Part II. Arriving in Rwanda

With my head uncovered and my arms exposed I take an afternoon run through the hills of Rwanda. Part of me is panicking, thinking that what I’m doing is COMPLETELY inappropriate (blatantly exercising in the middle of the day!?). My Mauritania social norms still stick to me like peanut butter in the throat. I swallow, take a deep breath and let the new rush over me. The landscape is absolutely gorgeous. Green pierces and rich browns spread over the continuous hills. Trees stretch to praise the sky and the dirt road is packed and smooth beneath my feet. As I run people greet me in the Rwandan dialect Kinyarwanda and cheer me along.
“Miriwe! Amakuru!?” They yell from their houses and the street as I pass them.
“Ni Meza.” I say in between breaths, “I’m fine.”
To my right a few little barefoot guys who appear to be about 4 years old make me feel really great about my current exercise shape. They pop along at my side with that endless child energy and smile up at me from 3 feet down. People laugh and shake heads at the sight of a tall American running with Rwandan children in tow. They stick with me up and down, up and down the hills, occasionally imitating my long jaunt - lifting their legs up high and giggling. “Let’s go!” I tell them, “Genda!” But soon their little lungs can’t take much more and one by one they drop off. The last tiny guy bursts forward, glancing back and proving to his tired friends he is clearly the best.
As I run along the road, the vast differences between Mauritania and Rwanda spread before me like the endless hills. Vegetation instead of sand, cool breeze instead of desert heat, spotless streets instead of garbage filled… The list is endless. This is a place where I can enjoy a beer in the evening. A place where I can wear pants without getting stares. It is a new world I am just beginning to explore.
It’s been about 3 weeks since I touched down on the fertile soil of Rwanda and slowly, I’m getting a feel of what makes this country flow. I began my Kinyarwanda classes 2 weeks ago and can now say things like, “I have a pen. I write with my pen. I like to write. I am in the classroom.” Pretty impressive… I think Paul Rusesbagina said it beautifully in his book An Ordinary Man. He wrote “…the beautiful language of Kinyarwanda, in which I first learned the names of the world’s many things in rich deep vowels made at the back of the throat. Bird, inyoni. Mud, urwoondo. Stones, amabuye. Milk, amata.” He speaks the truth. It is an elegant language and I look forward to being able to converse with Rwandans. Unlike Mauritania, with 3.5 million people, 4 dialects and 3 languages, Rwanda’s population of 10 million speak only Kinyarwanda, French and soon, English. President Paul Kagame initiated a new Education Reform, which will begin during the next school year in 2010 (The school year here is January-October). The reform makes schooling compulsory and free through the American equivalent of 9th grade and also requires English to be the language of instruction for all subjects starting in 1st grade. This reform won’t be easy, and won’t be fast, but it will change Rwanda in many ways. For example, it will give the opportunity for Rwanda to become the trade and business hub of surrounding countries (Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania…) and open international opportunities.
This education reform isn’t the only change Rwanda will implement; the country is embarking upon a new and exciting journey. With such a tragic history, it is like a phoenix pulling itself out of ashes and starting anew. 15 years ago Rwanda was a different place. Brothers and sisters fought over ethnic divisions and wrestled in power struggles. Children were slaughtered, women were demoralized and men were cut down. Genocide reared its ugly head and ripped once again into the beautiful earth.
The seeds of this genocide were planted long ago and grew like weeds until they choked off reason. Early on when the Belgians arrived and passed out identity cards, claiming Tutsis were superior in intelligence and attractiveness, hatred simmered. In 1959, when Hutus rose up against the Tutsis to defend their rights in a debated “revolution”, hatred bubbled. In 1973, with independence gained and monarchy on its way out, the struggle for power erupted in the slaughtering of Tutsi intellectuals, hatred boiled. Then, in 1994, Rwanda could not contain the rolling roaring boil and the deep historical hate resulted in the death of 1 million.
In Rwandan eyes I see a sadness tucked into the corners. There are broken homes amid the newly built. Strength and struggle, side by side. For now I am absorbing as much as I can in training, which will end December 17th. I am living with language teachers and volunteers in a simple house. It’s back to bucket baths, laundry by hand and hole-in-the-ground toilets (but with toilet paper this time!!). I have a host family that I visit during the week – Mamma Louise, Papa Willie, Wilson (7) and John (5), and I couldn’t have been placed with a better family. Louise sits with me in her little shop when I drop by in the afternoons, telling me new words in Kinyarwanda and chatting in French. At her house, John and Wilson put on dance shows, showing off their impressive moves. I am starting from square one, forming new relationships and culturally adapting once again.
I stayed late at my host family’s house one night, eating a dinner of rice, delicious greens and chunks of meat while sipping banana wine (which in my opinion tastes like a chocolate banana). When the time came to walk home, the whole family put on light jackets and lead me down the twisty pathway. John held my hand as we walked and babbled away in Kinyarwanda.
“Do you know what he just said?” Louise asked me in French, laughing softly at her young son. “He asked what happened to the birds in the night – if they fly into the sky and get swallowed by dark.”
I look at John, his little hand grabbing mine and his eyes glowing as he gazed into the starry night. I think about his childlike wonder and I’m happy Rwanda is trying to build a better future for him rather than continuing to be consumed by violence. I feel hope that he will grow into a wise man – not just about birds in the night, but about the history and the future of his beautiful country.