What the Hail?

Despite the quintessential weather of my typical rainforest village in southern Rwanda, I sat wide eyed through what can only be described as an apocalyptic hail storm last night. The wind started to pick up in the afternoon, I can’t remember the last time I saw a blue sky at 3pm. Rains began to fall as dark clouds smothered the atmosphere, the calm before the storm was always my favorite part. But then, something different happened. The rain didn’t illicit it’s usually dull pinging noise off the tin shingles of my roof. Instead it blasted against every surface of my home, offering a harsh ruckus of noise in return. I sat upright listening in my living room. A cold draft swept underneath my door and encompassed my bare feet and hands. There was a serious chill in the air. My curiosity led me to the door, which I opened only to be violently pelted with nickel sized hail. It was hailing in Rwanda. It was hailing in Rwanda? I wish I would have taken a picture to prove it but once I got that door closed there was no way I was opening it again. The hail collected in heaps on the ground outside, it actually kind of reminded me of snow, of what a Pennsylvania winter might look like. Except it was dangerous snow that could give you a concussion. Also, try pitching an ice cube at a tin pot, multiply that sound by infinity, and put that sound inside the echoing walls of a cave. THAT was my audio for the night. I couldn’t listen to the radio, I couldn’t concentrate to read, I couldn’t hear myself think so I just sat and stared until it was over. I know nothing really about meteorology so I don’t know if it was all that out of the ordinary to hail cats and dogs here in East Africa. There’s probably some cold front/warm front/rainforest/equator/monsoon season combination that made the skies unleash such fury. All I know is that I never want to be stuck outside when it decides to happen again. Just being pelted for a minute was unpleasant enough. Lastly, please excuse my nauseatingly cheesy title of this entry, I couldn’t help myself.

Part of the Solution

The now baron hillside of southern Rwanda.

I can remember art history classes in college. The exams were usually a combination of obscure pieces that we as students had to describe in detail considering their form, medium, movement, etc. The catch was that my professors always liked to choose the most abstract works to compare and contrast, Kandinsky and Caravaggio aren’t exactly in the same ballpark. For some reason I always liked finding ways to connect these works, however, just for the sake of argument it was fun. But seeing legitimate connections between artists that came from completely different worlds with supposedly completely different motivations behind their artworks was interesting too. It affirmed the idea that regardless of when or where these works were created, historically, they can only exist together. One without the other is pointless. Without an exhibit A to compare to exhibit B the values of exhibit B are lost. We need opposition to find identity in this world, to grow.

I thought about this again this weekend as I hiked to the market near my village. The travel time is over an hour, but the views of the rolling hillside make up for it. There are just miles and miles of lush farmland, exquisitely terraced into perfect patterns. Once in a while there is a house or two, but that is the rare exception. Once I arrive at the market I’m already in a different world. The villages in the rural southern part of the country, like mine, are very small, so instead of having a market in each one there is a type of regional market for several of them. And it’s ginormous. People buzz past on bicycles carrying sacks of potatoes, rice and beans. Children swarm me as I try to make my way through the crowd. Rabbits, pigs, chickens and goats wander aimlessly while picking at old kernels of corn left behind from last week. Market day - pandemonium. It usually takes the same amount of time to buy food at the market as it does just to walk to the market, the crowds are overwhelming and besides, everything is slower with me because I’m a big American spectacle in the middle of their normal Rwandan market. This time as I was leaving though, a truck pulled over to the side of the road and offered to give me and my groceries a lift. He explained to me that his name was Christopher; he was the mayor of the town next to mine and the nephew of one of my Kinyarwanda teachers from training. I realized I had heard of him before, and so I told my shopping buddy Media to hop in. On the way Christopher asked me if I enjoyed the scenery here and I started babbling on about the beautiful view of the hills as seen on the way to the market. He asked me if I saw any houses, and I replied that there was a few but barely any. I sat in the truck stunned as Christopher explained why the hills appear the way they do.

Before the genocide in 1994, the hillside was jam-packed with homes. Rows of neighborhoods filled the hillside, and the only hint of farmland was a family garden here or there. Families typically lived in close proximity to each other, with each generation setting up camp year after year. There were hundreds of houses, some mud brick with grass thatched roofs, and some wooden or cement. During the war, those involved in the genocide torched the houses at night, burning their victims in their sleep. Some tried to flee and were attacked, either to be killed or just permanently disfigured. Barely anyone from this hillside survived, a few houses stand in an open sea of sorrow. Christopher’s family was a victim of this crime, and out of six brothers, he is the only one that survived. Him and his mother, whom he carried for hours away from their burning house in the dead of the night.

His words cut into me with aggressive reality. This was the first time I had even heard a Rwandan use the word ‘genocide’ in conversation. On top of this being the first time we met I had no idea what to say. And since he was speaking in English my friend in the back that only speaks Kinyarwanda couldn’t enlighten me either. I stammered for a moment, trying desperately to maintain a good impression while being supportive and empathetic. I asked him, “what did you do after that?”

Not once did Christopher’s solid expression break. It was difficult for me to tell if he was still grappling with the situation or completely at peace with it. He replied quickly, “I became a part of the solution”. He described to me in detail his feelings after losing everyone in his family but his mother, his neighbors and friends. He told me how angry he was for a month or so, cursing everything around him and wishing at times that he would have just died as well. And then, he realized that every problem that we face in life is really an opportunity to rebuild. He decided to be a part of the solution, instead of the problem. Christopher finished secondary school with extremely high marks, got a scholarship to attend one of the best universities in the country, studied political science and is now the mayor of a major town in Rwanda. Not to mention he owns his own vehicle, which is a serious accomplishment. He still takes care of his mother and he’s also starting a family of his own as of last year. Comparing my “problems” to Christopher’s made me feel nauseas. I expressed that to him, and in his normal fashion he told me that I am no less of a person just because I haven’t lived through a traumatic war or lost family members. It is not the problem that defines us, but the solution that builds character. Everyone faces problems in different degrees, and how we are conditioned to handle those problems is a result of our environment. A genocide in America would not transpire the same way as in Rwanda, or Australia, or Finland, or Morocco. Once again, despite where and when two people face a problem, no matter what the problem is, the result of that problem can be the same. In opposition we co-exist, and only in that way. We are different yet the same.

I have not had many moments as profound as this here in Rwanda. I was truly amazed by Christopher’s attitude and tenacity. It’s still difficult for me now to wrap his explanation around my mind as I replay it over and over in my head. We are different yet the same. That’s impossible! I could never be as courageous as Christopher, could I? But one thing I could conclude is that in my day to day life, I can emulate his philosophy. I can always be a part of the solution. In the past couple days it has sort of become my mantra, I’ve found myself questioning in several situations, is this working towards a solution? If anything, it keeps my motivations in check. So thanks for the pep talk, Christopher. You should seriously have your own TV show.  

National Heroes' Day

Today, the first day of February, is Heroes’ Day here in Rwanda. It is a national holiday dedicated to respecting and remembering all of the courageous soles that gave so much of themselves in order to better this country in time of hardship. And Rwanda has had a lot of hardship. Just so you understand where these veterans are coming from, here is the gist on the history of a broken nation:

Rwanda has an oral tradition, so its history was never written down before Europeans arrived.  The Portuguese arrived to the Eastern African coast (present day Tanzania and Kenya) around 1500.  They retained general control of the area, including trade routes, until Arabs dominated the area starting in 1700.  Slaves started being taken from present day Rwanda in the 18^th century.  For the next 200 years, approximately 50,000 slaves would leave Zanzibar Island (where all Rwandan slaves would likely have been detained) per year. 

In 1890, Eastern Africa was broken up between German and British control.  Germany took control of present day Rwanda and Burundi.  From 1890 to World War I, Rwanda was colonized. 

Then during World War I, battles erupted between the Germans and Belgians on Rwandan soil.  After the war ended, a League of Nations mandate declared that Rwanda-Burundi be under the administrative control of Belgium.  This decision is a major reason why one of Rwanda’s national languages is French, why there are direct flights from Brussels to Kigali, and why the famous “Hotel Rwanda” was a hotel owned by a Belgian airline at the time of the genocide. 

The Belgian government decided to start a system of differentiating Rwandans into intelligent, ruling Rwandans (Tutsis) and lesser, laboring Rwandans (Hutus). Rwandans developed identification cards with a line specifically for their “ethnicity.” 

The 1950s were a period of independence in Eastern Africa. Kenya, Uganda, and the Congo were all pushing for independence from colonial powers. Increased resentment towards Tutsis continued due to their preferred status and different viewpoints on a path towards independence. After the attempted assassination of Kayibanda (Hutu), the “Hutu Revolution” resulted in the deaths of approximately 100,000 Tutsis, with an additional 150,000 Tutsis fleeing to neighboring countries. 

Belgium decided to split Rwanda and Burundi, and Rwanda was officially independent in 1962. Unfortunately while Rwanda was independent, the country did not change from its colonial past with ethnic matters.  

In 1990, a Tutsi-led group called the Rwandan Patriotic Front started a civil war in Rwanda which eventually led to the devastatingly tragic genocide in 1994.

This year's Heroes' Day will be celebrated under the theme 'Let's be brave in our determination to develop Rwanda'.

Some of the Rwandan heroes remembered today include Major General Fred Gisa Rwigema , remembered for being a patriotic and charismatic leader who sacrificed his life to liberate Rwanda. Also King Charles Leon Pierre Mutara III Rudahigwa, remembered for being patriotic and expanding and protecting the kingdom's territorial integrity and its people.

Other heroes include Michael Rwagasana remembered for promoting national interests, and Agatha Uwilingiyimana, the former Prime Minister who strongly opposed the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi. She was killed by the militias.

No country on Earth has ever made such a comeback as Rwanda has. In just about one decade the civilians which now refer to themselves only as Rwandans, have developed plans for education, business, policies, and infrastructure. Not only have they developed plans, but they are carrying them out with success. It’s apparent that this nation still has a long journey ahead of them, but they are as ambitious as ever. I’m proud to be a part of it. I once asked a friend here how to translate “you’re my hero” into their native language of Kinyarwanda, and she told me it was impossible to say because in this culture a hero refers only to someone that was killed for their courage. Well, in American culture anyone that possesses courage and has the gumption to act on that courage is a hero. Every citizen of this country working towards a better tomorrow, my colleagues, neighbors and friends; everyone is a hero to me.