As we descended into Kigali, rain slashed at the airplane windows, blurring the twinkling lights in the darkness below. Through the night, I noticed a glowing, red crescent in the distance. Puzzled, I pressed my face to the window. Once again, I was a kid at the candy shop, eyes large with excitement and desire. It was too late for it to be a sunset and, besides that, it was raining buckets. What the hell is that, I thought. Turbulence rocked the plane, and the answer occurred to me as I was flung back into my seat. Volcano. I flew to the window again, catching one last glimpse of a fleeting orange line before settling back into my seat. So far, I knew only a few things about my new country of service – there was lots of rain, and there were volcanos – but it was enough for me to conclude that my time in Rwanda would be drastically different from my 14 months in Mauritania.
When I first told friends and family I would finish my remaining 11 months of Peace Corps service in Rwanda, they looked at me like I was crazy. “So you’re moving from terrorists to genocide?” some asked incredulously. Others queried, “Isn’t there a famous hotel there?” - a reference to the movie, Hotel Rwanda, I believe. Honestly, I can’t really explain all the reasons I decided to stick it out, first, in Mauritania, and, now, in Rwanda. “Masochism?” some of my friends replied decidedly. And, while Peace Corps volunteers do have a penchant for self-abnegation, that is not the answer. Suffice to say, I didn’t feel like my time with the Peace Corps was over. I still have something to contribute and am excited by the prospect of doing so in country which is actively trying to rebuild itself in the wake of a genocide which, quite literally, reduced it to rubble.
Speaking recently with the United States Charge d’Affaires in Rwanda, she compared the country to a phoenix rising out of the ashes. In the days which followed our arrival, proof of this rebirth was evident throughout the country, both in Kigali and in our training site of Nyanza. Touring Kigali - a city of verdant, cascading hills - I saw brightly colored billboards trumpet progressive messages of gender equality, AIDS prevention, and respect for children. Green space, gardens, and community art dotted the capital’s avenues and intersections. And the streets! Swept clean each night so that no trash besmirches the city’s appearance come daylight. In general, the country’s commitment to sanitation and sustainability is admirable, but it becomes that much more impressive when considered in light of the handicaps encumbering most developing (and developed) countries in their efforts to build sustainable futures. They’ve even outlawed non-biodegradable plastic bags!
This revitalization is more than some mere aesthetic face-lift though; it is also economic and emotional in nature. President Kagame has made no secret of his ambition to make Rwanda into the “Singapore of Central Africa.” In the near future, Rwandans see themselves developing into an intelligence driven society with business, technology, and science at its hub. To this end, the country underwent a mandatory sector-wide shift in 2008 from French to English. Almost overnight, nurses, doctors, government officials, teachers, and the like were expected to achieve an intermediate level in a language which before had been the privilege of those fortunate enough to continue on through secondary school and university. All schooling heretofore in French would continue in English regardless of level. Imagine the United States suddenly changed its national language and all existing operations to Spanish. Granted, the Hispanic community and a few bilingual Americans would survive the switch, but, in general, utter chaos and revolt would reign. One might expect Rwandans to react similarly, and yet they don’t! More or less, the gauntlet has been thrown, and they’ve accepted the challenge, enrolling in classes, practicing English with anyone willing, pushing themselves and each other in their combined efforts to build a brighter future for their country. The class of 36 English Education volunteers whom I accompanied to Rwanda will be a critical part of this initiative, invited by President Kagame who actually was taught English and Chemistry by a Peace Corps volunteer in Uganda.
But why this manic drive to change? This desire to overhaul history and create an entirely new platform? The answer is both deceptively simple and incredibly complex - genocide.
Many of you already know of the 1994 Rwandan Genocide when the majority Hutu population of Rwanda brutally massacred hundreds of thousands of the minority, ruling Tutsi population – an event in which the international community both contributed and failed to intercede. Prior to colonization, the distinction between Hutu and Tutsi was much more fluid, changing with economic status. With the arrival of Belgian officials and Catholic priests, those differences which before had been based on the number of cows an individual had – not necessarily physical characteristics – became the means of controlling a formerly autonomous and well-organized society. The Belgian government installed Tutsi’s in positions of authority over the Hutu population thus cementing division between Rwandans and sowing the seeds of jealousy and spite which would later produce inexplicable hatred and rage. I won’t delve any further into the subject right now. If you are unfamiliar with this sad episode in humanity’s history, I encourage you to research the wealth of material available on the subject. To help, I’ve included a few links to interesting articles and titles of books at the end of this posting.
Our second morning in country, we were fortunate enough to visit the Kigali Memorial Center which serves as both final resting site for hundreds of genocide victims and as a museum. Situated upon a gently slopping hill that overlooks the city’s colorful streets, chocolate soil, and sleepy banana palms, the museum would seem to proclaim the glory of Rwanda’s natural beauty. As it is, it is instead a marker, a reminder, and even a warning to all future generations of the dark capacity of mankind. Like the Holocaust Museum or the Isle de Goree’s Maison des Esclaves, the museum seems haunted by the spirits it commemorates. A Cornell University sweatshirt riddled with bullet holes hangs, empty of its model; a pile of femur bones lie, forever barred from fulfilling their potential; a picture of a smiling 6-year old Alfonsine tells us that her favorite food was biscuits, her best friend - her sister, and her cause of death - machete. Throughout the museum, an emotion magnet constantly yanks at your feelings and composure, stealing your breath, pushing and pulling you between rage and a sorrow that seems incomplete.
Even now, weeks after visiting, my emotions are still raw from the experience. When I see jump-suited genocidaires walking to gacaca trials or glimpse an angry scar on the arm of a colleague, I flinch. I can’t imagine how actual Rwandans must feel as they strive to move past their bloodied history. They all seem so stoic, consciously admitting that which they can and can no longer control. The government has prohibited the use of ethnicity, surrendering past divisions in order to build a cohesive national identity. In general, Rwandans have accepted these steps, recognizing their own need to move on. This in itself gives me and my fellow stagieres strength to move forward with them. At some point, we plan to begin English classes at the local prison which guards several individuals suspected of participating in the genocide.
I suppose this cheery stoicism despite tragic pasts and overwhelming odds has been one of the greatest similarities between Mauritania and Rwanda thus far. When I met my 61-year old host mother, Hilarie, this past Saturday, her energy and joy bubbled forth in everything she did – bouncing up and down as she squeezed me to her chest and rearranged my organs in the process, introducing me to friends and strangers while walking home. I’m pretty certain she also serenaded me with a song about the beautiful children I'll eventually have, but I was too petrified by the thought to ask her. After such warmth, I was shocked later to learn of the loss of some of her own family members during the genocide as well as her adoption of several children who were orphaned in the process.
Such generosity is unique, and I feel fortunate I will have the opportunity to live and work among such a compassionate group of people over the next year. While visiting my host mother’s house recently, I received a shocking yet endearing introduction to this element of Rwandan culture. I was sitting, sorting beans with one of Hilarie’s friends. As Hilarie left the room to fetch another bowl, her friend reached over and gently slapped me on the face, saying “Komera” as she did so. Needless to say, I was a little taken back and more than a little bewildered, wondering what cultural faux pas I had committed to deserve this rebuke. Then I remembered. My first day of class, and Zilpah explaining that the traditional greeting, “Komera” was often followed by a slap. It roughly translates to “Be Strong” and is intended to hearten individuals for the journey ahead. In retrospect, I can’t help but smile at that perfect baptism into Rwandan culture. Komera.
