The translation of grief...

            Around mid-night, already struggling in my attempts to fall asleep,  I heard my landlady unlock her door and enter the house. Surprised by the late hour, I lay in bed listening. As the hours continued into the night and on to the early morning my slumbering attempts were met with the sounds of voices, wood chopping and chairs being moved. Two AM into three AM and so on, I listened as people gathered outside our house around a camp fire talking. Curious and frustrated by my inability to sleep and to find sleep amidst their conversation, I tossed and turned questioning everything. Why were these people, Rwandans, whose lives generally seem to revolve around the amount of useable daylight that can be found each day, awake at two AM, having a bonfire?

            Her husband was sick for about a week. I heard him coughing at night through the thin door that separates my home and their living room. Reports came to me that they were traveling to the hospital 45 minutes away. Talking with Mama Diane, my landlady, we discussed his illness. Sick in the stomach, coughing, and headaches were some of the symptoms she mentioned before they left for the hospital. Before wishing her a safe journey, I complimented her Rwandan dress and her newest hairstyle. The next time I saw her was the day after her husband, the community “umusaza” or old man, passed away. Also the father of a co-worker of mine, we were informed in the morning meeting at the health center that “Papa Peace (Peace being my co-worker) died last night,” something I already knew or at least guessed, based on the campfire vigil held outside my house.

            As strange as it may sound, I like to think a have a pretty good ability to deal with loss and interact with others dealing with loss. I feel like I’ve learned what to say, how to approach loss with people and how to help them. Maybe these are false assertions about myself. But now I find myself attempting to tip-toe out of my house to avoid Mama Diane, to avoid confrontation of the situation. Uncomfortable with the complete lack of knowledge on how to help with this kind of loss and in the appropriate way. Although I really didn’t know the man, and unfortunately my first interaction with him was slightly creepy, I am not overly saddened by his loss, but I find myself sitting here with a familiar ache in my chest.

I sit helpless amongst some 15-20 Rwandans, maybe the 10^th batch of visitors of the day, sitting staring about the living room, showing support. Mama Diane is off in the bowels of the house, wandering outside, greeting other guests. We sit, they serve us Fanta, and we sit. Helplessly I wonder what this is supposed to mean, how this helps, what Mama Diane really needs. Public displays of emotion being relatively frowned upon in this culture, Mama Diane doesn’t cry, she doesn’t seem to show any emotion really. Her six daughters float around the house giving us Fanta, checking on the work in the kitchen, also seemingly emotionless, at least to our Americanized expectations of grief.

I am told the vigil, the guests, will continue for three days, then it will just be the family. Although, I wasn’t particularly close to any of these people, and just moved into this home a month ago, the thin door between our homes masks no sounds. It places me into the middle of their personal lives, feelings and reactions. Uncontrollably, I am involved in the intimacy of their grief, yet have no idea what that means, or what I am supposed to do with it. I feel as though I’m a part of it, but I’m not. Even if there was something I could do, I have no idea what it is, or how to do it.

            Years ago, Felice told me about her support group for parents who’ve lost children. She told me, how other members of the group were seemingly afraid of her when she entered. They looked at their pain of losing one child relative to her losing both her daughters as not equal. They seemed to view their pain as minimal relative to her loss. But Felice said something that has always stuck with me. It was something to the effect of grief being immeasurable. No one person’s grief is greater or less than another’s and we all grieve differently and incomparably. We never have the right to judge someone else’s grief or their grieving process.  

            My experience with grief and mourning is so seemingly diverse to me; between friends, boyfriends, parents, family, and Felice’s family, at one point a second to my own. I’ve experienced friends refusal to talk to me about our loss. I’ve watched people drowning their loss in a drug or booze induced haze. I’ve had friends who talked about it incessantly, about the person, about our memories. I’ve scrap-booked, made mixed CDs of our songs, played all our favorite movies over and over, and helped Felice in a foundation dedicated to the lives of my best friend and her sister. I have been screamed at, belittled, cried to, laughed with, and have done all of those things myself as well. But this experience is new.

To this day, the worst sound I have ever heard is that of Felice crying. The agony and pain of her sobs still resonate within me. I remember sitting on the stairs outside her bedroom, for close to an hour, listening to this sound, a sound so complete of pain, of anguish, that I couldn’t breathe. This sound has stuck with me all this time, and still cripples me to hear it. On the Balinese beach with her and two of my best friends, they held her as she cried into the Indian Ocean, the final resting place of her girls. Feeling uncontrollably and physically ill from this experience, I walked away and sat wrapped within myself, toes digging into the sand, waiting for the pain to stop, waiting for their crying to subside. 

I watch my parents, still brought to tears at times, over the loss of their parents, and their friends, and it wakes a sadness in me as well as a stronger love of them and who they are and continue to become. I have laughed hysterically with my friends over memories of Lindsey. We’ve cried hysterically, we’ve drunken ourselves into feelinglessness.  I’ve even gone so far as to tattoo myself over loss. For a while, loss was all-encompassing in my life, and has contributed immensely in fostering the person I am today. For years I would give myself panic attacks thinking about losing more people. What would I possibly do if I lost my brother, my parents, my friends? I would find myself on a road trip, heading home alone in my car, walking across campus, hyperventilating thinking about the inevitability of loss. Sometimes these “episodes” were so bad I had to stop my car, or sit down before I could function again. Every now and then it still hits me. There is never a day that I don’t miss all the people I love, yet have lost. I wonder what they’d think of me today, what they would do if they were a part of each adventure I take.

Unfortunately, I am becoming accustomed to death and the processes that stem from it, and I think somewhat unfairly at the age of 24. I know what it looks like in so many of its forms. Yet, I find myself lost in translation. As I sit in the living room of my landlady amongst a large group of people, yet feeling so very alone, clueless as to what we are doing, and why we are doing it. I think about what it was like after the plane crash. I remember sitting at Felice’s house, waiting, watching the news, trying to listen, experiencing the emotion of others. Unbelieving, I was hopeful at first, then I was stunned, then I was so emotionally exhausted I barely functioned. I don’t remember throngs of people coming and going in those first few days. Months later however, before the memorial service, I remember a house full of people, vaguely, as I had locked myself in Linds’ room working on projects, only emerging to make a cocktail, maybe steal food, or go to the bathroom.

But in that gathering, people were lively, they were emotional. They told stories of the girls and of their father. They laughed, they cried, they drank themselves into the necessary stupor. I remember bodies of people, but not who they were, they shuffled through the house beneath my Lindsey sanctuary. So I sit here in this room, in Rwanda, watching people from every facet of the community, leaders, farmers, school-teachers and otherwise come and go. The diversity and number attributes, in my eyes, to his importance and value in the community. We sit in the living room of the deceased and I wonder, is this is how Mama Diane needs/wants to grieve. Her face, her interactions, convey nothing, she is seemingly emotionless, yet noticeably exhausted.

When I get up to leave, still unsure if it’s acceptable protocol, I thank her and tell her the typical “ihangane” or be patient. She glances at me and says “Munezero, hari ibibazo”, there are problems. I ask how I can help as this is what I know how to do, and she smiles slightly, I assume at the absurdity of the question. She says to come sing tomorrow, to help hold vigil, and to be here. Tossed into their grief, an unrelenting fly listening on the wall, through the door, I listen helplessly, yet with good-intentions of acclimating, of being a part of this part of their culture. I feel lost though… this is not how I have experienced grief. The protocols, the expressions, the actions, it’s all something I can’t quite imagine, comprehend, wrap my head around in such a short period of time, in such a small space. I guess this is a cross cultural experience however, but so far, maybe, this has been one of the most difficult, or feelingly difficult, to wrap myself around, and knowledgeably embrace.

Tomorrow comes after another sleepless night listening to the voices around the campfire, which really makes me want to crack a beer and tell stories for hours, but of course I must reign in my “American-ness” in this regard. I must not sit with the drunken men. I must be a good conservative Rwandan woman. Exiting my house on “tomorrow’s” morning, I am met with rows of benches already filled with people waiting for the burial ceremony to start. Sneaking off to work for a few hours, I watch as people continue past my health center, dressed in their best, assembling on these benches. A quiet melancholy sound echoes down the hillside towards me for at least an hour before I return. Once the ceremony begins we are told to stand and directed to walk through the house where the family, his wife and eight daughters, dressed all in white, wait around the casket singing. We walk past them, some of the girls wearing dark sunglasses even though they are inside. The women’s voices catch as people pass the casket, pressing their hands against it for one last goodbye. A small piece of glass over his face is built into the casket, and I see his face turned to the side, much more like he was sleeping than the standard on the back, hands crossed in front posture we often utilize.

They carry the casket outside, stories are told, songs are sung, and every now and then, a few rain drops fall onto the quiet crowd. The crowds rise again following the casket to the side of the house, where the umusaza is buried, with a layer of cement poured above his body. A cross is placed at one end, a large picture of him leaning against it, with bouquets of flowers for a backdrop. Fanta and sorghum beer is served to the waiting crowd, a few more songs are sung, then the crowds disperse. After, Mama Diane asks me if this is my first funeral in Rwanda, as her grandson squeals in terror next to her at the sight of me. To this, she laughs and I smile, and I leave her to her family.

Mama wanjye yaje gusura murwanda...

It has been about two months since my last posting… sorry, but April was not that exciting of a month all in all… I moved to a temporary house, one we PCVs like to refer to as a ‘muzungu’ house, flush toilet and all. One problem was, however, that the bed was full of fleas and therefore as I felt their little flea-like bodies crawling all over me when I tried to sleep, I couldn’t sleep. Needless to say most of April I slept really poorly and ended up kind of sick. Thus is a summary of my life during April.

On to May! This month has been very full of important dates and whatnot. I arrived in Rwanda May 5^th of last year. I turned 24! Mother’s day of course and my mom arrived here in Rwanda on the evening of May 10^th. It feels like forever ago, but I can’t believe May is also already over! I forced my mom awake the next morning to leave for Akagera National Park at 5 AM. It was really interesting to see the eastern part of Rwanda. Because it was the end of the rainy season everything was so green, which was surprising, as the east is supposed to be hot and dry, so I’ve been told. Anyways, the park was really beautiful. We saw lots of really amazing birds, gazelles, zebras, giraffes, these deer-like creatures and even warthogs. It was such an adventure. Once the rain finally stopped, we were even able to pop open the safari roof and stand up “outside” as we traveled through the park. It was a lot of fun, but was cut short due to some road problems and therefore I missed getting to see the hippos. Disappointing, but calls for another adventure in the future, so that’s ok!

The next day I took my as of yet un-jet-lagged mother to Gisozi genocide memorial. It was really interesting for me to walk through here again. A year in Rwanda, and the passing of April, national mourning month, brought a lot to mind, but going through the museum again, being reminded of this period in Rwandan history, what the genocide consisted of, was really valuable. I’ve had lots of talks with other PCVs of the importance of the Rwandan population to compartmentalize their feelings and experiences during the 1994 genocide, but I hadn’t realized how much I had been unintentionally compartmentalizing as well. Peace Corps refers to Rwanda as a post-conflict country. There are lots of ways that the “conflict” is evident in the culture of Rwanda today, but I didn’t really understand the implications of that relative to being a PCV until, after a year of service, I went back to the memorial and truly reminded myself. It was really rewarding and enlightening as well.

Sunday, we traveled to Kamonyi to visit my host family. They were so excited to meet my mother, and it was nice to share my “world” here with my mother, with someone from back home. Only one of my sisters, and my youngest brother were missing. But, we broke bread, so to speak and they asked each other questions. My brain was in overdrive as I was playing the role of translator, or at least attempting to. My host parents even surprised my mom with a gift, a wooden carved “agaseke” basket. It was so nice to share these people, and to show my mom where I started out a year ago. Being able to really share this experience with someone was so empowering to me as well. Although I’m not sure how important this part was to mom (although I think it was very) I couldn’t have imagined a better mother’s day.

Monday, we awoke in Butare to a ham and cheese croissant breakfast, and me somehow being 24! I mean seriously, how did that happen? Well, two Rwandan birthdays down and one to go. Time is going so quickly! I took mom to the Butare market this day where we loaded up on fruits and veggies to take back to my site. Mangoes, pineapple, passion fruit, papaya, green beans, cucumber, and others all freshly picked. Then we began the long-ish journey back to my home. An express bus, a squeeze bus and two moto-taxis-piled-high later, we arrived at my house and in my home. The first day we took a walk into my village to guhaha or grocery shop. Everyone we passed would call out “Munezero (my Rwandan name) is this your mom?” to which squealing and cheerful yelling would follow my affirmation. People would cheer and welcome her every step we practically went. She was a town celebrity already. Even when I went out without her to my morning work meeting or other places, people would quiz me, “where is your mom?” or “when will you bring her to see us?”

We spent a week in my community. We made fresh fruit salads, pots of vegetable soup, even a birthday cake with real frosting. She also ate at least one avocado every single day. We visited the tea factory where the director himself took us on a tour to see how Rwandan tea is made. Everywhere we went people welcomed her and it made me so proud and happy to be a part of this community. The second Saturday we traveled to Nyamagabe town, an hour away, and attempted to go to a wedding, which turned out not to be a wedding and actually just a church service. Apparently a surprise day of service screwed up the wedding schedule or some such thing. I’m sure I’ll be paying for dragging her to a church service for quite some time. But it was only an hour and a half, short for Rwanda!

After the failed church outing, we traveled to Murambi Genocide Memorial. An estimated 50,000 Rwandans were slaughtered at Murambi, an unfinished secondary school at the time. Tutsis from all over the area were consolidated here as Hutus were evacuated so that when the killing started they would not get confused with fleeing Tutsis. There are about 18,000 people buried in mass graves here, and another 2,000 who have been preserved in lime and are on display on beds in the classrooms of the school. About a year ago, I travelled here during training, and it was so immensely overwhelming. I did not enter the classrooms this time, rather I walked along the outside as my mom did. I still can see the ghostly faces frozen in terror or contorted into horrible, impossible positions which were the last one the body assumed before being dug out of a mass grave, and preserved. Men, women and children, hundreds to thousands, all preserved to share the horror of the genocide with us. No, I didn’t need to go through there again. This time however, the museum was finished, so we were able to learn more about the history of this particular place. This was really helpful for context, but it definitely didn’t make it easier.

Although this is one of the hardest things I have ever seen, if you come to Rwanda, I think it is immensely important to experience. I somewhat tried to talk my mom out of it, largely because I didn’t want to go there again. But it’s so easy for us in the states not to understand something like genocide, or to understand the word, but not really what it means. That does not critique the intelligence of anyone I know, but rather, just the incomprehensibility of genocide until it is witnessed, and often even after. I still cannot imagine, but I’ve seen these things, and can see how this continues to impact a culture. So, I really don’t think this is something that should be skipped over by tourists to Rwanda. It is too important a piece. Anyways, off my soap box now…

So the next day, I dragged my mom to the Pentacostal church service. They have a tradition here for visitors to stand and introduce themselves to the congregation. So we stood, and as soon as I said “uyu are mama wanjye” or “this is my mom” the entire church broke into cheers and applause. This was followed by a special welcome to my mom by everyone in the church. We stayed for the singing and dancing but not the sermon, and it was so much fun. My mom even admitted why I would equate the whole experience to the church scene in “The Blues Brothers.”

The next day we visited the forest, the road blocked by some 20+ terrifying baboons. They moved, but I was sure for a while they were plotting ambush amid their leafy cover. We visited the women’s cooperative and were chased through my favorite village by the sweetest children. We also hiked to the traditional houses that were built on the edge of the forest, which overlook the tea fields, the forest, and even back onto the villages of my community. It was a beautiful day, which was followed the next day by a trip to visit my GLOW club at the local secondary school.

The girls sang and danced and asked my mom questions. It was a really nice ending to her week in my community. The next day we headed back to Butare and went to the market and a few cooperatives to do some souvenir shopping, had a great dinner and even some ice cream. The following Thursday we headed back to Kigali, and to the airport in the evening for her to fly out. It was such an amazing visit, and everything went better than I imagined it would. She was such a trooper, although she did complain about the squat toilet a bit much! Hahaha.

It was so nice to be back with a piece of home, and a piece of me. I have so much respect and admiration for my mom, and hearing her perspective on the life I’m living, and on Rwanda was very enlightening and really reminded me of the positive person I try to be, and why I am here. Her and her visit reminded me of all the good things about this experience and about this culture and place. I honestly feel as if a lot of pressure has been lifted, and I’m more ready for accomplishing my person goals in this service. So, in other words, I really think her visit was a major success!

In other news… May is fast reaching its end and June brings my mid-service conference. We have three trainings/conferences we “must” attend during our service; In service training (IST) after three months at site, Mid Service Conference (MSC) around a year at site, and Close of Service Conference (COS) three months before we go home. MSC hypothetically marks the hump so to speak, everything being “downhill” thereafter. We will see, but I can for sure say time is going fast, and I’m sure it will continue to speed along… probably faster.

It’s nice to be  back at work though. I have several projects in the works still, animal husbandry to address malnutrition, gender based violence education, girls empowerment. As they reach a more noticeable and measurable sort of fruition I will continue to share those stories with all of you! Thank you all for the birthday wishes, cards, and packages… I can guarantee they will thoroughly be enjoyed! Miss you all so much, and more to come sooner than the last time! Until we meet again, may the sun shine warm upon your face!

Peace Corps service as prophesized in the 1800s

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity… we had everything before us…”

I’m pretty sure that Charles Dickens had Peace Corps service in mind, and maybe even PC service in Rwanda specifically when he wrote those lines in A Tale of Two Cities. So much of this roller coaster, this tragic romance novel with a happy ending, this attempt at understanding bipolar disorder, this unstable stock-market representation graph, this ultimately positive experience, is immensely up and down. It’s probably not for the faint of heart. This is not to say (disclaimer) that I am unhappy or struggling. Surprisingly, currently I am overwhelmingly happy and more confident than ever in having made this decision for my life. Weird how that happens right?

So, two weeks have gone by since last we met via my words and your interest in reading them, and life has continued non-stop. I went to yet another wedding, but this was the first one in which I was really friends with the bride or groom. All of the other weddings have been of co-workers, but the bride in this wedding is essentially my older Rwandan sister. So we awoke early on Saturday, March 17th and arrived at the wedding site in Kamonyi. Arms linked with my sisters, we traveled atop a hill overlooking what was once my Rwandan home and were greeted amidst the trees to brightly decorated pink and blue tents that were to be the place of the traditional wedding ceremony. In case you remember back to a posting, WAY BACK, when I was still in training about destroying stumps with garden hoes… this would be the same place.

Nine AM turned into 11 AM, with a bustle and hectic feel as the bride arrived from the civil ceremony (in front of local authorities) and attempted to change into outfit number two for the day. Her bridesmaids also had multiple outfits, as did her ladies in waiting. Finally they approached the tents, and the groom, who had just as large of entourage, greeted her. This was preceded by a seemingly endless amount of speeches by the father of the groom, and one of the adopted “father’s” of the bride. (Jenn’s biological father was killed in the 1994 Genocide). As we waited, it was really nice to see the faces of many an old friend, and again (if I have not mentioned this enough before) be able to communicate with them, almost fluently.

Food was distributed and speeches were made, although I can’t say that I truly paid too much attention as I was very much distracted by the bride in her neon pink dress with blue polka-dotted lace streaming from her hair and wrapped around the bottom of the dress like a mermaid tail. This ceremony was followed by another long wardrobe change as Jenn switched into the traditional white gown. Then we piled into little buses and headed to Kigali for the church ceremony. Fortunately this ceremony was particularly brief, as I have been in ones that have gone on for hours, and at this point, we were closing in on hour number eight. It was super hot in Kigali as well, which never seems to go away.

After the church ceremony, there was the reception. I finally received my first piece of wedding cake in Rwanda, and it was AMAZING! Whew… ten months without cake! Haha. We were also serenaded by a band singing, “We wish you a happy family” to the tune of “Happy Birthday.” Then we walked to the post-reception party at the new husband and wife’s house. Thankfully they fed us again here! People often ask me, when I get married, if I will have a Rwandan wedding. I have many qualms with this personally due to my beliefs and otherwise, but largely, I have no desire to sit through my own wedding if it’s 13 hours, and I’m pretty sure that many other people would feel the same way. I was honored (as a “member” of the family) with being the “holder of the gourd.” This is the first thing that enters the house of the new couple as a symbol of their future. It was really quite an honor, and, in spite of it being my longest wedding to date, it was also my favorite.

We made it back to my host-family’s home just before midnight. I was reminded around 9 PM of the fact it was Saint Patrick’s Day, and I have to say I was very un-Irish in not having a single drop of alcohol, but I did wear green, and it was a great celebration none-the-less. Sitting through church the next day kind of felt like I had spent my St. Paddy’s Day similar to those of previous years, but, nothing a little nap couldn’t cure.

The 18th, I headed into Kigali to help out with Operation Smile, a US organization that does surgery (for free) to fix cleft palates. They had asked Peace Corps if they could provide some volunteers to help out with entertaining and monitoring patients. So, I did that for a couple days. It was really interesting to be able to talk to people from all over Rwanda. There were a lot of mothers and their children, and a few men. We drew with chalk and crayons, and chatted and served food in the evening. Whether I was working with a really great crew of PCVs, or things were just easier those two days I was there, I’m not sure, as there seemed to be a lot of communication, logistical and comprehension problems throughout the entire ten days or so, between Operation Smile, PCVs and Rwandan counterparts. I a lot of times we weren’t quite sure what we were supposed to be doing. But, nonetheless, the experience was immensely rewarding.

Often it feels as if my service is relatively thankless. I will do a favor for a co-worker or friend, which seems to go unnoticed or followed by an observation which I can only assume is unintentionally insulting. “You are very big today Megan,” or “You are not smart today.” For some reason when complimenting how someone is dressed it is translated into “dressing smartly” so when you are not dressed well or you have a problem (shoes unwashed, too short of sleeves, etc.) it becomes, “you are not smart today.” I am aware that this is largely a cultural difference, and my perceptions of politeness and conscientiousness that do not translate well in this culture, but it is a struggle. This is summarized, I feel in the lack of the word “please” in the Kinyarwanda. Often I am told I must do something, give something, be something, without so much as asking or a “please” extended my way. I realize this has everything to do with my expectations, but again, it’s a struggle. So, being at Operation Smile and seeing tangible and immediate results (yes surgery, but also, the happiness from the people, who are obviously in recovery pain, to just sit and interact with you) was a really nice mentally clarifying experience.

Finally after a meetings with PC staff, I arrived back at my site after seven days of absence. I was immediately confronted by my struggling housing situation, which wiped me out almost instantly, that and all the travel. Unfortunately and fortunately I left again the next day for a weekend of Peace Corps stuff and some good volunteer time. The health 2 group has finished their two year stint as PCVs, which is awesome and sad, because they are such a great group of people. So, we had one last hurrah, so to speak. Friday, I helped Sally and Ryan (two H2 PCVs) along with some others, put the finishing touches on the world map they painted on a wall of a community library that Ryan helped build in the community. It turned out amazingly! Afterwards we went out for akabenz, pork that you order by the kilo, and a couple brews.

Saturday was spent in meetings and eating muzungu food. We had a multi-region meeting to discuss a ton of stuff, amongst a group of around maybe 25 PCVs. Three hours later, we adjourned the meeting, all a little bit more ready to face Genocide Memorial Week, plan future camps GLOW and BE, and with understanding of Peace Corps committees and functions. Unfortunately and fortunately it was too late to catch a bus back home. I was dreaming of my bed, my room, my house back at site, but I did have lots of fun at yet another Pork Place filled with new PCV friends, discussions, and later, dancing. I can’t say it wasn’t amazing to be back home on Sunday, although I need to clean my room, and it’s unclear whether this particular house will continue being my home, but tuzareba, we will see.

Life really is quite good and my world is moving forward, changing, not changing, but the world turns on, and me with it. Projects are moving forward alarmingly fast, yet seemingly slow. Does this represent the bi-polarness I seem to be feeling? Updates on my PC life include, the upcoming Genocide Mourning Week April 7th through the 13th, and the entire month of April is Genocide Memorial Month. My mother begins her African adventure on May 9th! Followed by my mid-service conference (PCVs have this after/around a year in service) in June. Ups and downs and greats and stress filled moments, but until we meet again, may the rains fall soft upon your fields (it is rainy season after all!) Miss you all!

Pictures: 1. The ladies in waiting at the wedding. My host sister, Aline, is the second one from the left. 2. The bride, groom, and me sandwiched between my host parents. 3.The bride and her bridesmaids (I love the maid of honor's hat!) 4.Aline, a random grandmother, me and Solange, a friend from Kamonyi. 5.Us doing a Jersey Shore fist pump in front of Sally and Ryan's world map.

Women and Walking and Walking Women

            It seems like so much has happened in the last week! I’ve gone through practically every emotion and  I’ve had several adventures, which don’t seem to be ending any time soon. I’ve gone from one of the best weeks of my service thus far, to so completely mentally exhausted I spent an entire day almost, sleeping. I discovered this really awesome walk/hike (depending on what you consider a 15 mile journey) that circled throughout almost all the cells in my sector. I’m fast learning that the furthest reaches of my community seem to often times be the friendliest. On my long journey, I discovered tea plantations being prepared, a village that had been torn down to make way for new tea plants, primary school students in a volleyball match, a beautiful river in the bottom of the valley and a path I hope to take many times more in my stint as a PCV.
  

 It is so rewarding to go outside and meet people who are simply happy to see you, they don’t outwardly want things from you, other than to simply be greeted. They don’t see you as an object or simply a white person or a rich foreigner. They treat you like a person. These are the people I found along this 22 kilometer trek, and I’m not sure I can express in words, via blog or otherwise, how truly happy this makes me feel. Unfortunately (and I’ve mentioned this before) it is more common that people see my skin color and nothing else. Not that this behavior didn’t appall me before experiencing it first hand, nor am I being degraded because of how I look, but it does come with its challenges none-the-less, and it has brought out a level on inward resigned hostility that I am not sure I have felt before.

But, day two of my adventures was International Women’s Day. I was moto’d to the ceremony with the nutritionist at my health center and the chief of women for my sector. We began by helping to build a small keyhole garden by the cell office. After the gardening we walked the three kilometers back into town with an escort of about 20 women singing as we went. Here, the ceremony was busily being prepared, chairs and benches were being brought out in the town center and the food was being prepared to distribute to malnourished children. I watched the women (babies tied to their backs) boil a mixture of sweet potatoes, beans, carrots, greens, and dried fish over a fire in a small kitchen in town. After which, they pounded the mixture into mush vaguely resembling green mashed potatoes. 

Rwandan women especially, have this amazing ability which I am constantly in awe of. They are able to bend over at a 90 degree angle and do any activity for seemingly any amount of time. I watched as these women did just this while mashing the mush, for nearly 20 minutes. But women do this in the fields for hours, washing dishes, cooking, everything. I always struggle with a squat, which after 3-5 minutes kills my knees or a feeble attempt at this 90 degree bend which threatens after only a minute or less to put my back into bed-rest spasm. So, I am impressed, in other words. 

 

 

We arrived at the ceremony just in time for its beginning with women from town dancing and singing for the audience. One of the perks of being so recognizable to people is that I often receive really great seats for various events. Often I decline and sit in back or otherwise. But for several hours, it’s very nice to have a chair with a back, and a good spot to take lots of photos. So I had the perfect viewing spot to watch these women dancing and the community cheering. After the dancing the sector and cell executives spoke, followed by more dancing and speeches by the nutritionist and chief of women.  At one point they drug me out in the middle to dance with them. I can’t dance in the States anyways, but to dance with the grace and in the style of Rwandan women is relatively impossible for me! I tried and spent most of my time laughing hysterically. After the song finished, the leader came up to me and wrapped her arms around me in the biggest hug. The whole ceremony was only interrupted briefly twice for rain, but it always resumed with the same enthusiasm.

 

After all the dancing and speeches, the food was brought out and mats were laid on the ground. Women brought their children, specifically the malnourished children, and they sat around the mat. Two women began by going around with water and a basin to wash the children’s hands, followed by plates of the nutritious mush they had cooked up. These kids ate hungrily. My heart ached while watching one little boy in rags of clothing stained reddish-brown from the dirt. He was handed a plate and the boy ate so slowly, like it was a struggle just to do so. He even looked painful in his determination and desire to eat, to not be hungry. But, in spite of overwhelming malnourishment in Rwanda, in my part of the country, the mood was still happy and joyful. Even though I didn’t have much cash to give at the time, I still contributed a little bit of money, along with my co-workers at the health center to provide this meal for these children. Overall, it was such a positive moment, being able to see even just a few children have their bellies full for even a short time.

  After the ceremony I rushed back in order to do my GLOW club. I had so much energy running through me and excitement over the positivity of this day, it was such a great conclusion to spend even an hour with the young women that comprise this club, after which, exhaustion caught up with me, but it was truly amazing and happy exhaustion. It was also one of those times that fast food sounded really appealing. Cooking a meal on a charcoal or even kerosene stove after a day like this, almost seems worth skipping the meal.

I have been aware of and have subtly participated in International Women’s Day for several years. The day definitely seemed much more empowering and inspirational to be with these Rwandan women, as well as currently being an international woman myself. It was all the more impressive that this group of people planned their whole celebration of the day. A lot of times an outsider, a foreigner, comes in and plans a celebration, but to be a part of such a successful one planned entirely by the local population was wonderful. My day even began with people wishing me a happy women’s day, which I adopted quickly and was pleasantly surprised by the universal recognition of the women in my community when I wished them “umunsi mwiza w’abagore!”

Continuing on in my journey… On Saturday I went, with my friend Kate, a fellow PCV, to visit a small community in Nyungwe National Park. There are currently two volunteers working there with a US organization called Kageno. Sarah and Jarod Ring are from Arkansas and have spent the last two years working in this small impoverished village, a 2.5 hour hike into the forest. Apparently when the park was established, all the people were somewhat forced to move to this one community. There are over 4,000 people living there, and they are the poorest of the poor in Rwanda. The community is beautiful though, and the hike in is the same. Thankfully we saw no monkeys as Sarah was saying they travel in packs sometimes around 300. You all may have been reading on the news of an American being killed by monkey swarm in Rwanda!

Sarah and Jarod were wonderful hosts, and have the most adorable house, with a yard and everything. It’s always nice to vent/talk with other volunteers about service in Rwanda. It further helps me distinguish where I have been struggling and why, and maybe more importantly how to overcome these struggles. The chocolate chip, banana pancakes were also a very welcome addition in the morning. I was so amazed coming into their village and not hearing a single “muzungu” cry from the population. If anything they called out “banyamerica” which means Americans. I kept commenting to Kate how nice it is to be out in Rwanda, hiking, walking in the forest, in a village and not treated as solely a foreigner with lots of money. This adventure as well as the last week really restored faith in this experience.

Although I went to bed early Sunday night, I was met Monday with a wave of exhaustion. This had nothing to do with hiking over the weekend and everything to do with continued housing struggles. Peace Corps has told me that my living situation must change, meaning I can no longer live with three men. I totally understand this, however, it is so tiring to think about moving. It’s hard enough finding peace of mind when you are constantly trying to integrate into a culture, but to leave my garden, my home in which I’ve bought furniture, decorated and have called “home” for the last nine months, is truly exhausting. That, coupled with my program director coming to my site to look at houses with my supervisor and I, made me cling to the covers on Monday and barely leave my bed except to do just that, look at a couple houses.

Nothing was resolved yesterday, and I find myself still very tired today in spite of the sun being out, and still feeling happy. I very much long to put a movie on on my computer and curl back up in bed. I know the end of the world is not nigh, especially due to this housing situation, but I have to admit it’s very nice to wallow in this exhaustion every now and then and recharge my batteries. With so many great things in my life recently and lots of good ones coming up, I know that I am ok and am in fact happy, genuinely happy, and feeling like myself again (which I haven’t been for a little bit). I also know that things will work out, but just for a little bit, I need a moment to breath and recover.

So, that has been my life for the last week. So much has happened and it’s been so wonderful. As my friend said this weekend, this experience is very much like having your life put in fast forward in many ways. We are forced to analyze our lives and ourselves to such an extreme extent in such a short period of time. I find myself looking at the roller coaster of emotions model and feeling like the speed has been cranked up to at least double that of normal speeds, and maybe that of safe ones too. It also seems so easy to derail. But for now, I feel more like me than I have in several months and that means that I am in fact, not about to derail. So, that’s a good thing, right!? Haha. Anyways, I miss you all so much and am still envious of the snow you are all getting back in the states. Tomorrow marks month nine at site, meaning I only have 15 left! Time is going so fast. So much love to all of you and thank you so much for being such a great support system. Until we meet again… may the winds be always at your back!

 Pictures: 1.Women dancing at opening of International women's day 2. Feeding kids 3. The kid I spoke about watching while he struggled to eat 4. After being drug out on the dance floor 5.Community kids 6. View into Nyungwe towards Lake Kivu 7. A Tree 8. A view of part of Banda village

Ramblings of a temporary Rwandan wanderer

            I often vent to my Rwandan friend Justin, about the constant attention and other small grievances that exhaust me throughout the day. The relationship is mutual, he tells me about his struggles at school and otherwise. He’s probably the most open-minded and respectful friend that I have made in my Peace Corps journey thus far. So, I was very saddened to discover in a recent conversation with him, all the hardships that have been brought on him, simply by being my friend. An 18 year-old boy who goes to school five days a week, as well as comes to my house in the morning and again in the evening to cook, clean and do the laundry of my three roommates. I am constantly amazed by the “imbaraga” or strength Rwandans seem to have. They work and work and work, cooking, cleaning, school, jobs, and they never seem to be tired. Justin is an amazing example of this.

            He does small jobs for me, to which I always overpay him, but he is not my “houseboy.” This fact seems to be overlooked by members of my community, as they all assume that he works for me, and because I am a foreigner, I must have lots of money. I’ve explained repetitively that this is not the case and if they’d like to take care of my college debt for me, or give me some money so my bank account has something substantial in it, I’d really appreciate it. To which, many often reply, “no, you lie.” A student from the secondary school decided to try out his English with me the other day. He told me he’d really like to come to America because there are no problems there, everyone has a job. It’s almost laughable to think of the USA not having any problems, or anywhere in the world for that matter, but I usually patiently try to explain some of the problems we also have. Poverty, joblessness, hunger, and domestic violence are common issues that people scoff at when I say they exist in the USA and are in fact prevalent.

            So, I am happy to overpay Justin to go buy me onions or till my garden for me, but he’s still not my “houseboy.” Some people assume as a white person, I am incapable of cooking, cleaning, etc. so I must have a “houseboy.” Having been in my community around eight months now, it was immensely disheartening to learn that merchants in town overcharge Justin whenever he goes to buy, whether for me, my roommates, his family, or himself. They tell him because he works for me, that he has lots of money. Students at school ask him constantly if he is my husband, and a group of boys he considered “friends” forced him to pay them around $5 or around half his monthly wages to get his school registration card back. I was so mad. So, because of me, he is viewed and treated differently in this community, and very much like many people towards me, they simply don’t listen, or don’t want to, when he tells them that I do not have lots of money,  nor does he.

            It was upsetting to discover that I was actually making someone’s life harder, especially such a valuable friend’s. I did not join the Peace Corps to cause problems for people, or make their lives worse, nor did I think that was a possibility. So, sitting sadly across from Justin, he looks at me and says “Ntabwo nzapfa” or “I won’t die.” It’s the closest I could get to, “I’ll survive,” an expression I taught him, which I’ve used so much throughout my life, with a deep breath and a shoulder shrug. The lesson was shared within my first months at site, when my struggles were bed bugs, cooking, mopping my room, and knowing where anything was in my community, and he quickly picked it up. He says this and we grin, and I guess it’s true. Fortunately I can help him in other ways, and hopefully in the long run I will have done more good than harm to his life and existence.

So, speaking of being a Peace Corps volunteer, I am progressing as normal at my site. My GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) club is going well and there are talks with my Rwandan counterpart there to maybe try to do a one day camp in the future in Kinyarwanda. The camps we will do again in November/December will probably be done in English, and many of the students in rural schools do not have good enough English levels for this. I am working with the nutritionist and community health supervisor to develop project ideas to do an income generating activity that also promotes nutrition. Currently we are thinking chickens and eggs as protein is the major substance people are missing. We’ve also talked about re-kindling the motivation for kitchen gardens or personal gardens. I’m toying with the possibility and more importantly plausibility to do a community garden, but it does not seem like the most applicable option for the population I serve.

            Hopefully I will also receive resources here shortly for educating the community surrounding gender based violence prevention. Other than that, there are lots of little projects going on to keep me busy. I am still able to get out into my community at least once a week to visit specific groups or villages. About 5 kilometers past the tea factory is the closest village of Uwingugu, one of the cells in my sector. I had only been there once before, but I wanted to re-establish contact. I never ceases to amaze me how much the Rwandan landscape can change pretty much overnight. It took me around two hours to reach the village and was so pleasantly surprised that people knew/remembered who I was. It’s always nice when someone who you are relatively sure you never met, turns to other people and says, “No, she is not Muzungu, she is Munezero.” Muzungu means foreigner or white person, and Munezero is my Rwandan name, meaning joy.

            In the months since I had been there, every hillside surrounding the town had been dug up and terraced. The population was in the process of planting new tea plants on the fresh-made terraces. In a place with so much rain, and therefore so much green everywhere, the dirt covered hills were shocking. Granted, the next time I go there, it will probably be flourishing with leafy tea plants. Things grow so quickly here. My garden has had its struggles, mostly due to excessive water. Many of my seeds have drowned over numerous plantings, and “the rainy season” which is pretty much “the season” at my site. But, my lettuce mix and cilantro sprouted and remained around 6-12 inches high for the 2 weeks of “the dry season”. After three or four days of rain, they are now above waist high. At least I know I can make salsa whenever I want!

             I also ventured out this last week to visit one of my favorite cooperatives. They are a (mostly) women basket weaving cooperative. Much to my pleasure they were having one of their bi-weekly meetings so I got to visit with all of them. They were working on making some grass reed mats as well, which they invited me to try out. So amidst the laughter of myself and three or four women, I tried to copy the gestures of hands that seem completely disconnected from the brain at this point as these women appeared to be able to do the necessary movements in their sleep. They are always so welcoming to me, and the women even come to the health center to visit me, which is so nice. At some point I will purchase some of their beautiful baskets.

            This cooperative is located on the edge of a village which itself is located on the edge of Nyungwe National Park. I’ve only ever been there 8 or so times in the nine months I’ve spent at my site, but rarely do I ever get called Muzungu there. Adults and children call out “Munezero” in greeting and are always wonderfully friendly. It’s fast becoming one of my favorite places to visit. This is so different than my experience going into town, where I go at least once a week to buy food, and have to pass through on my way to community health worker meetings or doing my GLOW club. It’s highly possible that I haven’t made even one trip there without being called Muzungu by someone. I have my friends, my shopkeepers, the people I go out of my way to say hi to, but there’s always someone, and often adults, not just the children that call me Muzungu. It’s not the most uplifting place to adventure to in my community. But, it’s also really nice to have friends and connections in all the places I go here.

I am never able to get in a bus without seeing a friend, or a bus-full of them. Even in Nyamagabe, an hour away, merchants at the market recognize me and greet me by name. It’s nice to not always simply be a Muzungu to people, but to be recognizable. To see the look of happiness that crosses their faces when they see me, as well as feeling my happiness by being in the company of a friend. It is a wonderful reprieve from some of the struggles I may have. As much as I’d like the ability to attain anonymity, these relationships are so helpful in maintaining mental equilibrium at least and even pushing that equilibrium to the positive side. So, we are in March. My mom comes to visit in almost exactly two months… so EXCITED! And until then, I will be keeping busy, no surprise I have a wedding appearance to be made, a hiking adventure planned, and hopefully a trip to Lake Kivu.

I am very happy to hear my brother and Kaleigh are moving to Bend, it was  a very nice place to spend part of my "growing up." I’m happy Grandpa Stan gets to hang out with his granddaughter often as well, because he’s totally head over heels for that girl! My family has been awesome about sending me pictures of them with my niece Gracie. In recent photos, I can see the kitchen and other places of my dad’s home, and it’s so weird. Seeing an “American” kitchen with tiled walls and granite countertops, cabinetry! Even though I lived there for three years, seeing those images seems almost like a foreign country to me now, especially with an adorable baby hanging out in them. I am also happy that my mom is about to set out on her adventures with her new home and a freedom I’m not sure you are granted very often in life, especially when you have children. Maybe she’ll start a blog so we can follow her adventures. Haha! It’s very empowering that my family and friends have such unique and often extraordinary lives, while I am living mine as well. I very much look forward to the day all our adventures bring us back together again! So much love to all of you. I miss you lots and tons! Until next we meet… may the road rise to meet you!

 Pictures: 1. Yet another rendition of "the view outside my house" 2. A child carrying goods home on her head 3.The tea plantations, they kind of looked like the movement of water in that picture 4. My garden (excluding the corn), and 5. A woman making a grass rug at the basket weaving cooperative

Since last we met...

I have been immensely fortunate in my life to be surrounded by amazing people, but especially amazing women. From my family, (my mother, grandmothers, aunts) to my group of women friends, I truly know incredible women. They are smart, intuitive, innovative, free-spirited, insightful, creative, unique, powerful, and life-altering (at least to my life).

Coming to Rwanda, I was dropped into a family where I now had four Rwandan sisters as well as a Rwandan host-mother. I found it easy to communicate with my sisters while I was living there, but I would sit in awkward silences across the table from my host-mother. I would point to something and fumble out “iki n’iki” which means “what is this.” She would say a word and I would struggle with saying it over and over as a way to fill these silences. I would walk out of my room unsure of cultural acceptability of my outfits and say “ntakibazo?” which means “no problem.” So this was my connection with my host mother. All I wanted, and I remember thinking to myself, all I want with my language level is to be able to have a conversation and therefore a relationship with this woman.

Mama Doka, my host-mother, got married at 17 while living in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC); her husband, Pastor Bonnke, is also Rwandan. She gave birth to her first five children in DRC before returning to Rwanda a year or two after the genocide. She speaks French, Kinyarwanda and Swahili fluently and never had much schooling, none after she got married. She is a pastor’s wife, and a Rwandan woman which means she takes care of her husband. She raises the children, she does the cooking, cleaning, laundry, everything. I’ve heard there is a saying in Rwanda, that once a man gets married he’ll never have to do his own laundry again. Her oldest child is in university in Uganda, their oldest girl just started university in December.

So, I sat across from her for ten weeks hoping to be able to have the slightest conversation other than, “what is this” again. This woman who raised seven amazing kids and had also taken in her brother’s son while I was living there. This woman who would walk to the market, returning with a large bag of produce on her head, who would farm cassava at dawn, then come home and make sure everyone was ready for school, including me. I am inspired by her, just like all those other amazing women who have helped shape who I am, how I look at the world, and what kind of woman I want to be.

Rwandans (in general) tend to have a look on their faces that I would equate to a scowl. This does not necessarily imply they’re discontent because as soon as I greet them they tip their hat and grin. I laugh regularly with Rwandans and we make jokes all the time. But many Rwandans, when taking on a face of non-expression, can appear unhappy. I received this look from my host mother a lot. In our silent breakfasts, or alone together, unable to communicate. But as my Kinyarwanda language level improved, the less I saw that face and the more I heard her laugh. Now when I talk to her on the phone, she has one of those voices you can hear the smile in.

I noticed the change in her (with me) maybe six months into being in Rwanda. I went to her 25^th wedding anniversary ceremony. I watched her, as she smiled and laughed for hours, in what was the first time I actually remembered her not seeming unhappy. As my time has continued to progress, we talk on the phone, having conversations for up to 20 minutes (which is also strange for Rwandans), they often have brief conversations in which they don’t even say goodbye at the end. A lot of times I’m never sure when a conversation is actually over until I get hung up on. This is also a common thing that we as volunteers pick up, so if I hang up on anyone without saying goodbye, I should apologize in advance! But, not to digress, I have developed a level of language that I can now communicate, really talk, with my host-mother. We laugh, and even have inside jokes now. Although I would never have chosen the life she’s led (married at 17, seven children, taking care of her husband without much of anything in return), I have so much respect for her. It was an empowering moment when I was finally able to communicate with her. It’s incredibly inspiring to know amazing women in foreign countries. I’ve worked with and heard about women doing incredible things around the world, but to actually know them and have relationships with them is very different.

So this is my tribute to my host-mother, but also to all the women in my life, friends and family, thank you so much for everything you’ve done for me, as well as how much you’ve given me without even knowing! This, of course, is not to downplay the men in my life, as I know incredible men too who have shaped and changed me for the better, who have taught me life lessons and helped make me into me. Thanks to you all as well, but I’m sorry, this particular post was dedicated to the women I know.

As for the rest of my life, not much has changed since my last post. Although it’s been almost a month, no special events or trips have occurred. Peace Corps Rwanda recently had a program review (being that it is a new program, only three years old so far since their return after the 1994 Genocide). People from Peace Corps Washington came out, amongst other PC characters. They came to my site to visit, and the fact that I’m living with three Rwandan men was revisited and brought to light, apparently. Although I voiced concerns initially, I have not actually had any problems and I’ve come to love my house, it is my Rwandan home. I have decorated the house, bought furniture, etc. On my way into Kigali the other weekend I got a call from my program director about having a meeting. Turns out, they want my housing situation to change, which I understand, but also makes me a little sad because I don’t want to leave my house. But, we will see what happens there.

As I mentioned I was in Kigali (the capital city) for a weekend and am going back this coming one for meetings. It was the mental break and rejuvenator that I needed. I was able to visit with other PCVs (volunteers), but also had access to wireless internet and got to Skype with my mom, as well as Ry, K and Gracie. It was the first time that I got to actually see my niece outside of a still picture. The baby in the picture above is my co-worker's daughter. She is about a month younger than Gracie. I got hot showers in Kigali, foreign food (by that I mean, not Rwandan) and was able to rest. My next trip will be full of meetings, but hopefully I can get some
resting done as well.

I had lunch with my site mate (Nick) the other day, who I hadn’t really spent any time with in about a month. He recently learned how to make refried beans, and the cilantro in my garden is finally big enough, so we made refried beans, tortillas and salsa. It was awesome! First salsa I have actually had in nine months!!!! Can any of you believe that? In case you didn’t know, I’m a salsa fiend! So, in other words, life is going well. The picture below is my host mother sorting beans.

I do not mean to consistently put a positive spin on my service, as I have had my share of struggles. For the last few months, I have been emotionally frustrated and exhausted. Consistently trying to be accepted into Rwandan culture, I began to feel like I wasn’t able to be myself. I got tired of being told what to do and how to do it, coupled with people, friends, believing that I couldn’t do it. Finding a “support system” here in country has been a unique experience and “fitting in” in every group I’m supposed to be a part of has appeared as a struggle before me. I recently heard (whether Peace Corps rumor mill or fact is unclear) that Rwanda is apparently a hard country to serve in emotionally, in the scheme of Peace Corps countries. Even before the genocide, there were apparently only 115-ish volunteers who finished their two year service in almost 20 years before PC withdrew in 1993. Whether these statements are true or not, they make me feel a little relieved.

Peace Corps service is not easy wherever it is done, in any of the 70+ countries world-wide that they serve. But these statements, made me feel better about my emotions in country as well as several of the volunteers I know who have gone home early since I’ve been here. I have complete respect for those people making the decision that they did, as I have learned in the nine months I’ve been here, this experience is not for everyone, and although I’m happy with my decision, and definitely want to be here, I’m still not sure if it was “the” right decision for me. I’m sure that is confusing, but I find it hard to articulate many feelings about Peace Corps to myself let alone to people who have not experienced it.

So this experience has had its ups and downs, as it’s supposed to. Not only have I learned a lot about Rwanda, Rwandan Culture, Peace Corps, and international development, I’ve learned a lot about myself, and I expect to learn lots more. How could I not, right? Although I’m not sure completely how this will shape me, I believe that I am here for the right reasons, and I’m learning the lessons that I need to. I’m nearing my tenth month in country, and am ¼ of the way through my service, leaving 1.5 years left. It helps me to think of it in months or quarters though. I have one set of six-months down and three to go. Three sets of six-months doesn’t actually seem that long. The group I came with, arrived in country with 20 people and we are officially down to 15. We are about to be the “senior” group of health volunteers as well, as the group before us finish in May. It’s almost like high school accelerated. One day you wake up and have no idea how you became an upper-classman.

I recently received packages from my mom, dad, and grandma, which was so awesome. Mac and cheese, sour gummy worms, homemade cookies! Although I am running out of room, and it will be slightly obnoxious if I do end up needing to move, these things really help to make me feel normal. It’s the same with any message of home, cards, e-mails, facebook posts. So, thank you all so much for your continued effort at communicating with me. It means a lot and brightens up my day. My wonderful friend Megan sent me to Rwanda with a gift of about ten cards with different scenarios on them. “Open this when you are feeling sick” and other such directions are written on the outsides. These combined with all the other modes of communication with home have been a mental life-saver! Thank you all so very very much! This post was unusual relative to my norm, although it still holds its randomness and general levels of stream-of-consciousness style writing. I hope it was still just as interesting. I love you all and miss you lots! Thanks for all your support and inspiration! I couldn’t do this without all of you back home!

(The first three pictures were just taken around my site, a woman bringing in her tea clippings, the main road that goes through my site and all the way to DRC, and sunflowers!)