The last few weeks have been busy
and somewhat hectic in spite of my barely leaving my village. The fourth of
July kicked off the month with barbecued summer sausage hot dogs, and real
Heinz ketchup, and the month has closed with a celebration at an Ethiopian
restaurant to say goodbye to one of our Peace Corps bosses. The in between was
mellow yet immensely productive. The most exciting news, at least in my eyes,
is that the first draft of my grant proposal to do an animal husbandry project
has been submitted. Much to my norm, I wait impatiently to move forward and to
receive feedback, but if PC has taught me anything, it’s “ihangane” or that I
must be patient. I’m trying. My co-host of camps GLOW and BE in the Nyamagabe
District, and myself, have been busting away the plans for this next year and
to get the necessary pieces submitted as well.
Needless to say, I have lived in a
productive world this last month. But July hasn’t only been sitting in front of
my computer, crunching numbers yet again for my project budget. Lots of other
Peace Corps volunteers made it out to visit us in our village on the edge of
the forest. It seems to have become a fun habit, at least for myself, that when
guests come, we do dinner at my site-mate’s house. We, and by “we” I mostly
mean Nick, has made some incredible food, and it’s a really nice reprieve from
the norm, although I do love my veggie soup diet. I’ve learned how to cook in
Peace Corps, in a place where everything doesn’t come pre-made in jars or
boxes. Although I can say I do slightly miss the frozen food aisle at the
grocery store, fish sticks, frozen desserts, waffles…
But my Grandma should be proud. I
still remember the sound of her voice when I said I didn’t know how to make
biscuits from scratch while in college. Just the other day though, I made a
carrot bread, which was amazing… so, as they say in Rwanda… “slowly by slowly.”
Sometime in the near future, my site mate is going to teach me how to make
pickles too! PC service is about to get a whole lot easier!
Continuing with the food theme, we
had a dinner celebration to say goodbye to Gordie, our DPT (or some acronym). He
was the second in command for PC Rwanda. Health 3, my training class, ten of
the thirteen of us, took Gordie out to Ethiopian food to say goodbye, and thank
you. A volunteer in Zaire, back when the Democratic Republic of Congo was
Zaire, Gordie worked on fish farming, and extended his service there for at least
four years. For many in my group he was our go-to person. We sought him out for
advice on projects, different resources and general life in the PC. When I was
freaking out about a potential site change, Gordie was the one who helped me to
calm down, and see that it’s not the end of the world. Needless to say, he’s
really going to be missed here.
PC has rules about the length of
time any one person can work for the organization. After which they have to
take a break equal in time to that which they were employed. So if you worked
for PC for five years, you’d then have to take a five year break before
returning. The rule makes a lot of sense, but it’s really unfortunate when we’re
forced to lose such a great asset to the organization… that’s not to say there
aren’t a lot of other really amazing people to do the job out there. So we said
goodbye with dinner and stories of our favorite Gordie memories, and of course many
thanks too.
In other news… my health center
decided to do a separate genocide commemoration event this week. On Tuesday, we
loaded into a squeeze bus and headed to Murambi Genocide Memorial. This was my
third trip there, and yet still had a different dynamic, and it conjured
varying emotions. The first time I went was over a year ago with my PC training
class. Feelingly right off the plane, we were brought to this insanely
emotional place with people we really didn’t know. It was uncomfortable,
confusing and scary. I returned this May with my mother, which again had a
different feel. The major differences that time were that our guide spoke
English, so I understood what was going on, the history and the circumstances.
They had also finished the museum, so we could walk through and learn, in
English, in detail about the events of the memorial.
Finally, this time… the car dropped
us off at the main road and my 20 coworkers and I walked the three kilometers
to the memorial. In front of us was a purple banner stating who we are and what
we were doing there. The health center of Kitabi remembering the genocide…
never again. The “never again” is the tagline, so to speak, of Rwanda’s
genocide commemoration. Each consecutive year has a separate theme too, this year’s
being focused on the future. Anyways, we walked the dirt road, banner carried
in front of us, moving aside for cars and motos. Arriving at the school
grounds, we silently walked up the gravel entryway, holding our bouquets of
flowers wrapped in purple ribbon. We start the tour at the mass graves,
observing a moment of silence, then laying our bouquets upon the graves that
hold approximately 18,000 people.
Next we are taken to the classrooms
where around 200 bodies preserved in lime are on display. Just like with my mom’s
visit, I walk along the outside of the building. I don’t want to see them again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I occasionally see a glimpse of the victim’s
twisted bodies, or a preserved face in agony, and I struggle to fight back
tears behind my oversized sunglasses. The key difference on this visit to
Murambi, was the accompaniment of Rwandans. Some were crying and also refusing
to enter the rooms. Stupidly, I forgot that I was enlisted to carry a roll of
toilet paper in my tote bag, for this purpose and finally realize to pull it
out for people after the tour was over. I keep my focus on the rolling
hillsides in the distance, but every now and then the smell of lime wafts over
me and chokes me. I’m vaguely certain that every time I encounter this smell in
the future, the images of these people will pass through my mind.
The only other time I really recall
the smell of lime however is at the Jackson family’s ranch in Oregon. They keep
lime in the outhouse to keep animals and insects away, or subdue the smell, I’m
not too sure. I think about this as I gaze over the Rwandan hillsides, about
the face of my best friend hiking through the hills on her family’s property, about
such a beautiful place’s memory being triggered by this smell, and how it is
now shadowed by the image of hundreds of genocide victims. I watch my
co-workers as we walk through the museum, some not removing their sunglasses
until we part ways in the evening. I watch them listen to the guide, who I’ve
tuned out as she is speaking Kinyarwanda, and I’ve had this tour enough times
before. I sit on the benches watching, outside of the crowd, reminded that as
much as I try, I can never be completely integrated into this culture. These
are things, memories, history that I can view from my outside perspective, yet
not comprehend.
This was the first time I really
experienced my co-workers mourning the 1994 genocide. Most of the talks that
took place during genocide commemoration week in April were attended by other
villagers. I only saw a co-worker there once or twice. It was an interesting
experience to attend this memorial with Rwandans, and Rwandans that I have
relationships with, that are my friends. Afterwards, we returned to the health
center and had fantas and brochettes (meat on a stick). My titulaire turns to
me and says, “Munezero…. amakuru?” I respond with the typical, “I am fine, and
you?” He replies that he doesn’t know. I make a joke about the large beer in
front of him and ask “are you drunk already?” My co-workers laugh, and then
another turns to me. “We cannot be ok today, because of where we were,” he says
to me, “but, we are moving forward.”
With 11 months to go in my service
as a PCV in Rwanda, every time I say I do not know something, or do not
understand, I am met with, “But you must, you are Rwandan now.” I have inside
jokes with my Rwandan friends and family. I even look at other white people or
foreigners with a tinge of judgment and elitism. “How could they wear that, don’t
they know it’s culturally inappropriate?” “Is that person seriously stopping on
the side of the road to take pictures of Rwandan children out of their car
window?” “How come they don’t know the language?” I find myself lecturing
Rwandan men on their poor behavior because they think they can get away with
things; that I do not know any better. But I do, I have learned.
I think about life back in the states, about a
medium rare steak, being able to have a beer at a bar wherever I want,
carpeting, hot showers, bug-free beds, shorts that show my knees, swimming
without the fear of potentially horrible diseases, going out at night, driving.
I also think about the things I’ve forgotten… what would a US American’s
response be to a random stranger sitting on their lap in a sardine packed car?
It’s not normal for two straight men to hold hands walking down the street?
What are personal space boundaries? What is considered a personal question?
What is it like not to be stared at constantly? What is it like to not be recognizable
to everyone and have people yell out my name in greeting as I walk down the
street? What is it like to not be asked why I do not have a husband, I am after
all, already 24 years old.
I
have had so much time, the last fifteen months to analyze who I am, who I am
becoming, and who I want to be. I’ve thought about where my life will go after
Peace Corps, and what I want to be when I eventually grow up. But it’s
interesting as well to look at my idea of “normalcy” and how that has changed
with this experience. Although I am sure I will readjust quite quickly when I
do make it home in almost exactly a year. But it’s really strange to think
about how truly different life is in the USA compared to Rwanda. It’s amazing
how we are able to adjust and adapt to our surroundings. A year ago, I struggled
with balancing myself and this culture, and now I wonder if I will not struggle
with that same thing in a year’s time, when I return state side. Time has gone
so quickly, and so much has happened in the time that I’ve been here. I like to
joke with my Rwandan friends that I am not really Rwandan, yet I’m not really
American anymore. I feel somewhere in between. Maybe I’m finally working
towards becoming a citizen of the world.
A year ago today, my
beautiful niece (who I still have never met) was born. Her second birthday
seems so far away, yet that is when I will finally be coming home to the
states. Her second birthday feels potentially a decade away, but the year I
have left here as a PCV in Rwanda, feels like it will be finished tomorrow. Soon enough I will probably be
enduring culture shock yet again, simply sitting on my family’s living room
couch. I foresee myself standing next to the fireplace switch and simply flicking
it on and off in amazement, or finding things to microwave just for the sake of
heating things up instantly, or staring indefinitely at the frozen food section
of the grocery store. But before that
time, I will hopefully have reached the summit of the highest peak in Africa,
and traveled to more African countries, and finished an animal husbandry
project to help malnourished children, and had at least four more girls and
boys empowerment camps here in Rwanda. Wherever this adventure, and the ones to
follow take me… tuzareba… we shall see!
Pictures: 1. Mushrooms being grown at my health center 2. Health 3 and Gordie at his goodbye dinner 3. Justin and Callixte sitting on the water tower by my hosue 4. My coworkers and I at Murambi
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