Goodnight, Moon.

I saw Patrick today.

I saw him.

He saw me.

He ran to me.

I saw him.

I felt him.

He was there.

We were there.

His smile.

His heart.

His heart.

His heart has gotten so much worse. 

He is twice the size he was in April.

His liver is twice as big.

His kidneys are twice as fucked.

His organs will fail soon.

He is so much further, closer.

His smile.

I found out today that Patrick’s mother had 8 children.  Four of them died the same way Patrick is going.  And he knows.  He knows.  He watched them die before him. His regional hospital used to sing with him a song about heaven – about meeting your family and friends, of a better life.  One day he asked why.  Why were they singing this with him?  Was he going to die?  Singing about his own end.  He knows. 

He will die.

The world will never see his smile again. 

He will die.

Leaving the hospital, I have never felt more helpless and useless and ashamed and unskilled and unworthy.  I asked Egide what I should do.  What should I do.  Please.  What should I do.  And he told me this:  We can only do what we can.  You can't pay for what he needs.  But you can come and see him, take care of him, make him laugh, bring him joy.  That is what is going to change the world.

Thank you for getting me out of my own head, and helping me realize what I already knew.  I love you.

Patrick, my man, if you’re going out, you’re going out laughing, going out smiling.  You are taking care of me, making me laugh, bringing me joy.  You are changing the world.

 

In A Perfect World, Ja Rule Would Be Putting Out New Hits.

Thanks to a glorious (and sometimes not so glorious) 9 and 6 hour time difference - depending on which area of Canada I’m wanting to talk to – I find myself in a unique position.   When I get to work in the morning, people are doing one of two things – heading to bed (the non-insomniac ones anyway), or drinking profusely.  Subsequently, when I am indulging in a Primus (or two or three), people back home are usually enjoying a nice quiet afternoon.  Although, I must say, the drunken-incoming-Skype-call-while-I'm-at-work remains a personal favorite.  Keep it up, Canada.

Where is this blog coming from?  Well, its Friday morning.  This means that the Thursday crowd is at the bar or stumbling home.  It’s odd to feel bar-ready first thing in the morning when you get to work.  But, I’m enjoying it. 

Anyway – the club scene in Kigali has been treating me well.  There is always the old option of Cadillac, where I first experienced “real” dancing, where gin and juices glow bright blue, and where finding a dance partner is as easy as looking in the mirror.  Then there are the other, less flamboyant clubs such as One Love, KBC/Planete, Top Tower, Sundowner, Papyrus, tons of other small local spots, and finally, the legendary strip bar (Sky Hotel) for which I doubt I’ll be able to muster up adequate numbness to enter.

Going out in Kigali is a bit of a game.  The night starts off Western enough: You’re at a restaurant or a house of one of your friends, drinking, card games, music, shinanigans.  Then you step outside.  You find a moto (at night its not uncommon to squeeze on two passengers + driver – the one sitting on the back gets to wear the helmet as they tend to fall off – since motos are not as abundant in the wee hours).  This is where you start to notice you are not in Kansas.  Moto drivers can generally weasel higher prices since we are buzzing, giddy, and have pockets full of money intended for drinks. 

For Cadillac, the drive through town is like a calling.  I say this because Cadillac sports a fine flood light that moves across the city beckoning the antsy to its depths.  Either way, you get to the bar and get in line (if there is one).  Here is where you can hear the beats of familiar songs like Letting Go – Sean Kingston ft Nicki Minaj, Baby By Me – 50 Cent, Loose Control – Timbaland ft Jojo, and Say Ahh – Trey Songz and you find yourself almost frustrated to get in there. 

Once you’re at the front, you pay your cover (again, if there is one) and get frisked at your own risk.  Head on in.  Welcome.  Karibu. 

I remember my first time stepping into Cadillac – I was like a kid in a god damn candy store.   The beats. The dancing.  Holy fuck, the dancing.

There is no such thing as lack of rhythm, and less than no such thing as shyness.  Dancing as god intended, as it were.   Often times as a white woman letting loose, there is an overabundance of African-Male-Attention.  It’s usually not a problem, we’re big girls and can take care of ourselves, but it often gets annoying.  However, I would say it’s always been worth the hassle because they just don’t give a shit.  You can dance with whoever, whenever, wherever, however.  Talk about luxury. 

With this whole visa thing I’ve been in need of some serious stress relief. 

So, pretty much wrote this to torture myself – I am just itching to go out tonight – but there is another 12 hours to go in this damn day and I’ve already started the playlist designed for these nights. 

That’s it for me.   For those of you who are lucky enough to be on the receiving end of my drunk dials, well, you’re welcome for tonight’s conversation.

I Really Don't Know Clouds, At All.

I’ve been meaning to write about clinical for a long time.

I’ve been waiting until I didn’t feel so much about it to post. 

Clinical is fucked.  At the very least it is a huge shit mix of emotions.  Because it’s so hard to describe how I actually feel about it, I’ve taken three separate posts and put them into one. 

In my heart, clinical here is so many things.  It is terrible, it is beautiful, and it is real.

The terrible.

Sometimes things here hit you. 

Some days, you just really see it.

Some moments, you are so aware.  So aware of where you find yourself.  The reality of this place.  The reality of this life.  The reality of their lives.

Some days, Rwanda breaks me. 

And I see you standing there, wanting more from me, and all I can do is try. 

And I see you standing there, I’m all I’ll ever be, but all I can do is try.

Looking around the room.  Every single patient.  Every single one.

You deserve better.   You deserve the life I had.  Have.  You are deserving.  You are deserving.  You are beautiful.  You are better than this.  You are better than me.  I know what you think about me.  I think it too.  I don’t know what to do.  One step towards you, one step away from them.  There are so many.  You deserve. 

Sometimes it just feels like you are falling.  Some days, you are just waiting to hit the ground. 

The beautiful.

I remember the first day I met Patrick.

I remember my first day in the hospital. 

I remember the first time I cried here.

I remember the first person whose hand I held.

I remember the first time I really saw this place.

I remember feeling like I needed to run and never stop.

I remember looking again.

I remember seeing it again.

I remember the beauty of Rwanda.

I remember the way it makes me feel.

I remember the most painful kind of wonder.

I remember laughing.

I remember when she gave her last.

I remember the mystery she held in her smile.  

I remember the indescribable feeling of my patients.

Their eyes. Their hands.

I remember sitting on his bed.

I remember looking at each other.

I remember feeling so privileged to be allowed into their lives.  To be invited.  To be there.  To be only there. 

I remember knowing that this was it.

I remember feeling love.

I remember feeling my heart beat.

I remember feeling the walls come down.

Rwanda saved me.

My patients saved me.

They let me out.

The real. 

(I wrote this article for New Brunswick Nurses Association)

In April 2010, I completed a one month consolidation in Butare, Rwanda, working in various sectors of the regional hospital.  When I got home in May, the reality of what I had seen and the things that I had done truly sunk in.  Despite the emotional stress caused by practicing my chosen profession in a ‘developing’ country, I fell in love with Rwanda, ‘pays des milles collines’.

As a result, I am now back in-country on a six month internship with the Coady International Institute, as funded by the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA).  I have been given the daunting task of teaching nursing students, supervising clinical placements, and participating in community outreach programs.  On paper, this sounds simply peachy.  In reality, it is quite the opposite – neither simple nor peachy.

Teaching students here is, challenging.  Everything from preparing a two week course (that should be taught in three months) with hit-or-miss power and internet accessibility to trying to explain the mechanism of heart failure to students in what is their third (and sometimes fourth) language is taxing.  But this is the least of my stress.

My great strain and my great love: Clinical.  I am realizing and appreciating more and more everyday how wonderful our education system is in Canada.  Over four years, our professors manage to instil in us an unfailing sense of responsibility and accountability, coach us through endless skills and the theory necessary to perform them, and finally by some miracle they teach us how to think critically.  These values are seemingly non existent in the majority of nurses here, and consequently my students are on the same bleak path.  This is the foundation of my stress, and of my efforts. 

Apart from the abysmal conditions, lack of basic resources, and intense diseases for which patients resist seeking medical attention until absolutely necessary, the health care system is in distress. The medical model is highly engrained into their practice, and most nurses would never think to perform any task that was not outlined by a physician, and are flabbergasted when I question an order.  Furthermore, there seems to be no connection made between nursing interventions and the disease process.  For example, it would be rare to find an upperclassman able to link the diagnosis of ‘diabetes’ to peripheral vascular disease, amputations, confusion, coma, neuropathy, or any of the associated assessments and interventions. Wounds on the foot of a diabetic are not attributable to diabetes, that patient simply has wounds for no other reason than they are just there.  It is more frustrating than I can say. The discrepancy between their standard of care and that of Canada is monumental.  To have the lives of patients under their locus of responsibility makes me extremely uncomfortable.  So, I am working to try and ease this discomfort. 

In Rwanda, progress seems slow. And that’s probably because it is.  Change takes time, and real change takes a long time.  It took Canada half a century just to move away from the medical model.  Let us not dismiss what has been done here. Yes, Rwanda has problems, big ones.  They can not be conquered easily, quickly, or simply.   But it is worthwhile to recognize the reality of where these changes had to come from. Following the devastation of 1994, the country – which was ‘third world’ to begin with – had to be rebuilt from scratch.  It means starting some semblance of an economy from scratch when your country is millions in debt and all productive land and infrastructure has been destroyed, dealing with the ongoing struggle of refugees and rebel groups, gaining the trust of a population who just witnessed one of the most gruesome genocides in history, trying those responsible in a fair way, and reintegrating killers with family of the killed, in a country so small that it is inevitable they will have to see each other and work together.  To build peace in a country of war, to build love in a country torn apart by hate, and to build trust in a place where it is long gone.

While these tasks may not seem directly linked to the delivery of health care, we must realize that each and every item destroyed – whether it be a building, a piece of land, or a life – it all relates to the social determinants of health of the population, and the ability of the country to provide optimal care and education.  Every aspect of health care had to restart in 1994, so this entire system is only 16 years old.  Furthermore, the sheer weight of demand is more than any country could cope with. In a country roughly half the size of PEI, they have managed to fit over ten million people.  Ten million. In half the size of PEI, they have squeezed almost one third of the entire population of Canada, the second largest country in the world.  The thought alone is unfathomable.  Unsurprisingly, Rwanda has the highest population density in sub-Saharan Africa.  Furthermore, over 75% of the population lives under a dollar a day, and 90% of the population lives under two dollars a day (Human Development Report, 2009). The same report has ranked Rwanda 167^th out of 203 countries on the development scale. 

As a nurse, and generally as a human being, I know that a high population density coupled with high poverty rates present a seemingly insurmountable struggle.   Health suffers, happiness suffers. The apparentness of this struggle is not lost on the people of Rwanda, but you will never see them stop fighting the uphill battle.  There are wonderful things happening in this country everyday.  I have so often seen families with nothing give what they have to other families who have nothing.  That is rare in this world, and that is something of greatness.  That is something that shows the power of this place.

Rwanda has made incomprehensible progress as a people.  I feel confident that most other nations could not have done what Rwanda has done given the same circumstances.  There is something here.  There is a spirit and a strength here that I have never experienced before.  You can feel it in the hills, and you can see it in the people.  There is much to be done, but the catalyst for change is already in place – it is in the hearts of the Rwandese people.  The change is possible, and they are able. 

Rwanda is so many things.  And I have not even scraped the surface.  Rwanda is not simply my emotional experience.  This is a real place doing real things.  It isn’t a figment of my imagination.  It is not here solely for me to experience.  This place is actually happening.  These people actually live here.  They actually live here.  This is real.  I have to remind myself of this so often. 

I’m always looking at this country and these people through my own eyes.  Everything is affected by my life’s experiences and by what I’ve known and done and thought and not thought.  Rwanda is not mine.  It is not anyone’s.  The longer I spend here the more I realize that I am not here, not really.  So, please take my stupid blog posts for what they are – some random 22 year olds half-assed impressions and lack of impressions about a place she completely misunderstands.

On A Clearer Road I Feel, Oh You Could Say She's Safe.

We (Lauren and I) live in Nyakabanda.  My address (as some people have been asking lately) is as follows: Second house behind the red gate one block north and west of the Kobil in Nyakabanda, Kigali.  There are no numbers on anything, and street names exist only for those blessed with pavement, and even then I would be extremely surprised if even the savviest Rwandese were in the know.

The road we live on is of the constantly-eroding-red-dirt variety, and is an ordeal to walk on, especially coupled with copious amounts of Primus and a lack of night vision.   I often have epic fails - being a known klutz, somewhat challenged in the general balance and grace area – that are followed by “Oh! Soly soly!” (r’s and l’s are interchangeable, didn’t you know?) by the  always attentive locals.

At the end of the dirt road, we meet the pavement.  Say hello.  Across the street is the Kobil (gas station) and matatu hang out – where they can be serviced, washed, and where the beautiful vehicles are put to sleep each night.  Matatus are sixteen seater busses that remain the cheapest method of transportation in the city, besides your feet.  They will run from the various areas of Kigali to mumugi (town) and back, costing a whopping 100-180 RwFs (Canadian equivalent: 20-40 cents) They are dedicated to Western heros like Spiderman, Young Jeezy, and Justin Bieber.   Ever elusive to photographs, Lauren and I have developed a new tactic:  Every time we come home (inebriated) in the wee hours of the night, we stop for some snappy photographical evidence with the Kanye West and Rick Ross shrined vans.  I’m sure there will be enough disorderly nights to allow us to return home with a mighty collection of shots.

Lauren and Rick Ross

Continuing up the hill from Kobil, (because down the hill will be reserved for another day, as there is a new spot that first needs to be broken in called “Obama Restaurant”) we arrive at the entrance to isoko Nyamirambo (aka Nyamirambo market).  My life revolves around markets.  This is no different.  First up on our usual stops is Peace Akon (the name stems from what is spray painted on the front grate).  This is the one-room stop that has quickly become our “spot”.  They sell chipattis, eggs, amandazi, and tea.  Need I say more? No.  But I will.  It is not only the abundance of our favorite foods that make this our spot.  There are three stunning men who work here (of course), and who have gotten used to expecting us. The guys that work here are chill, solid guys.  Yes, we speak different languages and anything besides small talk is impossible, but they just have a good vibe.  We have become regulars, no longer needing to ask for what we want, and they’ve even agreed to supply chipattis for a night if we supply the Primus and Happiness (mighty fine deal if you ask me).  Other than them, there is one other important - and sometimes most important – detail.  There is a curtain on the entrance.  This is critical.  All day long, we are stared at and it is painfully obvious most of the time that we are outsiders, as we are the only white people living in this part of town.  So, when we walk into Peace Akon (or sometimes known as Love Stella, painted on the side) suddenly we are not stared at, we are not outsiders.  No one knows we are there, and for a short time its like we don’t exist.  Rather than becoming reclusive hermits to avoid the classic stop-and-stare, we can watch Nyamirambo’s happenings from behind the curtain, while munching on our favorite 20 cent snack in the company of the most attractive men in the hood.  Word?

Peace Akon (minus three stunners)

Next up at the isoko is the actual market market.  You go inside, and are consumed.  Depending on where you come in, you immediately see vendors selling shitty Made In China nicknacks, Dollar Store greeting cards splattered with weenie white people from the 80’s, Kagame and Obama (they are comparable, surprise?) belt buckles, and Roy Bon sunglasses.  There are tables and tables of shoes and more Converse than I have ever seen in my life (will be coming home with a rainbow).  Hair pieces are a dime a dozen here, with the peer pressure of a weave never escaping me.  Around the corner are semi-structured shops selling clothing, with designated curtained off areas to try things on and white mannequins and shelves.  Then circling around you get to the men with white aprons hacking at goats (goat head soup is pretty good I’m told), all of the meat covered in flies and lacking any method of preservation (have stopped eating meat by the way).  Then, when you get to the heart of the market, meaning inside of this circle we just drew, it’s all there.  Women selling fabric, seamstresses, tables and wooden-beam-type-walls supporting clothes that were rejected from Frenchy’s sixteen years ago (including lingerie…tempting?) with more gems than I could ever hope to list.  There are rows of women selling piles of fruits and vegetables, sugar and flour, peanuts and lentils, fish and chickens.  Bartering is the required form of communication here, especially when you’ve got white skin – as that small detail tends to double and even triple the asking price.  I could and do spend hours in this market.

Back outside of what is technically the market, we come back into open dirt road, where more women are selling more fruits and vegetables, and men walk around with stacks of jeans and t-shirts flung over their shoulders, unfolding them and holding them up to you as you walk by with what you can only assume are approving words.  Shops litter the sides of the streets selling “fresh milk” and random household items.  Then, coming around a corner towards the paved road again, we arrive at Monique.  Monique sells veggies alongside about 6 other women on the side of the road.  They are there everyday without fail.  We cut a deal with Monique when we first got here:  We will buy from her for six months if she agrees to give us the right price.  Getting the “right price” isn’t that big a deal in terms of monetary savings – it’s the difference of 300 RwF compared to 200, the difference between 60 cents and 40 – but rather it’s avoiding the feeling you get when you know you are being charged more because of the colour of your skin.  Monique happily agreed, and we have been friends ever since.   It sounds insignificant, but Monique’s kindness in her willingness to give me a fair price in return for loyalty made a huge difference in how I feel about food.  If I had to constantly barter for the price that everyone else gets with no questions asked, I’m sure it would have worn on me after a while.  I would probably even start to dislike buying food.  And, well, that is just blasphemous.  Thankfully, Monique has made all the difference.

Coming off the dirt road and back to pavement again, there is a moto hang out spot, and across the street there is the glorious “Splendid Mini Market”.  Here you can buy juice, blueband, samboussas, amandazi, and chocolate.   In other words, everything you need to survive.  Again, we are regulars.

These are the scenes of my life these days, my hood, my spots.  I always think of how fictional this all must seem to the people reading (aka my mom and sister).  Even going home, I know this will all start to feel imaginary.  But, until then, I’m going to keep munchin on the ollll chipattis at Peace Akon and just enjoy the dream. 

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.