to Ghana and the looooooooong VSO acceptance process and the second being my year in Rwanda), I don’t quite have the means to give financially. The development world is a slippery slope and I’m sure tons of sociologists/UN-ologists have waxed poetic about it long before, and much better than, me.
There were a lot of sad faces when I announced my leaving date, which is very soon by the way. I am partly travelling my way home so will be leaving Rwanda shortly. But I think there are a few kindred spirits here whom I’ll keep in touch with, in any way possible. A friend of mine has created an NGO and I plan to contribute to its development as best as I can. I may be leaving Rwanda in a few weeks but I don’t think Rwanda will ever, EVER leave me.
I am grateful for what I am and have. My thanksgiving is perpetual... O how I laugh when I think of my vague indefinite riches. No run on my bank can drain it for my wealth is not possession but enjoyment.
Henry David Thoreau
My last little project’s name is Roger. He is my three and a half year old neighbor and today I met his mother Francoise. Roger appears to be blind, or atleast his eyes are clouded over and grey. I want to take Roger to meet Piet, the Belgian eye surgeon friend of ours. Today Roger tried to follow me home. When I tried to send him back to his mum, he toddled after me again. Finally, picking him up and taking him over to his mum, Roger did the most touching and trusting thing- he laid his head on my shoulder. Some logistical questions: does Piet have time to meet him? Is his condition correctable? Do I have enough Kinyarwanda to convince Francoise to come with me to Kabgayi Hospital? Can this happen in the short amount of time I have left here?
Yesterday in the market, Karen and I met a young woman with a very deformed baby. He looked like half of a Siamese twin as his head was caved in down the middle and his eyes very wideset. As per all the handicapped people here, she was begging for money on his behalf. My response hasn’t changed since day one. I spoke with her, asked her questions, shook her hand, patted the baby’s arm and the most touching thing happened. For a moment, she stopped being a desperate beggar and turned into a loving mother. I asked her the baby’s name. Tomas, she said, and with that reponse a flicker of pride or love or something flashed from behind her eyes. Karen and I discussed this interaction afterwards and had differing views. How tragic it was to have such an enormous deformity and probably no hope for a normal life. Or… how amazing that this very young mother is choosing to care for him, love him and has decided not to leave him somewhere, abandoned.
I have a busy couple of weeks. After a goal-setting meeting at my model school, I will try and draft a strategic chart in hopes that the staff can set towards accomplishing some of these goals after I go. Emmanuel will buy the paints and I will take him to the school where I have decided that my farewell gift to them is to have Ema paint a mural on the wall of the school. The previous short-term volunteer bought them a cow. I don’t have that kind of cash but 20 years from now- especially if I pick the right paints- the cow’ll be gone and perhaps the mural will still be there.
Kate’s book is finished. A colleague from the Program Office, Noel (he is in fact the janitor and has offered me nothing but kindness since day one) helped me to bind three copies. I’ll meet Kate later this week and give her what we started out creating back in July- her completed memoir.
We are going to make a sign that reads “Chez Marie” for the front of Marie’s store. If you scroll back to my earliest photos you can see Marie, looking very disheveled and dusty with a little JeanPaul in her arms last May, standing in front of her previous address; a rundown home. The Marie of today is a glowing, youthful entrepreneur and has taken ALL the initiative to get her store up and going. It is such a pleasant sight. JeanPaul is walking and mischevious as ever, never venturing more than 2 feet from mum’s side, but still doesn’t speak. He is almost one and a half years old.
I have started to tell my friends about my leaving date. It’s harder than I thought. Take me with you, Fils says. I tell him it’s cold in Canada and he’d have to speak English. He says he doesn’t mind the cold and tells me his English is good. (Which it is by the way- in a strange twist he is the brightest of the Art Club kids but has befriended some local mechanics who are training him to be a mechanic. He is an orphan, his aunts are away at school year-round so I think the positive adult attention is what he craves and it’s unfortunate that a bright, young mind may not be seeking higher education. The mechanic’s job however will allow him to make a living…here in Rwanda, not in Canada with me.)
I attended my last church service at the Urukundo Home for Children last Sunday. Gatete, my basketball buddy who still hasn’t opened his Christmas gift yet, strikes me as the ideal candidate for sponsorship. I might follow up with Mama about that later on. This is the hard part. When the Headteacher of my model school cries to me in his office that his school fees are due in two weeks and he is 130,000 francs short, I know I can help him. When my co-facilitator brings his three children over to visit- the two darling daughters and the one son who is not his but came to live with them after his mother died- and asks me to help him with school fees, I know I can help him. When Emmanuel asks me to fund his AutoEcole dream, I know I can help him. When the staff of my model school tells me they want to build a kindergarten room so that the little ones that greet me every morning on my drive in can come to school, I know I can help them. When they also ask me to photocopy more resources for them, I know I can-d (although I do point to the bag in the corner wherein lies all the didactic material I have given them upon completion of my trainings and inquire why they are not using them daily. If even the co-facilitator of the three workshops chooses to teach his lesson on Thursday in the “chalk and talk” fashion after ALL the methodology training we’ve done together- I don’t know how I can help them! )When the two one-legged men in town panhandle or Eggboy asks me to buy something or the streetkids tell me they’re hungry, I know I can help them. When the Director of Education in Kamonyi District asks me to sit down with him to organize his office and help him with this new overwhelming job of his, I know I can help him. When the Headteacher of the new sector I’m training in insists that all 26 of his teachers be allowed to participate in my workshop instead of the allotted 3, I know I can do this. I can help Cadette pay her university fees, I can help Media go back to school, I can give JeanPierre and his father a leg to stand on and perhaps a small contribution will get them out of that impoverished atrocity they call a home. There’s only one problem: I can’t. It’s not that I won’t give money but part of me feels that what I came here to give, I’ve given already. I traded ideas, I shared resources, I made friends, I gave in kindness, I collaborated professionally, I made connections personally, I gave away most of my clothes and belongings and I gave my time- almost an entire year! If I throw money at the problems, then the next time a mzungu comes to work with them (with a bank full of ideas, friendship and goodwill), the expectation will be just as it always is: eventually, they’ll give us money. On top of which, after two years off work (the first year being the Habitat for Humanity trip to Ghana and the looooooooong VSO acceptance process and the second being my year in Rwanda), I don’t quite have the means to give financially. The development world is a slippery slope and I’m sure tons of sociologists/UN-ologists have waxed poetic about it long before, and much better than, me.
There were a lot of sad faces when I announced my leaving date, which is very soon by the way. I am partly travelling my way home so will be leaving Rwanda shortly. But I think there are a few kindred spirits here whom I’ll keep in touch with, in any way possible. A friend of mine has created an NGO and I plan to contribute to its development as best as I can. I may be leaving Rwanda in a few weeks but I don’t think Rwanda will ever, EVER leave me.
I am grateful for what I am and have. My thanksgiving is perpetual... O how I laugh when I think of my vague indefinite riches. No run on my bank can drain it for my wealth is not possession but enjoyment.
Henry David Thoreau
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Eggboy
Today, some of my efforts came together. Let me tell you first about the title character. A boy of fourteen who sells eggs from a basket in downtown Gitarama befriended me several months ago. With such little language skills between us, I always communicated with handshakes, smiles and simple well wishes. But this one is different than the scam artists that make up the dozen or so streetboys. Because his smile is wider than the radius of that blue egg basket.
We tried to meet up one day in town, in my haphazard Kinyarwanda I said “Thursday, here, two o’clock”. I forgot that day but also it had poured rain. I really hope he hadn’t stood there waiting for me. On Monday, Emmanuel and I ran errands together. First we set up his bank account, then we picked up photocopies, picked dress Immaculee had made, mailed postcards, went by Karen’s work, visited the old neighbourhood, tried to meet the Director of the Cultural Centre to ask for the use of a room once a week for Art Club- it was a busy and tiring day, but a fortunate one. On that day, I saw Eggboy.
Now, Karen and I have given lots of people lots of nicknames. It’s part coping strategy and it’s part there are 22 Emmanuels and 14 JeanClaudes sort of thing; it’s easier to refer to them this way. Some names are funnier than others like “Toad”, a creepy, pink ballet shoe wearing slimeball who skulks professionally downtown. There’s the “Shirtless Wonder”-a three year old who has the habit of ripping her shirt off and giggling in circles like some Tazmanian devil. There’s the “Little Cherub”, a girl of maybe 2 who waits at the top of the hill near my new house each morning, hand extended in giddy anticipation of our morning exchange. She has a round, round beautiful face! So Eggboy got his name because I enjoyed our interaction so much that each time I saw him, I’d buy some eggs and give them back. It’s a strange way to justify giving money but on my way to the bus or on the way to work, I don’t need eggs. I’d buy three and give him one and the two kids standing nearby the others.
On Monday, Emmanuel and I ran into Eggboy once again- perfect opportunity to find out more about my friend with the brilliant smile. We sat down at Procar’s and took a Fanta and I heard Ema translate that this boy did not go to school, had 8 siblings and his mother had died. He works everyday. He’s fourteen. I did the only thing I could think of- besides buying the 19 remaining eggs in his bin… I invited him to Wednesday’s Art club. We explained that it was only for one hour if he could get permission to not work from 4-5pm.
Today I was so curious to see if he’d come. Not only did he come but he was there at the meeting point early with a friend. Both boys followed hesitantly as we made our way to the old neighbourhood. I was tackled by Noella, Evelyn and Gloria and a dozen kids who had arrived early as well. I asked Claude, dear sensible thirteen year old Claude to greet Eggboy and make him feel welcome. I walked past and watched in my periphery as Claude walked up to this street kid and shook his hand and then do the same to his friend. Fifteen minutes later we had 42 kids working on colour wheel spinners made from cutting up cardboard boxes that Karen and I had received as packages from family and friends. (42 is our record turn out by the way). As soon as Ema demonstrated the toy/craft, there was a big reaction which pleased me because everyone was super excited about today’s craft. But nothing pleased me more than watching Eggboy, marker in hand, smiling ear to ear- getting initiated into Art Club. I hope he returns next week and I can learn his name :)
We tried to meet up one day in town, in my haphazard Kinyarwanda I said “Thursday, here, two o’clock”. I forgot that day but also it had poured rain. I really hope he hadn’t stood there waiting for me. On Monday, Emmanuel and I ran errands together. First we set up his bank account, then we picked up photocopies, picked dress Immaculee had made, mailed postcards, went by Karen’s work, visited the old neighbourhood, tried to meet the Director of the Cultural Centre to ask for the use of a room once a week for Art Club- it was a busy and tiring day, but a fortunate one. On that day, I saw Eggboy.
Now, Karen and I have given lots of people lots of nicknames. It’s part coping strategy and it’s part there are 22 Emmanuels and 14 JeanClaudes sort of thing; it’s easier to refer to them this way. Some names are funnier than others like “Toad”, a creepy, pink ballet shoe wearing slimeball who skulks professionally downtown. There’s the “Shirtless Wonder”-a three year old who has the habit of ripping her shirt off and giggling in circles like some Tazmanian devil. There’s the “Little Cherub”, a girl of maybe 2 who waits at the top of the hill near my new house each morning, hand extended in giddy anticipation of our morning exchange. She has a round, round beautiful face! So Eggboy got his name because I enjoyed our interaction so much that each time I saw him, I’d buy some eggs and give them back. It’s a strange way to justify giving money but on my way to the bus or on the way to work, I don’t need eggs. I’d buy three and give him one and the two kids standing nearby the others.
On Monday, Emmanuel and I ran into Eggboy once again- perfect opportunity to find out more about my friend with the brilliant smile. We sat down at Procar’s and took a Fanta and I heard Ema translate that this boy did not go to school, had 8 siblings and his mother had died. He works everyday. He’s fourteen. I did the only thing I could think of- besides buying the 19 remaining eggs in his bin… I invited him to Wednesday’s Art club. We explained that it was only for one hour if he could get permission to not work from 4-5pm.
Today I was so curious to see if he’d come. Not only did he come but he was there at the meeting point early with a friend. Both boys followed hesitantly as we made our way to the old neighbourhood. I was tackled by Noella, Evelyn and Gloria and a dozen kids who had arrived early as well. I asked Claude, dear sensible thirteen year old Claude to greet Eggboy and make him feel welcome. I walked past and watched in my periphery as Claude walked up to this street kid and shook his hand and then do the same to his friend. Fifteen minutes later we had 42 kids working on colour wheel spinners made from cutting up cardboard boxes that Karen and I had received as packages from family and friends. (42 is our record turn out by the way). As soon as Ema demonstrated the toy/craft, there was a big reaction which pleased me because everyone was super excited about today’s craft. But nothing pleased me more than watching Eggboy, marker in hand, smiling ear to ear- getting initiated into Art Club. I hope he returns next week and I can learn his name :)
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Rwanda nziza
I've long ago decided that I prefer Rwanda to its neighbouring countries. There's something about the people here that differs from those in Tanzania, Kenya and Uganda (the three countries I've visited so far). I realize how ironical that sounds given the mix of actual nationalities represented here- probably some Rwandans I meet are actually from elsewhere. The speaker at the church I went to today in Kigali was Ugandan, for example. (His voice was exactly like Forest Whitaker's). Rwandans can be very guarded but within minutes of a greeting, there's a smile, a wave, an extended hand. Since the first week back in April, I've known that if I ever got lost or stuck in the mud with my moto (both of which have happened), then someone nearby will come to help me out. I've long since realized that establishing any real long-term friendships here is too difficult. There are the complications of being asked for school fees or sponsors or synthesizers or laptops. There are some cultural barriers like when you stop by unannounced at my house and then won't leave..And there's the reality that unlike you, I get to leave this country and return to my cushy life.
I have quite the game plan prepared for the next few weeks. Trainings. Painting a mural on my model school's wall. Finding a permanent location for Art Club. Trying yet again to explain to my District Office what it is I do. (Yeah, after 9 months it's still a shaky relationship. Wish I could expound on that but I want to keep other relationships intact). I think there's a quote about "checking the nature of your battle" and what I've concluded is that the next few weeks are going to help determine what, if anything, I'm leaving behind. Maybe they shouldn't be spent trying to meet the so-called objectives of some very overwhelmed and underqualified (and nameless) people and I should invest my time in those around me instead. The scales are tipped in favor of the latter. Maybe Marie's store will do well and the business loan we've set up will be the reason why. Maybe Emmanuel will use his new bank account to start saving for school- it'll take him 15 years to do so but perhaps it's a start. I have so many questions about what's next and my best friend from home reminded me today that I'm "always jumping forward". I need to stop that.
What's good about the now is that my new neighbourhood kids range in age from 2 to 9- a little younger of a crowd than the last house and so far only one of them has figured out my sense of humor. I tease him mercilessly but the others will catch on soon. There are new VSO just arrived and their enthusiasm and freshness is contagious. My new roomate Ken arrives Wednesday and I'm excited for the change in dynamic. Plus he's a soccer fan too so maybe he can strengthen my side during the impromptu street matches in front of my house. I'm getting demolished by these under 9 year olds!! Christi returns Thursday and I am training one more sector Thurs/Friday and I cannot wait for the chance to work properly again.
Yesterday Procar gave us a lift home- a nice random act of kindness. He had transported a plastic chair from Kigali to Gitarama for us that we bought for our guard- who had been sitting on a pile of bricks each night. One good turn deserves another I guess. Today a woman hugged me in church, she didn't have to, she just turned suddenly and did it. Did she know I needed one?
This blog I'm sure comes off as a bit rambly but I'm super tired. I feel so confused about leaving, about what's next and about what it all means. Maybe there's processing to be done afterwards just as there was quite a bit when I arrived. An afterthought I had is that someone commented to me the other day about all the literature on Rwanda being topical. There's the Bradt guide but otherwise it's mostly about the war. Hasn't anyone felt inclined to write about the beauty of Kibuye, the cute little 3 year olds who tie empty jerry cans to their backs to mimic having a baby attached, the funny looking goats who bleet like Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman, the sweetness of watching one person help another on/off the bus with their belongings especially when said person is a mother toting three children solo, the elderly woman who stopped Karen and I mid-pace today with zealous excitement to just say "good evening" and finally, is there not a book out there that speaks to the shared joy, the companionship, the collectivist ideology that is so often attributed to Africa but also exists here, in this overlooked and underappreciated country? If not, there should be.
This VSO experience has effected me like no other and I am glad for it.
I have quite the game plan prepared for the next few weeks. Trainings. Painting a mural on my model school's wall. Finding a permanent location for Art Club. Trying yet again to explain to my District Office what it is I do. (Yeah, after 9 months it's still a shaky relationship. Wish I could expound on that but I want to keep other relationships intact). I think there's a quote about "checking the nature of your battle" and what I've concluded is that the next few weeks are going to help determine what, if anything, I'm leaving behind. Maybe they shouldn't be spent trying to meet the so-called objectives of some very overwhelmed and underqualified (and nameless) people and I should invest my time in those around me instead. The scales are tipped in favor of the latter. Maybe Marie's store will do well and the business loan we've set up will be the reason why. Maybe Emmanuel will use his new bank account to start saving for school- it'll take him 15 years to do so but perhaps it's a start. I have so many questions about what's next and my best friend from home reminded me today that I'm "always jumping forward". I need to stop that.
What's good about the now is that my new neighbourhood kids range in age from 2 to 9- a little younger of a crowd than the last house and so far only one of them has figured out my sense of humor. I tease him mercilessly but the others will catch on soon. There are new VSO just arrived and their enthusiasm and freshness is contagious. My new roomate Ken arrives Wednesday and I'm excited for the change in dynamic. Plus he's a soccer fan too so maybe he can strengthen my side during the impromptu street matches in front of my house. I'm getting demolished by these under 9 year olds!! Christi returns Thursday and I am training one more sector Thurs/Friday and I cannot wait for the chance to work properly again.
Yesterday Procar gave us a lift home- a nice random act of kindness. He had transported a plastic chair from Kigali to Gitarama for us that we bought for our guard- who had been sitting on a pile of bricks each night. One good turn deserves another I guess. Today a woman hugged me in church, she didn't have to, she just turned suddenly and did it. Did she know I needed one?
This blog I'm sure comes off as a bit rambly but I'm super tired. I feel so confused about leaving, about what's next and about what it all means. Maybe there's processing to be done afterwards just as there was quite a bit when I arrived. An afterthought I had is that someone commented to me the other day about all the literature on Rwanda being topical. There's the Bradt guide but otherwise it's mostly about the war. Hasn't anyone felt inclined to write about the beauty of Kibuye, the cute little 3 year olds who tie empty jerry cans to their backs to mimic having a baby attached, the funny looking goats who bleet like Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman, the sweetness of watching one person help another on/off the bus with their belongings especially when said person is a mother toting three children solo, the elderly woman who stopped Karen and I mid-pace today with zealous excitement to just say "good evening" and finally, is there not a book out there that speaks to the shared joy, the companionship, the collectivist ideology that is so often attributed to Africa but also exists here, in this overlooked and underappreciated country? If not, there should be.
This VSO experience has effected me like no other and I am glad for it.
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