The road out of Kigali

     It was somewhat of a relief to leave the Genocide Center, though in Rwanda you NEVER leave the Genocide far behind.  We did leave Kigali (pronounced CHigali in the local dialect) behind as Moses, Jackie, Emma, and I headed northwest.  The countryside was VERY beautiful.  There has been a bountiful rainy season there, and the grass was green, the crops were flourishing, and the cattle were fat.
     Rwanda is known as a country of a thousand hills, and those hills are spectacularly beautiful though they make for challenging roads.
    I think the thing that struck me most about driving through the countryside was that what we Americans think of as Africa is about as naive as those foreign visitors we occasionally encounter at home who expect to find herds of buffalo, Indians in eaglefeather headdresses, and covered wagons in the U.S.  Outside of the national parks, Rwanda didn't seem "wild" at all.  Every inch of

space, even that on very steep, very high hills was cultivated to the max.  Terraces were built into every hillside, even those so steep it would feel like you could fall out of your field any time you swung a pick there.  There is so much more undeveloped private land home in Wisconsin than there is in central east Africa--at least the parts I saw.
     




















                                                                                         And there are SO many people.  Everywhere. 

Einsteins in waiting?

In the fields, on the roads, in their yards, in the villages, everywhere.  To my rural eyes, it was astoundingly crowded.  And this is in the deep dark heart of Africa, near the "source of the Nile," literally the "heart of darkness."  And of course the poverty.   I'd see these tiny children tending herds of goats or cattle, or gathering sticks for cook fires, and think:  "What if that child has the brain of Albert Einstein or Stephen Hawkings?  What if that child has the potential to be a great painter, composer, athlete, poet?"  There is no way their talent could be cultivated here, no way at all, and maybe it was nasty of me, but I felt an acute sense of waste.
     And the other thing that impressed me was how BUSY people seemed to me simply engaged in the business of living.  Gathering wood for cooking seemed to be a full time occupation.  People are not permitted to cut live trees, so you see old men and children carrying loads of long dead sticks for apparently long distances.  Gathering WATER is equally labor intensive.  It seemed as if the typical African family doesn't have running water in their homes, and so they are obliged to travel quite some distance to a community well somewhere and carry water home.  These big yellow jerry cans could be seen everywhere, being carried by people on their heads.  Can you imagine what the weight of, say, 10 gallons, of water would feel like on your head, neck, and shoulders?  And we westerners don't have a clue as to how we'd manage without a refrigerator or a clothes dryer.  But there it was obvious that food must be prepared and eaten right away, and clothes needed to be hung out on bushes or grass to dry.  And everyone needs something to SELL.  Bananas for example.  I even saw several people with cages filled with live grasshoppers taking them to market.  Seeing all this was sobering, to say the least.  But on the other hand, EVERY ONE appeared to have cell phones.
     We were headed to the area of Volcanoes National Park, near the bustling city of Ruhengeri, and we did arrive at our hotel--the Hotel Muhabura--in time for a late lunch.  It was a nice oldish hotel, rather simple, but very comfortable.  And it had WiFi service so excellent I was able to phone Scott and catch up with news from home---and, oddly enough, news from Zimbabwe, which he was following closely but which I didn't have access to.  
    But what was most notable about Ruhengiri--and what was referred to everywhere--was the legacy of one of my heroes, Dian Fossey.  It was high in the Volcanoes that her research camp was, and it was the Hotel Muhabura where she kept a room for when she came down the mountain for the occasional necessary contact with civilization.  MUCH more about Dian Fossey later.

The Genocide

     Of COURSE the first stop of our upcoming week's travels was the Genocide Center. Being only about 20 years ago, the Genocide is very much in the forefront of the Rwandan collective consciousness.  I was there in November, but I understand that the time from April to July, the anniversary of the actual 100 days of genocide, is a time when Rwandans are even more self-reflective and sad.
     There are two things in particular that made an impression on me regarding the Genocide.  The

first and most obvious is the sheer scale of the thing.  People were killed all over Rwanda, not just Kigali, and so many excavation sites and farm fields are even now turning up genocide victims.  At the Genocide Center, it is shocking enough to see that over a quarter million people are buried there now, but even more shocking that there is an open chamber to accommodate the more and more victims whose remains are being found.   And another somber reminder that the Genocide is a MODERN phenomenon, not something that happened in deep dark past, are the dozens of floral tributes brought by mourners who are grieving people who were lost in the mourners' 
lifetimes.
     But perhaps what touched me even more profoundly was how Rwanda has "moved on" from the bloody tragedy.  Right after the Genocide, thousands of "genocidaires" were arrested and charged with thousands of counts of murder.  Rwanda was committed to due process for all those charged and found that it took at least a year or two to get even one accused genocidaire to trial.  They had tens of thousands of prisoners awaiting trial, and it was estimated that they couldn't get the job of trying all the accused genocidaires done for at least 75 years.  
     And Rwanda was (and still is) a poor country.  How could they afford to imprison all these people for so long a time, especially when they had whole communities to re-build?

Ready for newly discovered victims

     How they resolved this issue simply blows me away.  They assigned every district of Kigali and every village in Rwanda to have their own local councils, which were directed to hear the cases against the accused and to arrive at a just method of reconciliation.  People confronted their former neighbors who killed their own family members and perhaps maimed them with their machetes.  Apologies were made.  Lots of tears were shed, and lots of property was exchanged.  And the genocidaires were released from prison and reintegrated into Rwandan society.  Can you IMAGINE????
     When I walked and drove around thousands of Rwandans, it was impossible for me not to think,  "Hmmm . . . .  were YOU a genocidaire?  Or how about you?"  Maybe that's an American way of thinking.  I simply cannot imagine Americans being able to foregive and forget on this scale. 

Grief expressed in flowers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

 

Ubumuntu

     So much for the euphoria of Dancing Queen.  I am at LEAST as morose as the cowboy on the dusty road in Nevada.  My moroseness comes from the acute shame that "my" president created for the entire United States by crassly and stupidly dismissing all of Africa, together with Haiti--reportedly.  Click here if you've been in a coma the past few days.  My shame is compounded by the many commentators opining that what the president says may be blunt but represents what many--maybe most--Americans really think.  I refuse to believe that's true, even though I have to admit that there is some evidence for the truth of this ugly proposition.

     So, being 

that today (when

 I am writing

this entry) is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and being that the entry I planned for today is about Kigali's Genocide Center, I am calling this entry the Kinyarwanda word "Ubumuntu" in the hopes that I can make a teeny tiny contribution to that concept.

Kigali's Genocide Center is beautiful, respectful, and of course somber.  We Americans are probably only familiar with "The Genocide" through the movie Hotel Rwanda and the occasional other moving stories that comes across our U.S.-centric consciousness.  The Center tells the story of possibly the worst 100 days in world history in 1994, during which Rwandan turned against Rwandan, the result being the horrible deaths of at least a fifth of the country's population.  [Oh, and while I'm beating up on the U.S., allow me to point out that the U.S. ignored the situation in Rwanda at that time, being too preoccupied with Bosnia.  It may well be worth noting that Bosnians are white.]
    Let's all strive for Ubumuntu.

Swedes in Africa, Part II

     I had the hotel dining balcony all to

myself while eating my delicious goat stew.  I'd ordered goat because, well, it's not every day one has the choice to eat goat, and I'm always curious about the meat that is said to be the most widely eaten meat in the world.   I sat outside in the very pleasant evening air and looked over the magnificent hills of Kigali. 
     As I ate, I was forced to become aware of the music that was being played on the hotel's sound system.  It was, of ALL things, country western music, of the particularly twangy variety.  I'm not a fan of country western music, and especially not the twangy variety, but I did find it bemusing that here I was in one of the most remote cities in the world--in fact, not all that far from the proverbial "heart of darkness"--and what was I listening to but some poor soul singing about a dusty road somewhere in Nevada?  It never occurred to me that this music selection was anything other than fortuitous.
     UNTIL, that is, I was joined in the dining area by a pair of gentlemen, who certainly appeared to be professional businessman-types.  I could tell they were northern European from the little I could hear of their conversation.  Well, when they sat down, the music abruptly changed, and all of a sudden we were treated to a huge selection of ABBA songs!  I had no idea I was familiar with so many ABBA songs.  What a change from the melancholy cowboy songs to the aggressive cheerfulness of this happy group.  "There was something in the air that night . . . "  Oh, boy.
     I'm slow on the uptake.  I still didn't understand until one of the guys actually stood up at his table and exclaimed loudly "It's ABBA!  It's ABBA!!!!!  They're from SWEDEN!!!!!!!"  And when we had a brief chat, the same gentleman told me he was from the 54th state of the United States:  Sweden.  I couldn't imagine why he called his home country the 54th state of the U.S., and he told me that in his opinion, Sweden had adopted American culture wholesale.
     With ABBA still merrily singing in the background, I wondered if it was perhaps the other way around.  I also wondered what the hotel's music selection must be like and how many nationalities it could accommodate.

    



     By the way, this hotel had the coolest palm-type plant I have ever seen.  It was shockingly symmetrical, and very very cool (I thought).   It made me feel as happy as . . . . . well . . . .  a dancing queen.

An almost weird transition

     I can't say I worked hard at EDD, but my days were pretty full.  I'd made a lot of friends there, so by the time Monday rolled around and it was time for me to go, I was feeling sad.  Dalia sat and waited with me when all of a sudden, it started thundering, which was not new, because we had little thunderstorms almost every afternoon.  But this was QUITE the storm, and lots of hail came down, and we stood transfixed at the window, watching the hailstones bounce off the grass and walkways.  Then, just as abruptly, it cleared up and was pleasant again.
     That's when Charles arrived at the house with Moses and Jackie.  This was a BIG EVENT!  Moses and I were astonished to meet each other after so long an email correspondence, and Jackie, I later learned, is a master of big events.  She is continually taking photos, as if every single moment needs recording.  So, in a flurry of activity, Charles and I said our farewells, and I loaded into the safari vehicle with my new friends.
     From the first moment, the change was astounding.  While I guess I wasn't actually an employee of EDD, I definitely "worked" there, whereas from the very first moment, Moses and Jackie made me feel as if they were responsible to satisfy any little demand I might think of.  The treatment was royal.  And I met Emma (short for Emmanuel), their driver, who jointly undertook responsibility for my happiness.
     We zipped across Kigali and soon found ourselves

Step Town Motel, Kigali

on the patio of a lovely little hotel where I was shown an extremely nice room for the night.  Not only was it beautiful, but it had hot running water!  I was longing for a shower.  The four of us sat down together and discussed the schedule of what we would be doing for the next week.
    It was a little disconcerting to hear the first day's schedule.  First thing, we were going to "the genocide."  After "the genocide" we would be heading out of town.  It was a little shocking to consider my personal schedule as pre and post genocide.  
     We talked about the whole week, and they left after assuring the hotel staff that dinner was included for my stay, and that I should have whatever I wanted for dinner.  I went for a nice hot shower and washed my hair, and indulged in a little nap before dinner.




Suddenly, I was in the lap of luxury! 

My room at EDD

My room at the Step Town Motel

The house at the school

     Initially I was pretty shocked by my accommodations at EDD.  But once I bought an adequate supply of bottled water and toilet paper, I began to feel quite at home.  I got into the habit of sitting outside my door on a little ledge there, drinking coffee,

"My" sitting area at "my" house

and enjoying the morning sun complete with lots of bird calls, the voices of kids playing at the school (perhaps 100 yards away), and the voices of passers-by chatting on the street up the hill from the house.  It amused me that a few days into my stay, I could hear the word "American" punctuate conversations that were otherwise in Kinyarwanda.  Word travels.
     "My" portion of the house consisted of two bedrooms (the other of which was occupied only one night by my British roommates, who moved on the second day--was it something I said?), a bathroom, kitchen, and little sitting room.  There were at least two others homes in the same building, one belonging to Jean-Claude, who is a former resident of EDD and now works there in a counselling and logistical capacity, and one belonging to the cook at EDD and her daughters. 
     The youngest daughter is Dalia, who became my new best friend.  She was getting close to 10

years old.  She and I enjoyed many companionable hours together the week I was at EDD.  We had many interests in common, and I particularly enjoyed her sharp wit, her obvious intelligence, and her absolutely insouciant attitude about being the only little girl living amongst 160 young boys.   She gave me the impression, without actually saying so, that she firmly believed they just weren't worth worrying about.  I know that will change in a few years, but at this point, Dalia could not be less interested.
     Dalia and I enjoyed painting small watercolors together.  Most of hers were of the greeting card format, and occasionally I get the best feeling when I come across one of the little cards she made for me.






Here's one of them:

It was Dalia's school break time when I was there, and we talked about school a lot.  She was very much looking forward to getting back to school, which she loved.  She told me she was third in her class.  I was surprised, actually.  It was hard for me to imagine any 9-year-olds quicker and more articulate than Dalia.
     I like to play Sudoku, and I almost always pick up the biggest book of hard Sudokus the airport shops have to offer.  I had one with me at EDD, and Dalia wanted to know what it was all about.  She picked it up in no time.

Dalia learns first world frustration

A few days ago, I sent Dalia a big book of sudodu puzzles.  I hope that every time she gets angry and upset and mutters "Oh my God,"  she will think of me.

News From Zimbabwe

    Some of my friends have occasionally asked me, "Aren't you afraid to travel to Zimbabwe?"  I was nervous the first time.  Seeing President Mugabe's face on display at the airport when I first arrived a couple of years ago WAS an intimidating sight.  Mugabe is, of course, the stuff from which Africa's worst legends are made, and in the 37 years he has been in office, he has wrought incredible privation to the country.  I was so disarmed by the welcoming cordiality of the Zimbabwean people, that the almost-honest answer has alway been, "No.  I am not afraid."
     That wasn't entirely true.  One thing I did fear was that Mugabe would either die or fall while I was actually in the country.  I was afraid that there would be a complicated and probably bloody struggle for power and that the presence of Americans would not be very welcome at such a chaotic time.
     I flew out of Zimbabwe on a Monday evening.  My heart actually skipped a beat when I read in the Wednesday morning papers that Mugabe was under arrest!  My first thought was for the safety of my friends there, including the foreign volunteers at Imire.  I sent out urgently inquiring emails and worried worried worried.   I talked African politics with my new Rwandan friends--no strangers to bloody transitions--and was not reassured.
     Talk about pleasant surprises!  The emails I received in return were not calamitous; they were joyous and confident.  No blood spilled, not even Mugabe's.  The only disruption on the streets were spontaneous outbursts of celebration.  Planes were coming and going as scheduled.  And volunteers were coming and going from Imire as usual.
     I was particularly struck by one email I got in which it took five paragraphs before the writer MENTIONED the transition!   There was just this overwhelming sense of optimism that finally, Zimbabwe's horrendous economy and standing in the world was on the mend.  No more 90% unemployment rate.  No more billion-per cent inflation.  No more prohibition of investment and commerical agriculture.  No more corruption????
    Well, of course, there is some reason to have reservations.  The new president is a close former associate of Mugabe.  He DOES have the inauspicious nickname "Crocodile."  But the mood was and still is (as of the writing of this entry)  upbeat and hopeful.
     As for this eco-tourist, I was much reassured by this article in The Guardian and the accompanying photograph (also from The Guardian).  Press here for the complete story.

 The young lady on the right is none other than President Emmerson Mnangagwa's youngest daughter Tariro.  She is a member of Zimbabwe's all-female anti-poaching unit.  That fact alone has GOT to be great news!

Mr. Charles Hazabintwali

    I have mentioned Charles only in passing so far.  It was through Charles I had initial contact with EDD.  It was Charles with whom I exchanged emails informing me what to be prepared for.  It was Charles who picked me up at the airport late that Monday night.  It was Charles who helped me with

the day to day complexities like Rwandan currency and buying food and using phones.  It was Charles who introduced me to the typical local diet (LOADS of potatoes!!).  And all this while performing his duties as executive director of EDD.
     Charles welcomed me into the heart of the school.  I enjoyed the way he conducted his every morning staff meeting.  I was so impressed with the inclusiveness of the meeting--how the whole staff met and contributed freely, even the night watchman.  Women staff members were clearly respected and their opinions valued.  He never allowed any consideration but the best interests of the kids to take precedence in decision-making.  And all this was very apparent to even one like me, who does not speak the language (Kinyarwanda) that the school's business was conducted in. 

     I was always interested in the topic of the Rwanda's terrible 1994 genocide, but worried about whether it was too delicate a topic to politely bring up.  Somehow Charles made it clear that we COULD (and should) talk about it.  These are only some of the things I learned from Charles:
     The famed conflict between Tutsis and Hutus was a rather artificial construction promoted by the Belgian colonizers.  It was very much in the interest of the Belgians to divide the population and encourage one faction to hate another faction and to feel the need to get the aid and support of the Belgians.  While there decidedly WERE at one time Tutsis and Hutus, there wasn't any particular animosity between them.  There was much inter-marriage and people lived in amongst each other, enjoyed friendships and the like.
     So the Belgians began a system of measuring people's heads and labelling them one way or another and requiring identification cards showing people to be one or the other.  They then encouraged each group to hate and blame each other.  Charles's own family saw the danger coming and left the country before the genocide occurred, but came back immediately afterward.  Immediately enough so that Charles remembers seeing massacred bodies strewn about Kigali, including very near EDD. 
     I think the single thing that impressed me the most is that now--only 20-some years later--the schism between Tutsis and Hutus has healed, and people mostly aren't even aware of which group their friends belong to.  It's hard for me to imagine Republicans and Democrats at home ever being able to heal their differences, much less grievances as large as these. 
     So Charles was not only responsible for educating me about Rwandan history, but he was the very model of kindness.  I certainly didn't expect him

to invite me to his home and meet his wife Adeline and 8-month-old baby boy Brave for a Sunday dinner.  But that's what he did.  It was actually the only Rwandan residence I was able to visit, and I was really flattered.  After dinner, Charles tried to teach us how to play Mancala, apparently a traditional African board game that is way too complicated for me to understand. 


     I felt sad when it was time to say good bye to Charles.  He told me he has two grant applications in the U.S. pending and, if he should be so fortunate to get one, he will be over to accept it.  If so, we will get together again.  I would really like that.

Experiment in International Relations, Part 2

     I had the bright idea that I should take photos of each writer together with the letter he'd written, so that the kids in Rhinelander could see what their correspondent looks like.  That did so not work.  Boys came and went, and letters piled up

and got shuffled around.  Anyway, I decided to feature here the two most accomplished letter writers at EDD, one for quantity and one for quality.  This is Moses, who was so enthusiastic about the project that he wrote to at least four kids, asking them such pertinent questions as what their favorite colors and classes were and what their opinion of Rwanda was.  Moses devoted so much to these letters that I hope beyond hope that he gets at least one response from Rhinelander!

This guy is Issa.  His English skills are phenomenonally good.  A young gentleman from Rhinelander named Hunter was the lucky recipient of Issa's letter.  Issa found he just couldn't stop writing.  Last count, there were four separate P.S.'s he added to the original letter.  I had visited the class in Rhinelander on the first really snowy day of the winter, and the kids were excited about the snowmen they had built that morning.  Issa could understand the concept "snowman," but struggled a little when I told him snowmen did not have feet.

     Winter, like in a typical Wisconsin winter, was a rather bewildering concept to most Africans.  They understood snow.  Who hasn't seen snow on TV and movies?  But the idea of how cold it is just isn't comprehensible.  I found that a surefire way to astound any African was to talk about ice fishing.  I would chatter away about driving one's car out onto a lake, drilling a hole, and fishing through the hole, sometimes actually catching a fish.  Most just laughed politely and thought I was kidding them. 

     Here's what Issa had to tell Hunter.  When I gave Hunter his letter from Issa, his eyes became like saucers and he read avidly.  Hunter's teacher Shari will be photoing the letters and sending them to Charles in Rwanda for delivery to the kids there.  Maybe some of these correspondences will have lasting power!

Issa's original letter to Hunter

And this is one of several P.S.'s Issa added.

                                                                                              

 

More about EDD

     While I was only at EDD for one week, I learned a lot.  I was fascinated with how the school is run.  Yes it is a charity licensed by the government of Rwanda, but its daily governance was to me amazing.   The boys themselves elect "ministers"--a prime minister, a health minister, an education minister, a finance minister, and more.  Each of them is subject to impeachment by the boys if they are not satisfied with how they are conducting themselves, and I understand impeachment is not a rare event.
    The ministers are truly responsible for the governance of the school.  For example, Charles, who is the executive director of the place, told me that he could not spend ANY money without the finance minister's signing his approval!
    I learned from several sources that a few years ago, there were a couple of American volunteers who very nearly started a coup d'etat!  They felt the boys were not being treated fairly by the staff and set the boys against the staff.  For awhile, things were very tense indeed, but then the Americans went home and things settled back down.  You know what troublemakers Americans can be.
     The other fascinating thing was that EDD is NOT an orphanage and its governmental approval depends on its on-going efforts to REINTEGRATE families.  So, in addition to the educational, residential, healthcare, nutritional, social, and moral responsibilities all addressed there, EDD must also work with the families of these children and develop a realistic reintegration plan.  Sometimes the locating of family members alone is a major undertaking.  Sometimes the kids are without a parent, and EDD then must try to locate grandparents, uncles, aunts, former neighbors, friends, ANYONE who might be able to provide the child with some support.  EDD provides counselling to the new home provider as well as financial assistance for school fees and other costs.
     This man, who I am proud to say

Shareef and an un-named American

has named himself my brother [ uh, Paul, meet our new brother] is in charge of the reintegration follow-through at EDD.  He is constantly on the road , looking for appropriate placements, providing counselling, and transporting people.  I simply cannot imagine how Shareef can get this all done.  I should think he would need an army of helpers, keeping in mind that there are about 160 kids at EDD, and he not only needs to address their reintegration needs but also follow-up on those who have left.  Of course he does share his mission with all 16 other staff members.
 ,
     I found myself very moved by the plight of one of the boys who had recently turned 18 and who
HAD to be reintegrated since EDD is not permitted to keep children beyond their 18th birthday.  He is terrified that his stepfather will resume the regular beatings he inflicted earlier.