A Little Kinyarwanda Lesson

I remember sighing an awful lot when starting to learn a new language again.  My brain was questioning my actions – TWO dialects in the same year?  I ignored these inquiries, opened my Kinyarwanda book, started making note-cards and prepared myself to make embarrassing conjugation and pronunciation mistakes.  And that I did, but as they say in Rwanda, Komera – Be Strong.  What I have happily discovered is that this language is enjoyable and filled with excellent sayings and some great sounding, though tongue twister, words.  We have 12 Kinyarwanda teachers and are split up into small groups of two or three for classes.  Each day we gather in small rooms, outside or in the cafeteria area.  Our teachers armed with chalk and a wobbly chalkboard would hammer out lessons, slowly building our knowledge.  My host family helped me in the learning process simply by being patient and also making me remember certain words and phrases then quizzing me.  We also lived with our language teachers which was also very helpful.  The 35 volunteers are split up into 4 houses around the small town of Nyanza and each house has about 4 teachers.  In my house Abel, Esperence and Assinath were great and always willing to answer questions.  I often sat with Assinath and we would exchange folk stories – me in English and her in Kinyarwanda – and write out the new words we learned.  Rwandan folk tales are fond of Hyena characters.  One in particular had the name “nkundakurjyabana” which translates to “I like to eat children”. 

Training is over now and I will be moving to my site the 29^th to start settling in before the school year starts February 1^st.  Just for fun – in the past couple months, these have been some of my favorite Kinyarwanda words.

Umudugudu – Village

Ikibazo – Question

Umukorerabushake – Volunteer

Ubuzima – Life

Ubumwe – Unity

Ikivumvuri – Beetle

Ceceka! – Shut-up

Sometimes two words are spelled the same, but pronounced differently.  Don’t confuse them!!

Gusura – To fart or Gusu(uu)ra – To visit

Umusambi – plastic mat or Umusa(aa)mbi – bird

Kurira – To cry or Kuri(ii)ra – To climb

And then there are the great sentences you can use.

Umuzungu kuruhu, umunyarwandakazi mu mutima – Foreigner by skin, Rwandan by heart.

Yaba weeee!!! – oh crap

Igisunzu kibi kiruta uruhara – having at least a tuft of hair is better than being completely bald.

Nzabakaranga – I will fry them (In the context of my kids at school – fry them with a difficult exam and assignment…)

Gutera indabo mu modoka – To throw flowers in a car… aka to vomit.

Occasionally, it’s just the context in which you use a word.

Umuhinzi is a farmer, but if you call a man an umuhinzi you could be calling him a womanizer.

Mfite amazi literally means to have water, but careful, instead of a bottle of it, you might be saying you have water in a sexual way…

Gakweto means small shoe and is used as another name for teacher because he/she doesn’t have enough money to but a good shoe.

Onward and forward I move in my gakwetos as an umukorerabushake.  Training is finally over and I am ready to start carving out a place in my town called Rugabano in the Karongi district.  My small rustic house is waiting and the freshman and sophomores are soon preparing to come to the boarding school.  A new year, a new adventure, I welcome 2010.  Stay tuned. 

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.

Part I. Leaving Mauritania

The look on their faces will be in my memories forever. Mouth open, eyes wide, eyebrows raised… shocked is understood in every language. The beginnings of my interactions were fairly normal, catching up with people and telling them about my July vacation to America. I held my information in like a dirty secret, not wanting to ruin the few normal moments I had with my friends and family. How could I tell people I was only in town again for a day before I left Aleg – maybe for good? How could I tell them that Peace Corps deemed their country, their home, to dangerous for me to live in?
I sat with Rubia in her small steamy house discussing how she looked so good now. She was finally getting her baby glow, thankfully released out of the sickly state she was struggling in when she first found out she was pregnant. At my host family’s house, I held Siyad in my arms and let his tiny weight sink into my chest. I showed him the pictures I brought back from the states and he focused on a photo of me, him and his sister Meriem. “Where’s Jamila?” Dedehi, my host mom asked, referring to me by my Mauritanian name. Siyad smiled at me from my arms and pointed at my face on the picture before us. I greeted my friends in the street and they asked how my vacation was, wanting to know all the new news. My friends Binta and Aicha sat me down and let me hold Binta’s new absolutely adorable baby as they started the three rounds of tea. Kellybelly’s family welcomed me into their house my final evening and she was so excited to see me, she hugged and kissed me, pulling me away to look into my face, and then back into her big soft body.
When I actually let go of the happy reunions and revealed my news, my head hurt and the lump in my throat grew. When I saw Zeinabou, one of my best friends in country, my heart just broke. We had been in communication and she knew the news before I saw her. She hugged my body close to hers and told me never to forget her. When we pulled away, there were tears in both our eyes. Rubia looked at me speechless, and asked again and again if I was joking. Dedehi’s bright light dimmed and her usual smile was lost for a while. Binta and Aicha shook their heads and told me it was such a bad time for Mauritania – and to not remember them in relation to the poor government and terrorist activities. Kellybelly just stared at me in the dark night, she barely even said goodbye, just whispered incoherent things as I walked out her compound door. When I called Fatou, my beloved roommate, my voice cracked as I told her I wouldn’t even get to see her before I left – as she was currently taking her vacation. “Non…non… C’est pas vrai…” She muttered.
I stood on the roof of my house and stared out at Aleg as the sun set, closing my final day in that wonderful town. As the sky turned deep pink and people below me shuffled by with bags of dinner supplies, I said my silent goodbyes to those I couldn’t get in contact with, and to all the places I had learned to love. On one side, my school was silent in its summer break glory, and it hurt to think of my students wondering where I was come October. On the other side, the town stretched through the sand and it was odd to think I would never walk through the streets again.
I took one last picture with Rubia and Dedehi, and Dedehi grabbed our hands and put them in the middle. “All together…” She told me, squeezing my hand and giving me her brilliant smile. Leaving Mauritania, I lost a lot… But, in only a year, I gained more. Saying goodbye to Mauritanians, to my volunteer friends, to staff and to organizations I had worked with was difficult. It will stand as one of the hardest most frustrating times I’ve experienced. But, I learned so much – and still, I have so much to teach. After looking through options, I accepted a teaching position in Rwanda, continuing my Peace Corps service in a new country. I am exited to see how a different piece of Africa can open my eyes. I was humbled and speechless when I opened my email account sitting in a cyber café in rainy Rwanda and I saw 3 emails from Mauritania friends. They all had similar themes, saying they missed me, saying it was so sad to see me go, that my students and co-workers were asking where I was… but then something new.
“Tell me Ashley… What is Rwanda like? Are the people nice? Is it different from Mauritania?”
What an opportunity. I look forward to answering their questions.

moments in aleg

I wake up and look at my phone to check the time. It’s 3:50. Just minutes before the first prayer call will echo through the town. I pull up my sheet and roll over to fall asleep, but notice that the wind is a little strong. Standing up, I gaze at the quiet town below from my rooftop. Squinting into the distance I see what I dreaded. Sandstorm. A dark blanket of dirt is descending upon us. Sighing I fold up my foam mattress and blanket and make my way down the stairs. Fatou and Dedehi’s family are gathering up their things as well, and we all make the exodus inside. Our mats are laid out in the verandah in a row, we close the doors and sleepily rub our eyes. The sandstorm makes way for the rain and one of the kids stands up and opens the door, letting the humid wind cool the house that is a sauna. “It’s so hot!” Dedehi grumbles. “Tomorrow is going to be bad.” Fatou adds. At this time we are a house of women and children (the father, Ahmedou is in Nouakchott) so we all strip down to minimal clothing and wish for a cool breeze. There we lay, a row of cultural diversity, our completely different pasts leading us to this sweaty moment of solidarity. I close my eyes and fall asleep to the sounds of rhythmic breathing surrounding me.

I walk down the street and greet a woman selling vegetables outside a boutique. A customer squats next to her checking out her supply. A child sitting next to her sees me walk by and calls “Nassaraniya!”, trying her hardest to get my attention. I mentally roll my eyes and ignore it. It’s a way to get foreigners attention, calling out “Hey Christian!” or something along those lines. I hear her mom hush her and say “Hey… her name is Jamila.” I secretly smile, happy that she knows my local name. “What is her name?” Asks the child. “Jamila.” She responds. “Hey Jamila!” She calls out. I turn and wave to them, and they smile at me and wave back. I feel the warmth of familiarity settling into my chest. I take pride in the fact that the people of Aleg are accepting me as a person with a name, rather than just a foreigner.

My classroom is buzzing with activity. I have borrowed books from the Girls Mentoring Center and I’m having my students work on an assignment where they have to find the answers to various questions in the books. I am walking around the classroom answering the endless questions. “Teacher, Teacher! What is “location?”, “Teacher! I don’t understand question 4.”, “Teacher, Teacher! Is this good?”. I make my way to one of my students, Aziza, and when she asks me her question I look at her and say “Are you serious?”. It’s a questions I just spent 5 minutes explaining to them and don’t want to go over it again. “Yes teacher, I don’t understand…” She says with a sly smile. The student next to her giggles and I look at them both, realizing mischief is at hand. The student slowly points to Aziza’s head and I look down, noticing immediately that my sunglasses are on her head. “Hey!” I say, grabbing them and putting them on my own head. “Teacher you dropped them.” Aziza tells me. I laugh and tell her I didn’t even notice they were gone. I continue class with a lighter step, enjoying Aziza’s silly joke.

“I’m going to buy meat.” Dedehi announces. “Can you stay with Siyad?” I look up from my stool, where I sit scrubbing my clothes in buckets – today is laundry day. “Sure.” I say looking at Siyad who is sitting on the ground with a piece of bread. Dedehi leaves and we hear the door to our compound shut. Siyad stands and wobbles over to the door, gazing after his mother. “She went to the market.” I tell him. Siyad wanders toward me and offers me the carcass of his bread, which I gladly accept. You see, Siyad and I are a bread eating team. He only likes the inside of bread, and I love the crispy outside, so life is better when we can eat it together. I stuff the crispy baked shell into my mouth and continue washing my clothes. Siyad squats next to me and looks with big bright eyes. “Washing clothes – can you say it? Yiqsil Labass.” I prompt him in Hassaniya. “Caaaa.” He responds. He is just starting to make attempts at talking, and his words usually involve one consonant and a few syllables. He picks up some of my clothes and mimics my movements. I laugh at his actions and silently thank God that he is o.k. Just weeks before Siyad was pounds lighter and could only stare at me with dim lit eyes. He had some sort of stomach issue, maybe a worm or virus, and to make it worse he was already malnourished. I remember holding him in my lap and feeling his lightness, seeing the pained look in his mothers eyes as she lifted his boney calf. After many visits to various local doctors and advice from too many people to count, Siyad slowly started to regain his health. He now gets powdered vitamins snuck into his system by a clever mother and a can of milk. He is back at a more decent weight (still tiny though) and jabbering more than before. It was interesting to see how sickness is dealt with in Mauritania – and I witnessed some intense ceremonies by traditional healers, struggles with money and new discoveries about local remedies. Siyad now has a green string tied around his waist from a man who used the length to count how many Koran verses to recite. He also has a small burn mark on his chest, from a match lit inside a small tea glass sucked onto his skin. Siyad looks at me and gives me his killer smile – “Good job Siyad.” I tell him squishing the water out of a skirt. “Anne Niqsil labass ma’ Siyad.” He looks over and says “Taa.” With a small confident shake of his head.

The Almost-Horror Stories

Tock, tock, tock. A sound like the quick steady beat of a drum. If you hear this noise walking at night in Mauritania you better run for cover, for that is the noise that precedes a deadly animal. I sat with Fatou and M’Bourel after dinner one night chatting about scary stories and they definitely delivered. Fatou, who loves to talk, had a serious face as she told the tale of the “tocking” noise.
“If you see it, it will kill you. And it moves very fast, so you have to run from the sound and hide.” She said.
“Well, what is it!?” I asked, waiting for a monstrous description.
“A one-legged white horse.” She responded.
“………what?” I asked, feeling a flutter of laughter and confusion fill my chest.
“NO!” She said, seeing the smile on my face. “It’s so scary!”
I have to admit that it is slightly creepy; a one-legged horse hopping through the streets, killing those who witness its miraculous movements. I now wonder, observing the dead silence of a Mauritanian night in my village, if these kinds of stories scare people into their houses. Fatou said that she has known this story since she was a child, and has other stories as well. Most of the stories have a lesson at the end – which seems to be “Do not, for God’s sake, walk around alone at night”. Another story she added to this fabulous collection was one of a chicken. If you are walking alone at night and no one else is around (see…) and come across a chicken sitting in dust, that chicken will kill you. Do I see a theme?
But, not all Mauritanian horror stories involve chickens and one-legged horses. I went to Nouakchott with Fatou and got to meet her amazing family. One sister in particular stuck out to me – Salla. She is my age, 24, and is one of the few Mauritanians that has passed the BAC and continued onto University. She studies in the English Department and has a dream to be a journalist, reporting news on TV. I sat with her one night as she cooked, holding a flashlight because the power in their house was cut. Her bright smile alone was enough to light the room. She worked the mortar and pestle in rhythmic tocks and told me about her life. Salla has a beautiful soul. She genuinely cares for people and gives her personal best for others. She has been married for two years, yet, hasn’t seen her husband for at least a year and a half. He is currently in France, working at a hotel. She talks to him rarely, so rarely in fact she’s too embarrassed to say. She told me of a conversation with him a year ago, where he instructed her to quit her job and focus on her studies. There was a tint of jealousy for her husband mixed into this request. Salla was working at a hotel at that time in Nouakchott and he didn’t like the idea of having her “displayed” at the desk for all to see. “He was right,” she told me. “I did need to focus on studies, but I loved my job – and it was money for the family. He promised me he would send money from France, but... I have yet to see it.” She motioned toward the light-bulb above, cold and dark.
She told me that in Mauritania, marriage is a very difficult thing. Marriage very young is not uncommon, mostly because people want to respect their religion and marry before sex, but as a result the rates of separation and divorce are tremendous. The rules of relationships are not as strict for men, and courting others shortly after a first marriage is rather normal. Salla told me that polygamy (Muslims are able to take 4 wives) just doesn’t work in this time. It is difficult nowadays to support just one family – to feed, clothe and nurture children from several families is close to impossible. Men still take their opportunity, and too often one family is left with bare bones. Salla is afraid of this happening. She is afraid that her husband will find another wife and refuse to divorce her. Now she must deal with the emptiness and loneliness independently. Marriage problems are subjects that aren’t talked about. “My mom doesn’t even know how I feel...” She told me, stirring a pot of stewing tomatoes. “And if my friends ask if I have talked to him recently, I have to say yes. I have to convince people everything is ok. It’s just the culture.” She told me that she is already judged all the time for not having a child yet. “It’s really frustrating, you know.” She growled shaking her spoon in the air. “I’m sorry… I’m saying too much – you don’t want to know all this. I just haven’t talked to anyone about it.”
I helped her finish up in the kitchen nook and ate her delicious food. When I left the next day I made a mental note to call her to check in once in a while. She promised to take me by the University next time I’m in Nouakchott to see what it’s like. “It’s not,” She said with a laugh. “Like your American schools, but it’s the best… and only one we have.” As I hugged her goodbye and gave her an extra squeeze and looked her in the eye and told her I thought she was doing a great job. It’s sad see such a beautiful soul so stretched by cultural norms. That’s horror enough for me.
Back in Aleg, I walked back to my house one night after visiting friends to find the family beginning to set up their sleeping mats on the ground outside. I walked in to greet Fatou and peeked into her room.
“You walked back by yourself? Alone? At night?” She asked, eyes slightly widened.
“Yes, but don’t worry Fatou, no chickens in the road tonight.” I said.
She smiled as she welcomed me into her room.