15 Random differences.

I posted three entries again.... so scroll down to the first one and read that first!

1. There are no trashcans.
2.     Spanish soap operas, translated into English, French, or Kinyarwanda, are SUPER popular.
3.   Public transportation consists of minibuses that seat about 15 people—they don’t leave until they’re completely full—and the buses are decorated with the most random phrases like “Jesus Rocks” and “Soulja Boy” and “Twitter.”
4. Dinner is generally served around 9pm, or later.
5. Despite it being super dusty, everyone’s shoes are pristine!  Most people take great care in cleaning their shoes, ironing their clothes, and looking super sharp every day.  I can’t believe it but I actually iron my outfit before I leave for school—who knew?
6. Here in Kigali, the city hires women to clean the streets.  It’s one of the cleanest cities I’ve ever seen.
7. Eating on the go is not acceptable.  Eating is for at home, at the table.
8. Many Rwandans tend to be soft-spoken.  Whenever I’m out with friends from the program, we tend to attract stares due to our loud chattering.
9. Most kids have school on Saturdays.
10. Many Rwandans tend to drink milk warm.  Milk is super important in Rwandan society because of the emphasis on cows (owning more cows= more powerful, traditionally) so sharing milk used to be what a king would do to honor his friends.
11. The food is primarily starch: rice, potatoes, and french fries are all usually served at one meal.
12.  Besides buses, motos are the other main form of transportation.  Literally everyone and his mother ride on these motorcycles, bags held tight, children squished between the driver and the mother, zooming every which way through traffic.
13.  Saving food is not a thing.  My family at least doesn’t have a fridge so all the food cooked for a meal has to be consumed right then—which also isn’t a problem for my family because we always end up having tons of company for dinner!
14.  Flip flops are called “slippers” and are unacceptable to wear out of the house.
15.  It seems that a main hang-out spot are the “saloons” which is what they call hair salons.  They’re always packed with people, getting their hair braided and chatting with neighbors and friends. 

So proud to be a woman.

This experience deserves a separate entry.

During our week in Butare, we heard from two different women’s cooperatives—a women’s farming cooperative of genocide survivors and a women’s association of survivors and wives of perpetrators.  We visited the first group of women on their farm, where they grow maize and bananas, until it started raining and we moved our conversation inside.  The group formed in 2008 when the women joined together to give testimonies in the local court system called Gacaca.  (A note on Gacaca—pronounced like Gah-cha-cha: this was a traditional judicial system used by earlier groups in Rwanda to deal with crimes committed within a community.  Local authorities and community members met together in a common space to hear testimonies and pass judgment on perpetrators.  It was revived to deal with the massive numbers of participants in the 1994 genocide, a totally grassroots movement to deal with the crimes on a local level.)  The women shared their stories, received therapy from a counselor, and started this communal farm in order to support themselves and their children post-genocide.

What these women asked of us was to share their stories.  They were brutally raped in 1994, sometimes by hundreds of men.  Over the years, they’ve struggled with the unwanted children and cases of AIDS that were thrust upon them during that year.  After experiencing the immediate trauma a single case of rape can cause, these women held within in them constant reminders of that horror; they called them “children of the Interhamwe” (the Interhamwe was the main rebel group during genocide) and the soon-to-be mothers separated themselves from the rest of their community out of shame.  Some attempted abortions, in a country where abortions are illegal.  Most struggled with the hate they felt for these products of rape.  They gave birth to these children and tried to raise them within a country devastated.  The government provided no program to help these children of rape victims, yet so many programs sprang up to help with the massive numbers of orphans, their parents killed in genocide. 

So amid all of this trauma, this anger, this sadness, what did these women do?  They started a farm—and EMPLOYED FORMER PERPETRATORS.  They have unbelievably forgiven.  They treat their kids like their own and live side-by-side with those who raped them and killed their families.  They say, “Forgiveness is necessary.  We have to move on.  What else can we do?”  These incredible women have a strength, a courage, a bravery, that is unmatched anywhere.  I mean, they could laugh.  How incredible is that?

That day made me feel so proud to be a woman.  If these women can go through all that they have gone through and come out of it with that much love and forgiveness in their hearts, then there’s hope. 

The second women’s group met us in a dark, crumbling building across from the local school.  To reach the building, we had to cross a field full of rambunctious children on their recess.  The second our “muzungu bus” drove up, every single one of those hundred kids started waving and yelling “Hello!  Komera!” which is a version of “Muraho”/Hello that literally translates into “Strength!”  We left the bus and all the kids came running, a whole hoard of screaming, smiling kids!  Each wanted to touch or shake our hands and they followed us, hands outstretched, all the way across the field.  But if one of us suddenly turned, the whole group of energetic school kids scattered, momentarily terrified of the crazy muzungus!

The women in that group met us with arms outstretched.  We greeted each woman with the little Kinyarwanda we know and they grinned hugely at our attempts and gave us big bear hugs, as if we’d known them for years. Their stories rang of the same perseverance, the same resilience, that permeates Rwanda in so many different ways—the reconciliation that has taken place here is a lesson to all.  This particular group has 1,768 members and bridges the gap between women survivors/widows (mainly Tutsi) and wives of perpetrators (mainly Hutu).  For obvious reasons, these two groups got along horribly at first and there was so much fear.  But now they live together as friends—true reconciliation.  

Hanging on.

This past week and a half has been a complete whirlwind.  On the bus ride back to Kigali after a very intense trip to Butare and then an impromptu trip with my host sister, I happened to notice these boys hanging onto the back of a slow-moving truck, catching a ride.  The truck was chugging sluggishly up a hill and these boys, huge grins on their faces, would race after the truck, take a flying leap and grab hold of the truck’s various protrusions.  I felt I could understand the thrill somewhat—it’s dangerous, it’s hard, it’s thrilling, it’s a rush.  This program is so unbelievably intense; I mean, we’re unpacking genocide, discussing the horrible ends of way too many people, on a daily basis.  It’s hard but it’s such a thrill to finally be talking about these kinds of incredibly important issues.  We all chose to be here.

On the way to Butare, we visited Murambi Genocide Memorial.  50,000 people killed in 24 hours.  Just think about it.  The place felt so eerie, so trapped.  It was a boarding school in construction, the spot chosen for its beauty, its serenity, its breath-taking view.  The school was surrounded by hills, which during genocide were filled with watchful eyes of perpetrators, eyes peeled for any attempt of escape from the school where thousands of people had been told to flee to escape the mass killings.  The structures in the back of the main building—classrooms, they said—were filled with bodies preserved in their skeletal form (using some kind of limestone stuff??).  The images will stay with me forever: chalky remnants of humanity, filling the air with the stench of fear and horror.  Mothers holding bundled babies.  Tiny toes curled forever, mimicking innocent sleep.  Large, strong leg bones of men so suddenly deprived of power and ability.  Deformed skulls with clumps of brown, fuzzy hair, still clinging to their human owners.  Children—brothers perhaps—with brows resting together in security.  Gaping mouths with crooked teeth, bearing the screams of this atrocity.  Rack after rack of bodies.  Room after room.  The horror was incredible.

We also visited the National University of Rwanda in Butare.  There we met with a group of students from a university club called Students’ Club for Unity and Reconciliation (SCUR) who gave us a tour of their school and talked with us the whole way.  Their club, while impressive at first, made us really wonder about the value of critical thinking.  Instead of an atmosphere of critical thinking and careful study so typical at least of my university at home, Rwanda’s National University students reeked of government indoctrination; their club very carefully reiterated a specific government image of development and reconciliation that some of us are beginning to think is just a show for western investors.  The students actually asked us, “How did your country (the US) develop so quickly?” insinuating that they wanted to know so that Rwanda could follow the American model.  When we responded with comments that heavily criticized our government and the methods used to get where we are today (exploitation, genocide, imposing values/systems elsewhere in the world), they found it quite inconceivable that the US was anything but perfect.  Yet so many Americans I know, at least, don’t hesitate to critique the government and its policies, and American news is filled with violence—so that’s one thing: where does this image of the US come from and who creates it?  And why?

Another thing: when asked to critique their own government and its highly westernized plan of development, their answers were incredibly vague and mainly continued to support their beloved President Kagame’s implements.  Some claim that the genocide was able to happen because “culturally” Rwandans tend towards obedience of authority; the idea is that Rwandans blindly followed orders, even if those orders were to brutally murder their own wives, because the orders came from an authority figure.  I don’t know how much I believe that claim but it certainly makes one wonder.  The students at the university essentially refused to critique their government; speakers who lecture during our classes perpetually fail to thoroughly answer our theoretical/critical questions; a model youth village to help “vulnerable children” encourages their kids to “Tell me what’s not good about [blank]” which they have found is a completely new exercise for many of the youth; we asked a lecturer the other day about main topics of disagreement between the ten different political parties in Rwanda and he couldn’t think of a single disagreement.  Why is there this utter lack of opposition?  Of voicing disagreeing opinions?  We’re used to an atmosphere where critical thinking is highly prized and actually encouraged—but what has Rwanda been able to gain by its citizens unquestionably following a government that has implemented so many positive reforms towards reconciliation and rebuilding?  How much more can their government get done because its citizens put their complete trust in them?  How beneficial is critique and opposition?  Are they necessary for a healthy democracy?  How are our answers shaped by the utterly polarized political space that we Americans have created for ourselves, the model country for “freedom of speech”?  How much are we getting done??

I also took a very impromptu trip to the northern province, to the towns of Musanze and Gisenyi, with my host sister Ariane to visit her eldest brother, Jimmy.  He made sure we had a super relaxing, awesome weekend—complete with an afternoon at the pool, a trip to the beach at Lake Kivu, a paddleboat ride, a great night of dancing, and a look at the DRC border!  At Gisenyi, you could look across Lake Kivu and literally see Goma, the most talked about city in the news as of late it seems.  No worries—I didn’t hear gunshots, see any rebel armies, or encounter anyone at all flustered about the apparent proximity of DRC’s civil war.  Some of us are beginning to wonder if what we hear in the news about that area is even remotely accurate.  The news is very carefully chosen, the audience very carefully noted, and the events twisted for all sorts of political reasons.  So who knows?  Regardless, I got to enjoy a beautifully relaxing afternoon on the shores of Lake Kivu, surrounded by swaying palm trees, happily dancing people on the beach, and warm sunshine—a perfect way to end a stressful week.

So I finally figured out how to post pictures...

My host sister/roommate, Ariane, and our baby neighbor, David

Some neighbor friends, Heppe and Latifa

The road outside my house 

The church and the gym.

Two ways I got involved this past week and hope to continue being involved!

Last Sunday, I went to church with my family.  We wandered slowly through the streets of Nyamirambo, despite already being late, and carefully dodged puddles and big rocks as we passed many people also on their way to pray.  The service was held in a big warehouse of sorts, sparingly decorated but full of incredibly joyous people.  Our program had informed us that religion is pretty big here in Rwanda and that most likely, we, as exchange students, would cross paths with religion quite often.  It made a lot of us a little nervous because religion is such a contentious topic in the US and being “too religious” is often looked down upon.  Yet, attending the Assemblies of God service with my family just reaffirmed my personal belief that religion can be a beautiful, wonderful, inspiring thing.  I give credit to my Unitarian background when I say that any church, regardless of language (i.e. God-talk, the humanist approach, reading any and all religious texts, etc.) mostly seems to be celebrating the same thing.  It’s all about coming together to give thanks for what people find valuable and holy.  It gives people hope and something good to look for in the world.  Who can argue with that?

Mostly there was a lot of singing—mainly in Kinyarwanda but some were in Swahili, I think.  The pastor gave the sermon completely in Kinyarwanda, so I couldn’t gain much from that; however, a group of school boys sitting near me offered their children’s Bible, written in English, so I could at least read some holy text in spite of not understanding the preacher’s verbal holiness.  It was a great place to meet people, though—it gives them a connection to you rather than just seeing you as “muzungu” (white person).

The gym, heh, well.  It was an experience.  Ariane and I entered a large room, the air literally drenching us with humid heat, to see two circles of people jumping up and down to blasting, poppy music.  They were yelling and singing, running in place all as one, with an instructor in the center yelling out encouragements.  The running-in-place activity seemed to be the warm up because after awhile, we switched to aerobics, stretching, and yoga.  Clearly a muzungu had never set foot in that place before because I got sooo many stares and hearty “Welcomes!”  Behind the big room, they also had some pretty well-worn exercise equipment.  I’m now a member so I hope to go more often!