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.

Just Relax.

I knew a boy in college that mastered the art of the lackadaisical lifestyle. Regardless of the smattering of irresponsible conquests that was said boy's life, I always envied his ability to chill out, even under pressure. And oh, he spent countless moments coaching me on this, trying to convince me that what I'm not doing right now I can worry about tomorrow. Well those words don't really mean anything to someone as frantically sprung as me, being wired all the time is just part of my genetic makeup. I never thought I would take reckless boy's advice a few years later in East Africa.

While living in the rain forest is exceptionally beautiful, it definitely makes travel a challenge. In order to get to my house in the middle of southeast bush, Rwanda, from Kigali you must take a 3 hour bus to a nearby city, a 2 hour taxi to an even smaller "city" and a 1 hour ride on a motorcycle several thousand feet up the side of a mountain. Now go ahead and picture a motorcycle driving up a mountain. It's not cheap either. Needless to say my nerves get the best of me every time I strap myself to the back of that death-mobile as I like to call it, and you're not strapped in by any means. It's just you and the driver going like a bat out of Huye. Anything could happen. But then again, anything could happen walking down street, or getting caught in a rain storm, or cooking a meal. Accidents happen, but on the moto they're rare. It's similar to people that are terrified to fly when they have a much higher chance of being in a car wreck. It's just not logical. I just needed to relax.

And seriously, that does the trick. Taking a breath and enjoying the view along the way is a much better alternative to giving my poor fingers blisters from gripping the seat as tightly as I possibly can. Trusting the balance perpetuated by the speed of the moto instead of adhering my thighs so strongly against the sides I have a bruise from my hip to my kneecap. Relaxing is better than having a panic attack. I would know, I'm like the queen of panic attacks. Besides, I have something to help me rid my fear once and for all. It's not everyday that a girl is so lucky. I had been waiting, and hoping, that he would come along. And then after just a few moto rides to and from a nearby city I felt compelled to say those magical words that everyone is desperately waiting to hear, "Will you be my permanent moto driver?". Yes. I have a personal driver named Innocent, of all names. He's considerate and kind and drives safely and slowly. I can depend on him to wake up at 5 am to come pick me up on time and he's always waiting by the phone. The deal sealer in Innocent's case was his advice to me the first time we every shared a ride together, "You need to relax." Oh really? Must be in good company. And just to clarify relaxing does not insinuate not being cautious. However it does mean allowing yourself to experience life the way it was intended to be experienced, not gripping anything to death but gripping life itself. Relaxing.

It's All in a Name

In this country, your name can either make you or break you. Usually 8 days after a child is born, the parents invite close family and friends to a naming ceremony, called a 'Kwita Izina'. This is one of the oldest traditions of Rwandan culture, and there is still much sanctity in it. Fortunately for me, the Head of Studies at my school (similar to a vice principal) just had a baby with his wife, and I was able to learn all about this fascinating occurrence. I wasn't necessarily invited, for which I'm glad, because all of those present at the ceremony assume some level of responsibility over the child, should something happen to the parents. In a way, you are choosing the people you would like to rear your child in your absence, when you invite them to Kwita Izina. It's no ordinary party. And as far as I understand, invitations are never declined. Others might take their responsibility lightly, but to a Rwandan - a verbal understanding, even a head nod, is like a binding wax seal. Something so unique about this culture is the level of trust and understanding between everyone. It's a stretch coming from a society where every mother is telling their child not to talk to strangers. Above all else you are expected not necessarily to honor your family or get a good job, but simply to be dependable to others. Loyalty is highly revered.

The thought process behind Kwita Izina is intense, but sometimes the name can be as sudden as a whim. Babies are named after days of the week, months of the year, or the mother's mood at that very moment; relief, joy, gratitude, etc. And the madness doesn't stop there. For the rest of their lives, that person must either defend their character against their name or live up to the standard presented by it. Many people have superstitious feelings about names here, and no matter what you do if your mother named you Trouble you will be judged for the rest of your life. Such a cut and dry procedure like this made me thankful for my own Rwandan name, Muhoracye [moo-hor-a-chay]. It literally means, 'one with charm'. That doesn't exactly spell Queen of Rwanda, but I think it is an honest interpretation of how my neighbors and colleagues see me. And the benefit of being named as an adult rather than a baby? My name is a reflection of me, not the other way around. There certainly are some people that resent their names, and I read in the newspaper sometimes about laws being passed in the capital to allow legal name change. Understandably so, considering the names of some of my students. Let's just say that Mother Mary and Julius Cesar (not making this up) are great friends, who knew? So why do parents invest so much time in preparing for the naming ceremony itself but just a fraction on the decision of the name? I have yet to understand, but I'm guessing it is some form of initiation right into life; accepting or living up to your name. Considering my name's positive acquisition, I'd say I'm officially part of the club.

Move to Site

The New Year brought wishes of best luck, resolutions, and for me, a swearing in ceremony. I’ve officially sworn in as a volunteer in Rwanda and I have been living in my village since then. In all honesty, the switch from a structured and organized day to a wide open schedule was very abrupt. Training was full of time tables and while it was absolutely imperative to prepare me for site, it’s a bit nostalgic to look back on now that I’m trying to survive on my own.

And what a survival it is. The first week of school has been interesting, and I’m just glad that it’s ‘been’. Students tend to trickle into the new school year after a week or two, with no real push from the faculty or staff. Basically, I’ve been preparing lessons that don’t really pertain to the curriculum because I only have 6 students in my class right now. It’s a nice opportunity to try out some different teaching methods, and see which work and which do not. My boarding school has about 750 students, and when those students aren’t here there are less than a few hundred people in my village. I was here about a week before the students arrived, and hearing the chattering teenage voices of 750 students was like music to my ears. Anything to break the silence.

There are two male students; Emmy and Clement, that aren’t in my class but have come up to me several times and just made conversation. From as far as I can tell, these are the most genuine students I have every encountered. We all know how teenagers are – that mischievous attitude is universal. I’m so used to kids messing with me it was refreshing to just have normal conversation with some very bright boys. Their English was very good, and it made me excited for the possibilities with my own students. I am teaching upper secondary school, which is roughly equivalent to 10^th, 11^th, and 12^th grade in America. That means that I will be teaching students that just passed the national exam to get into upper secondary, and students studying to pass the other national exam to graduate. There were not many opportunities in Rwanda to teach upper secondary, but I feel fortunate to be one of them. Most of my colleagues are teaching in public day schools at the lower secondary level.

Emmy and Clement ask me everything, from what is butterscotch to what was the American Revolution? They still ask me how old I am every time they see me (I’ll never tell!) but besides that they are respectful, motivated students. If the rest of the students at my school are anything like them, I truly look forward to this year. Upper secondary education is specialized here, so my school specializes in biology, physics, chemistry and math. This means that I should take technical context into consideration when I’m planning my lessons. I’m interested in the sciences myself, so I guess things worked out.

As far as my village outside of the school, it’s kind of non-existent. My site is in the rainforest which means it is rural but also means that it is breathtakingly beautiful. Yea, it might take me 90 minutes to walk somewhere to buy an egg, but I’ve got two feet and nothing but time. There is a church in my village and a health center, as well as a sector office for authority officials. Other than that there are just people, wandering around looking for a good tree to sit under. The lifestyle of the local is a lackadaisical one, but perhaps that is just what I need. For once in my life I actually live in a community that forbids worry and stress. Looking forward to everything I ‘won’t’ be doing in the near future.

Noheli Nziza!

It’s definitely not the Christmas I’m used to, but it will definitely be one I never forget. So I’ve traded in warm cookies right out of the oven and presents under the tree for a campfire version of semi-cookie dough and random findings from shops haphazardly wrapped in scrap paper. And I can’t help but think – as cheesy as it sounds – what is the meaning of Christmas?

Well you all know that story, but what I’m getting at is that holidays are the one consistent thing in this world. No matter where you are, no matter how you celebrate, people are all experiencing the same feelings and emotions. People are still grateful for their loved ones. It is on this Christmas in particular, where I am far from my friends and family, that I am grateful for them. But most importantly, I’m grateful for the opportunity to learn that it doesn’t matter if you wrap a gift in expensive wrapping paper, or an old toilet paper wrapper, what’s inside is exactly the same. This day; this whole theology, is fascinating. Before I began my freshman year of college, I had an interview with the man that would become my academic advisor for the next four years, and possible life advisor for the rest. He asked me why I wanted to study graphic design, and I struggled to think of some sophisticated answer that would make him think highly of me. After several awkward pauses, I said that I wanted to become a designer because art is the only universal language. It’s the only thing that resonates with all of us, despite your culture, background, language, whatever. Sure, there can be different connotations attached to specific groups of people, but on the fundamental level, it is the visual world that takes precedence in life before we even learn how to speak. I wanted to know that in life I would be helping to sustain that world; the arena of the eyes.

Being abroad on Christmas has made me think of this again. Africa has proved to sustain my beliefs as well. I’ve been so fortunate in life; I tried to imagine ways that I could help others less fortunate. I just never stopped to think that those people I considered less fortunate did not actually consider themselves to be the same. In my experience abroad, I’ve found that as long as you are able to celebrate with your health and with your loved ones, you are fortunate. It’s a parable that I’ve heard in a jillion commercials, greeting cards and advertisements in the past. It didn’t feel like an absolute truth until just now.

Post party plans? I have about one more week of intensive training before I swear in as an official volunteer with the United States Peace Corps. That means interviews, sessions, studying, tests and saying goodbyes as I pack up all of my stuff and head out to site. I feel like an egg waiting to hatch. I feel like a kid waiting for Santa. It feels like it’s Christmas Day and I only have a week left until I do the thing that I came here to do, finally. Oh wait, that last ones true. It’s a good feeling:]

I hope that all of you are spending the holidays with your favorite people in the world. I might not be, but I’m doing something else great because of the love and support from those people. I’m not saying my family is better than yours or anything…(even though they totally are!) Just trying to let them know how much I care about them, as if they didn’t already know. Especially my nephew, who solely relies on the visual world.

With that being said, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.