Holding the fraying rice sack wide open, we waited as the man with the shovel began scooping up rusty dirt and dumping it in. One-fifth... one-quarter…half. My partner and I looked at each other, sizing up our joint strength, and then nodded at the man to keep shoveling. Three-quarters. We put up our hands for him to stop and began to carry the weighty gunnysack to its destination – a primary school classroom whose floor was presently two feet below the doorstep. Our collective objective this morning was to prepare this classroom along with four others in similar half-constructed states. The plastic cut into our hands, and our shoes caught on rocks, as we hauled the sack the 100 feet or so to the classroom. But we made it eventually, heaving the dirt over a wall and then retreating back to pick up another load. He said something indecipherable in Kinyarwanda at that point. A blank look must have registered on my face because he just smiled, shook his head, and said “murakoze” (thank you). That, I understood.
I really felt like saying “thank you” to him though. In the course of that morning, I saw an entire community rally together with the sole objective of serving others and building their community. Young and old. Rich and poor. Politician, soldier, and civilian. Everyone came out, arriving early and carting their own supplies – torn rice sacks, split jugs and canisters, shovels and hoes. I saw women weighed down in front by sacks of dirt but balanced by another weight in back – a baby; I saw the mayor ditch his entourage for a shovel and dig in, literally, next to men in torn t-shirts and promotional caps; and I saw incarcerated prisoners, wearing their scarlet letter jumpsuits, living and working once again in a community. They had temporarily traded their chains for gunnysacks and tools so that they too could contribute and help further develop the country. Excited to finally work their muscles again, they readily dove into the work and, after settling in a bit, began to exchange hesitant smiles and conversation with us. They were just as curious about us muzungus as we were about them, and, for a while, it was kind of like a zoo, with each group scratching their heads and observing the other.
The random assemblage of persons collectively intent on one purpose is probably one of my favorite elements of Umuganda. Everyone – every man, woman, and child in Rwanda – participates in this monthly service ritual. On the last Saturday of each month, Umuganda shuts everything down from 8 in the morning until 12 while Rwandans stream out of their homes and into their communities, onto highways, and into construction sites. Sometimes, they pick up trash outside their homes and businesses. Other days, they participate in neighborhood projects, building schools, community spaces, and the like. This past Saturday, my 35 fellow stagieres and I along with the Peace Corps Training Staff joined community members from a Nyanza neighborhood to fill in the floors for five new classrooms at the local primary school. About 400 people participated for the entire time with hundreds of others stopping by for shorter intervals, lending a hand to our project before continuing with another.
Throughout the morning, scattered showers interrupted our work and forced us under the awning of the nearby school. As we waited for the storms to break and our muscles to recharge, we attempted to chat in Kinyarwanda while the Rwandans, amazed that we were trying to learn THEIR language, guffawed at our verbal missteps and then generously offered advice. More than once, I unintentionally emasculated a man referring to him as an akagabo or “a small man.” His friends would then crack up and throw punches at his shoulders as they praised me for my witticism. Meanwhile, I stood bewildered, wondering what the hell I had just done to this poor man. They tried to practice their English too. The prisoners who accepted our full sacks of dirt with a quiet “thank you” early on were soon shouting “Good Morning, Good Morning!” to every passerby by late morning.
Upon the conclusion of work, the mayor threw aside his shovel and took up his usual prop. The drizzling rain muffled his voice through the megaphone, but his message and intent were clear as he stood, staring out into the crowd. He tried to make eye contact with everyone as he thanked those assembled and urged them to remind those few non-participants that they too had a responsibility. Everyone is accountable to their community. After some more praise sprinkled with admonitions, the mayor surrendered the megaphone to the community. Now, the second objective of Umuganda – to build community cohesiveness and communicate information - would officially begin. The meeting didn’t last much longer because people had begun to resemble sodden cats, but a few community members shared brief updates and aired concerns.
Even now, almost a week after our scant hours of gritty work, I’m still a bit in awe at the collective spirit and mission of Umuganda. Though we, as Americans, are often more than happy to devote time and energy to service each month and, for some, every day of each week, it’s different somehow. I can’t really put my finger on why exactly. Perhaps it’s the universality of their commitment that seems novel and refreshing. Or maybe it’s the fact that they don’t seem to perceive Umuganda as mandatory community service but more so as a civic responsibility.
Honestly, I’m curious whether a program like Umuganda would even work in the States. Granted, groups of people frequently gather to pick up trash and/or beautify areas in the US, especially for special events like Earth Day. However, I wonder if Americans would view something like Umuganda as infringement on their time and liberty, as a requirement rather than an opportunity. To those friends of mine back home who study service learning and/or examine the willingness of our generation to serve, I present to you another vision of service, one which seems very nearly wholly altruistic. Though introduced through a nationwide initiative, it is not mandatory and takes shape in the autonomous acts of individuals and communities. I wonder, is it possible to mold future generations of Americans to this concept?
Maybe yes, maybe no. In visiting other countries, I have come to better understand and appreciate the unique individualism which Americans often cultivate in their personhood and which may or may not lend itself to an Umuganda-like program in the States. Unfortunately, the greater world often associates this individualism with cocky moves and international missteps by certain Administrations, but I like to think that we, as volunteers, expose them to a different kind of individualism.
A few days ago, I was walking home after language class when the skies opened up and flooded the Nyanza countryside with blankets of rain. Every Rwandan took their cue and scuttled for the nearest shelter. Me, I decided to keep on strolling, savoring one of the few moments when I could actually embrace my Otherness. Maybe it was my rugged American individualism which kept me out there as my shoes slid every which way and my already loose pants began to sag. Or perhaps it was the two songs on repeat in my head – “Storms in Africa” by Enya and Carla Bruni’s “Plus Beau de Quartier.” As much as I’d like to believe that the Rwandans who peered curiously at me from windows and doorways saw my rainy day promenade as an act of individualism, I know they probably just chalked the incident up to another crazy muzungu move. For some reason, I’m okay with that label. As Carla Bruni would say, “Regardez moi, Je suis la plus folle de Quartier.”
