Will You Take Me As I Am, Strung Out On Another Man?

Today is the first day I have felt homesick since I got here.

Today my main thought is Canada.

Right now at home, the weather is turning cold, and it is the epitome of Canada in my mind. 

The leaves are turning, and people are starting to see their breath in the mornings.

The mornings.

The mornings. 125A College. Waking up early.  Way earlier than class starts. Walking downstairs in slippers, wearing sweatpants, a baggy t-shirt, and a sweatshirt.  Opening the back door, stepping out onto the deck, taking a deep breath, and feeling so happy to be a witness to another great day.  CBC, tea outside with morning reading material, and a bowl of frozen blueberries while the tip of my nose gets cold.   Smokes and coffee. 

The mornings.  115 Heritage Ave.  This time of year always feels so quiet.  Hastily stepping out of the turquoise front door in the morning - bare feet - to see how cold it is so that you can choose appropriate clothes for the day.  Then realizing that its kind of nice, to be outside that early, to be apart of that moment.  There is a hush.  The country feels like it is getting ready for the sleep ahead, and you can almost hear the place breathe. 

People on our street are starting to wake up, moms and dads are getting their kids ready for school.  They are starting to wear vests and coats.  You can hear the rumble of the school bus at the top of the street.  Frost starts to replace dew on the grass, and for the first time in a long time you put the heavy blanket on your bed. 

The mornings.  Coming into the kitchen with the tiles cold on my feet, scowling at the human alarm clock that insists on waking me, Dad pausing from dishes or ironing to give me the perfect hug when I walk up to him to sleepily warm up in his chest. 

These days Dad is barbecuing, listening to tracks like Neil Young – Philadelphia, Joni Mitchell – River, and Tom Waits - Waltzing Matilda.  Drinking red wine with the dim light on over supper, dishes forgotten for more important things like friends, family, and freecell. 

Coming home on a Saturday, the smell of pickling throughout the house is perfectly complimented by the worn wood.

People are starting to decide their Halloween costumes, and the Co-op just smells different this time of year.  Something about the pumpkins and crispness to everyone’s clothes.

Its midterm season.  

My poor mother is starting to bundle up and be in a constant state of cold.  With the change in season comes a change in her cooking.  She starts to cook amazing dishes with squash, pumpkin, and turnip.  And for some reason she always becomes more adventurous with cooking and baking in the colder seasons.  She changes.  Summer is over, and so is the lightness of her ability to walk outside in bare feet.  With the need to get warm, she becomes so warm.  She says summer is her favorite season, but I don’t believe that.  There is just something about the way that she is in these months that is just, right.  And natural.  And her.

She is starting to turn the fire on in her apartment.  Wool socks are in high supply. This time of year reminds me of my mom so much.  Things like Ovaltine.  And lunches.  And the smell of coffee and burnt toast with jam.  And her long off-white cotton nightie with the flowers at the top.  Days getting out of a warm bed to put your feet on a cold floor, sit on the kitchen stool and have her make breakfast and run her fingers in your hair.  To try and braid your hair.  To both read at the counter with breakfast.  She is so soft spoken in the mornings.

Sometimes I feel like my whole life happens in late September, October, and early November.   I always feel a certain way.  I feel like waking up early, like the sound of coffee brewing, like the feel of a newspaper under your fingertips, like the smell of apples, and like the sound of a maple tree.  I feel like Tracy Chapman, Alanis Morrisette, Jewel, and Neil Young.  I feel like David Grey, Rob Lutes, and the more melancholy varieties of Counting Crows and Coldplay.  I feel like Forever, Halfway Home, and Spoon.

This is the first year in my life that I haven’t been in Canada this time of the year.  But I can feel it when I close my eyes.  I can see it.  Smell it.  Hear it.  It’s so real I feel like I could be there.  And I’m so relieved to be happy that it is happening even though I’m not there.

You Cannot Run From Demons, They Know Just Where You Are.

I was going to write this post about clinical, but it’s just been too much, so I will try another time when I am less, everything.  Now that I am sitting here in blog mode, I want to write about something else.   Prisoners.

I’ve been told that 99% of the people in prison in this country are genocidières, and would not question that statistic for one second.  I first saw prisoners in March in my earliest days at the hospital in Butare.  They filled the tuberculosis ward, as is so often the case around the world.  Prisoners here can be identified by matching shirt and short of pink or orange.  The difference in colour has meaning, with those in pink currently serving their time, and those in orange boasting beginning privileges, soon (that is relative, by the way) to be reintegrated into society.  I recently found out that those convicted are forced to enter the prison not of their hometown, but of the region where they committed the crime.  Interesting. 

Post genocide, the new government was overloaded with rightful cries demanding justice for killers.  Accused and accusers were everywhere, filling the tiny country as well as those bordering.  I can’t even imagine the magnitude of the problem facing the justice system.  So, the resourceful country that it is, Rwanda implemented Gacaca (pronounced Ga-ka-cha) courts.  They were originally used prior to independence, and these courts allow locals to be the judge and jury of the accused.  A person would be outed as a killer, and given the opportunity to stand trial before their community.  Community members were voted into jury-like positions, and cases were made.  Those who confessed their murders were often given a lesser sentence, and sometimes even forgiven by the people they wronged, whereas those who made excuses or denied the claims were sent to jail if proven guilty.   This amazes me.  Mostly because I can’t fathom a people strong enough to be able to look their family’s, friend’s, and lover’s killers in the eyes, hear him or her detail their horrific deed, and then forgive them, or even consider giving them a lesser sentence.  Every time I think about it I get a swell of something like pride and awe.  The people of Rwanda could have damned them all to a life of lockdown and misery, but they chose to allow them to return and live in the villages and cities where they destroyed so much. This system is exactly what the country needed, allowing the genocidières to have to answer to the people they terrorized.  And what’s more, is that the grace of forgiveness given to those who admitted their crimes is more powerful than any prison sentence.  For those that were given the freedom to return to their villages, they are now forced to look into the eyes of the people they haunt, and live with that everyday.  Which of course is the point of sending prisoners to the places where they were involved in massacre, along with the satisfaction of families being able to see that their nightmare is in jail.  I am stunned by the brilliance of the Gacaca system.

There is great debate about what I am going to say next.  In my heart, I have no hate for the men and women of Rwanda that killed during the genocide.  I don’t believe that the genocide was their fault.  I believe that any other people in the same circumstances would have acted in much the same way.  And I believe that upon asking forgiveness, they deserve it.

There have been countless studies done related to the Rwandan genocide and the psychology related to the frenzied killing that took place and the mass-murder mindset.  The people who committed genocide spent their entire lives in a country filled with propaganda, constantly told to hate, constantly divided.  There is so much more at play than we understand when discussing the genocide than just Rwandan people becoming savages overnight. And yet, it’s hard to know where to draw the line.  I asked my friend about what he thought – having lived through the experience – and this is what he said: “People high up pushed ideologies for their own interests, and they are to blame.  But, there has to be a limit, where people’s own conscious comes. That’s why we are human, we know something is good, or something is bad. So they are also to blame."

If I am being honest, after having read many of these studies and books, and talking to prisoners, I feel bad for those who committed genocide.  There is the voice in my head that tells me that I can’t sympathize with the killers too much, or I risk losing sympathy for the killed.  But I guess I see both sides. Yes, these men and women did evil things, acts that the most terrible corner of my mind can’t even understand, and I probably wouldn’t be saying this had I been there.  But from where I am standing, the everyday men and women of Rwanda that participated in the genocide were also victims, and they will suffer the memory of their sins until their dying day.  Their lives were not taken, but their hearts, spirits, and souls are forever guilty, and that might just be worse.

Long story short, I have nothing but love for the prisoners that we treat in the hospital, and look at them with respect – like every other person, rather than the hostility and hate they are so accustomed to.

This week in clinical, I was at the Rwamagana hospital, which is home to one of the largest prisons in the country. Consequently, the hospital had a unit (tent form, they do not warrant their own building) devoted to male prisoner patients.  I spent most of my time here, much to the dismay of my touring clinical instructor.  The students went around the 20-or-so-bed room and presented each patient, their name, age, and medical diagnosis.  Following that I was expected to either ask the students questions about their care, or leave promptly.  Clearly, I did neither.

I chose the bed of the sickest man in the room, dying of advanced COPD (respiratory disease), sat down with him and held his hand.  I asked him if it was okay if I assess him and look at his charts.  He said yes.  I began to ask him questions – how is he feeling, how he finds the treatment approach is working, what he thinks we might be able to do to make him more comfortable.  He answered, and we listened (we being myself and the student who translated).  The student informed me that he was given what can only be described as completely irrelevant IV drugs, and when he was in acute and severe respiratory distress, he was taken to emergency.  All of this rather than treating him properly to begin with.  This grew into a lengthily conversation with the entire room about the conditions of the prison.  I wanted to know how many men were there, how many men in one room, where they slept, ate, and bathed, what food and water they received, what health care treatment they were entitled to, as well as what prison life is like – what they do on a day to day basis, how they buy things, what privileges they have, and whether or not they get to see their families.  All of the men in the room had something to say. 

I asked them how long they have been in prison, how long they will be in prison, and if they still have family to go home to.  I asked them if they feel their sentences are fair, and if they feel they are being treated fairly now that they are here.  I asked them how it feels to be living in the villages where they were apart of the slaughter.  I asked them how they feel, wearing those isolating colours.  I asked them every question that they probably have never been asked before.  The only question I didn’t raise was the one that they have been asked.

As I left the tent, I held my right forearm as I shook each of their hands.  When you do this in Rwanda, it means that you respect the person whose hand you are shaking.  The tent went totally silent.  Most people would say that I should not respect these men, and they might be right.  But I couldn’t help but feel so privileged to have been able to talk to them, to be accepted among these men as a complete outsider, one who admittedly had no idea what their life was like, how they got there or where they were going.  They talked to me.  We both knew what we were talking about – genocide – and we both knew they were guilty. And they still talked to me.  A young, white, privileged female foreigner who doesn’t know shit from shinola. For them to allow me into the parts of their lives where they are the most vulnerable, most ashamed, and most hated for, well, I just, I am so thankful.  Letting someone in like that – what they did – that deserves respect.

Picture Book

I wanted to post some of the pictures that have been taken so far that give an idea as to what life is like here. 

This is the most important picture that will be taken in Rwanda.  Say NO to sugar daddies.  "I am NOT for sale!"

This is where I work. These computers are next to useless, I bring my own.

All my brothers

Egide

And this one made the cut, because, well look at it. (Hilaire and Anthony)

At Inauguration.  Only muzungus there? Most likely.

Had to.

Outside the dentistry office - gets me everytime.

This gem is a secret.  You will find out soon enough.

This is at the hotel where I lived in April.  Nostalgia at its finest.

Another Day

The 25th of September.  My birthday.  Ugh.

I was happy to have a chill night, Indian cuisine and good friends.  It turned out to be much more than I expected, and much more than I thought I wanted.  First, my best friend Egide told me numerous times that he couldn't make it - and I was resolved to that fact, since he had made the trip down the last weekend already.  As it turns out, my friends were plotting all week right under my oblivious nose on how to surprise me with him.  I cried.  They also surprised me with cake and too many gifts - all was planned and bought without me noticing anything.  Verr sneaky.  We ended up going home after supper, having some Primus, and going yet again to Cadillac.  It was bliss dancing with my brothers.  I could never get sick of it.  Bed around 4.  So appropriate.  As much as I don't like the fuss of birthdays, I am thankful for what my friends did for me - they really made it so special.

So. Turning 22 in Rwanda.  How does it feel?
It feels, fictional.
I guess I mean that its just so, weird, that time is passing.  That when I go home it won't be exactly as I left it.  That I will go home a different age.  That time doesn't stand perfectly still. 

"And you think, what the hell - life goes on.  Maybe there won't be marriage, maybe there won't be sex.  But by God, there will be dancing."

This Is Of Vital Importance.

When I wake up in the morning, I think about one thing.
When I get to work, I think about one thing.
Before going to bed every night, I think about one thing.

Tea Time.

At 9:30 everyday at KHI, Lau and I saunter down to tea. This is the subject of my affection, and consequently the subject of my blog.

By 9:30 I am always hungry (having not eaten yet in the day), and ready for the usual arrangement of food.
At tea, there is the following:
*Tea (bagged or africa)
*Hard boiled eggs
*Chipattis
*Samboussas (samosas)
*Meat balls
*Amandazi (deep fried bread/cake thing)

I generally go for the samboussas, and Lau has recently introduced me to the egg & chipatti combo, which I think will work itself into the rotation. And of course, African Tea every time.

Getting food is an art in and of itself, and can be an ordeal if you are not in the know. Food goes fast, and politeness is not a virtue honored at tea. You get to the front, you start telling Eric what you want to eat whether he is listening to you or not, whether you are next or not, and hold your money out to show you mean business.

Once this is accomplished, the day is automatically a great one. We sit, we sip, we munch, we chat. It's a place where your stresses are left at the door (by that I mean tent flap). Tea is a place where no matter how much work I have to do, when I go to tea, I am on Africa Time (meaning everything slows). Tea is the place to meet different people, learn Kinyarwanda, catch up, and talk about how great Tea is. Because, man is it.

You Light Up A Room, When You Walk In.

The boys.

Elsa’s boys.

My boys.

My brothers.

Just had dinner with Egide, Eric, and Hilaire.  Tomorrow Egide will go back to Butare, and Eric will make the grueling 10 hour bus ride back to Kampala.  And as for Hilaire, well, he will still be around – thank god.  I told Egide and Eric to quit school and move back home so I can see them all the time.  I am most selfish when I get to spend time with them, I never want them to leave.  There was a moment tonight at supper when I really realized that these boys are home.   Not that they make me feel at home, but that I truly am home when I am with them.

The boys (I really should say men, but I just can’t bring myself to do it) are so special.  Each one has so many amazing qualities.  I could go on forever about them.  But, I’ve heard that forever is a pretty long time, so I will give the extremely condensed version. (Heads up: There are some inside jokes in this blog, and I’m very sorry for the exclusiveness, but for the people who know what I’m talking about it is gold.)

Egide is the kindest person you will ever meet, has amazing mannerisms (for those of you who know me well, you know what that means), and always smells what I imagine perfection to smell like (a contender to Johnny Atwin if that gives any indication to some of you).  He has dreams that you just can not doubt he will achieve.  I can’t wait to see what his life will be like – the house with the view.  He is sincere and passionate, two qualities that are – for me – two of the most important.  Egide has a spirit in him that inspires me every day.  I am so proud to hold his hand and call him my best friend.  I think I was spoiled in April, having Egide around all the time.  Now that we are living in different places, I am realizing how much Egide was a huge part of my experience here, how much he affected my time here.  How he – and all the boys – were a big part of why I fell in love with Rwanda.

Eric.  Eric, Eric, Eric.  What can’t I say about Eric.  Eric is a great man.  I always think about how great of a father Eric is going to be.  How great a husband he will be.  Eric has such an amazing character, as Dad would say he is “a solid guy”.  He says what he thinks and means it every time.  I appreciate that so much.  Eric is an innocent, through and through, a romantic to the core – but a realist at the same time. I’ve never seen that kind of mix before.  He is gentle and considerate and insightful.  At the very least Eric is way too wise for his age.  He has everything going for him and more. I envy all the people that get to see him every day.

Hilaire.  Oh. My. God.  I don’t even know what to write about Hilaire.  I’ve tried to explain what Hilaire is like to people before and I never do him justice.  Hilaire is one of the top 5 funniest people I have ever met (and probably in the world), and there is not one cell in his body that tries to be funny.  The things he says and the way he says them are just, ridiculous.  I am laughing just writing this.  In fact, I am going to text him right now (if you’ll please hold on a sec).  Ahh, I can’t wait to see what he texts back.  This is what I do all day – I bug Hilaire just to see what he is going to say.  What would I do without him?  I love having him around and even though he lives in the neighborhood next to me I still miss him every day.  (PS: His text back was even funnier than I expected). [side note:  coincidence that the word “hilarious” seems to have the root word “hilaire”?? Waka waka?]

I know people want to know about what life here in Rwanda is like, and that is why I wrote about the boys.  They are a huge part of my life here.  Whether I see them every day or not, they are always with me.  I know none of my descriptions do any of the boys justice; you could write a book about each of them, but they are so much more than what I can put into words.  I’ve heard so many people say that when you leave Rwanda you leave a part of your heart here.  Having left, I know that it is true.  Having come back, I’m starting to appreciate where I left it.  I left it with the people that I love. 

Rwanda mon pays, nous sommes ensembles. Rwanda mon paradis.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard music so beautiful.


Sitting in the living room this morning, Jewel is trumped immediately by a Spanish guitar and a voice that holds such wisdom, and such a painful love. I cannot stop listening. I am mesmerized. The world slows, and comes to a halt, to listen to a man’s love song about his country.

My landlord Pascal is an artist. I knew he was a painter, but I never knew this was under the surface. I am sitting outside on our porch - half in sun, half in shade - feeling the wind ripple lazily through the trees, background noises of nearby work being done, and his songs continue. He is singing to the entire neighborhood with his amp. I am willing to bet my life that this is the favorite time of day for a lot of people, when Pascal plays. It has immediately become mine.

There is so much to learn. So much that I am missing. So much that I want to discover. There is also a completeness in not knowing. Like this is how it is supposed to be. I am supposed to sit here and listen to Pascal play his guitar and not know. This is not a world that is mine to understand. The love he shares in his songs are his, and it is enough for me to be apart of that. More than enough.

The thunder is going to start, and the songs will end. Pascal will go inside, and so will I. We will have our separate lives and do our different tasks. But when he plays again, I will listen. And I will be thankful to be able to share these moments with him. I will be thankful to have these moments in life. Because they change you.