a little milk

So many of you who actually read this with some diligence and attention have asked me about my new blog site name - as opposed to the very original jaclyn714barnhart name. Allow me to explain.

1. Here in Rwanda, as I would imagine elsewhere in the developing world, milk is common enough, but anything other than whole milk is a rare commodity. While some of you out there enjoy this almost straight-from-the-animal fluid, I am not among you. I prefer skim milk. In truth, I am not much of a milk fan - I was allergic to milk when I was born. But in Rwanda, there are various things with milk in them that I thoroughly enjoy, such as African tea: tea (generally Rwandan black tea) milk, ginger, perhaps a bit of nutmeg, and a lot of deliciousness. So I have been consuming a ton of whole milk in my tea and coffee, not to the pleasure of my stomach of waistline.

2. This second reason requires a bit of foundation. On one of my favorite television shows, there is a memorable conversation between a main character and her current boyfriend. They come from different cultures - she is American; he is Russian. She has just discovered that her bestfriend has been diagnosed with cancer, and he, trying to be empathetic, says his friend died of cancer. Obviously, he comes off like an insensitive jerk. They argue until they realize they are simply suffering from a communication barrier due to a cultural misunderstanding. She then says, "I guess I just need to take my relationship with a little milk," meaning sometimes you need something to soften the blows; otherwise the harshness and bitterness of it all may be a little too much.

Such an idea seemed very fitting for me (and for everyone). Life is hard. Sometimes at the end of the day, you feel tired and defeated and wonder why we're here and what your struggles are worth. You need a little milk to temper it all and let you know you can and it's worth it. So two questions - what's your milk, and what's its origin?

Milk can have a number of consistencies - from very light to heavy. For me, milk can be both an activity that makes me feel most like myself or an idea to fully support, regardless of the idealist nature of it. For example, in Rwanda some of the things that have highlighed my time here are milk things:

- attending the Rwanda Film Festival
- salsa dancing at Pasadena
- discovering that I deemed valuable at UOB, regardless of what I view my niche to be

The Rwanda Film Festival featured a number of engaging, provocative documentaries in a number of languages about a variety of topics. Often the filmmaker was present to answer questions afterwards. Those of you who know me well know I have no qualms about attending movies alone - and so I did. I resolutely wanted to watch these movies with or without company and had a great time alone. One of the films was about albinism in East Africa - What is albinism? How do others perceive albinos and their condition? Do albinos consider themselves disadvantaged or disabled? What do they consider their identity? It was fascinating. I met the filmmaker and bought the dvd - awesome souvenir.

Since I discovered Pasadena, I have made a deliberate effort to go salsa dancing every week. I have established myself there as a "really good dancer" regardless of my muzungu appearance. I dance as much as possible and love every minute of it, completely unaware of the damage I am doing to my feet. Not expecting such dance opportunities here (and packing under tight restrictions), I did not bring my dance shoes to Africa but was forced to buy some cheap though surprisingly cute shoes when the chance arose. They are not ideal by any means, but they are shoes. I can dance in them. Side note on shoe shopping here: Shoes are not available row after row. While the store may have a rather wide selection of models, they only have a few sizes available in each model. You may want a smaller size, but too bad. That's all they have.

At Pasadena, there is a small dance floor in the middle of a bar/restaurant which is illuminated with a few spotlights. Everyone in the restaurant sits around with their chairs directed toward the dance floor to watch the dancing. Ordinarily, I would be far too nervous to dance under these conditions, but I hadn't danced in over a month. And again, those of you who know me at all know that dancing is milk to me. A light milk, but milk in any form can impart significant changes on one's life. Dancing here is remarkable to me because I let go of my worries about what others may think of my dancing and of my technique to an extent - and simply have fun. I hope this continues upon my return. Of course I have my favorite partners - Crazy Jimmy from Congo and Cesar from Venezuela. Not only are they good leaders with awesome moves, but they also want you to have fun and are really into whatever they are doing.

Like a Barnhart, I enjoy being busy and knowing that what I am doing has a meaningful purpose. Therefore, I am happiest at UOB when I know this is the case. Regardless of whether what I am doing seems earth-shattering to me, I have realized the work I am doing is very meaningful to others at UOB who sincerely appreciate my efforts. That is perhaps cream.

But all these thoughts about my sources of milk got me thinking about hope in general? I would generally consider myself an optimist for better or worse. I was talking to Cesar, another optimist, the other night about the state of affairs in the world. We both decided that we prefer to be optimists, though much of the time we cannot account for why we are such. Why do I have hope? Perhaps it's only because I cannot imagine living without it. Life must have milk. Why question its bountiful production?

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you these urgent messages...

Sorry to break the flow of our Rwanda journal adventure, but I must relate this to you. I have regretted my sorry degree of news-awareness and thirst for news for some time and have sought to remedy this. In in effort to do so (and to appeal to my largely news-hungry audience), I posted a news-feed corresponding to some of my areas of interest. This has encouraged me to read up frequently - especially as work has been slow lately (that is something I will explain later). So, to the point. Please read the following stories - they are generally short but extremely interesting and thought-provoking.

UK plans new powers on genocide:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/politics/8139045.stm

Clashes in China shed light on ethnic divide:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/08/world/asia/08china.html?_r=1&ref=world

Team monitoring diamond trade rebukes Zimbabwe:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/08/world/africa/08zimbabwe.html?ref=world

Rwanda leader urges G8 to consult poor nations more:
http://af.reuters.com/article/topNews/idAFJOE5650G920090706

Bolivia: President denounces Obama over trade:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/02/world/americas/02briefs-boliviatrade.html?_r=2&ref=americas

Mull those over, and get back to me.

Proudly Earned Stains

June 27, 2009 - Umuganda
Umuganda is mandatory, nation-wide community service that occurs once a month on the last Saturday of each month, starting at 8 a.m. Following the few hours of service, everyone listens to a lecture of sorts on the chosen theme of that month's umuganda (e.g. May's theme: customer care). Literally everyone (even the president) is required to participate - if you are caught out of your house not working, you can be fined or even jailed.

This particular day a team from UOB had semi-organized to meet at the home office to leave at 7:30 a.m. for our soon-to-open Nyamata branch to perform Umuganda service there. I hoped to make it, set my alarm, but was not fully committed to the idea. Luckily, I not only woke up but in fact made it to the bank on-time, despite transportation difficulties (on account of Umuganda). Once I arrived, we immediately piled into three cars - Ross's, Faustin's, and Jeffrey's - and left, also picking up a few more UOB employees on the way. I was nervous we would be stopped en route, as the roads are to be closed at 8:00 a.m. and the drive to Nyamata generally takes 45 minutes. Apparently, Jeffrey's skin color gave him a pass; people began to suggest I should sit in Faustin's passenger seat to ease his passage at police check points. Discrimination at its finest.

We did manage to make it to our destination, though with some effort and much confusion. In arriving at our work location, we were forced to drive through a small village and down a rather long, narrow dirt road lined on either side by people walking to the same place to which we were headed to work. Our driving past them, pasrticularly with much speed, threw dust into the air and therefore all over them (as Rwanda is currently in its dry season). Ross seemed oblivious to this fact, for he sped past them with little regard for the inconsideration he was displaying. Generally, I highly respect Ross's no-nonsense attitude, as he has been my greatest ally at UOB and often allowed me regain hope and sanity, but this is one example of such single-mindedness for results and timeliness producing negative consequences, even unintentionally. An excellent lesson for me.

When the work began, I was unsure how to make myself useful. I, as at other UOB events, had been designated as cameraperson, so I began by simply awkwardly, though purposefully, walking around, documenting activity. However, I was sensitive to the fact that the role I chose to play would be observed and scrutinized by all there - UOB employees and community members alike. Therefore, I felt compelled - both to uphold and celebrate the spirit of Umuganda and to impart a positive impression upon this community of my work ethic and all they associate with me - to work diligently. And with that resolution, I was off.

I took up a hoe - a rather "my-sized" hoe - and took a swing. My attempt at hoeing, having never before handled a hoe, was laughable (literally), and people were not shy about laughing at me - the muzungu with a hoe. I did not laugh. They were indeed laughing AT me. While I was resolved to serve, there were other opportunities for me to so without making myself ridiculous, so I took my hoe and used it for a different purpose, clearing land and turning up the top soil. I became adept at uprooting plant and developed a sort of audience, cheering section, and judging panel. Everything the muzungu did was interesting or strange or somehow note-worthy. Others were preparing the mud and grass to be made into bricks and others making the bricks: pouring the mud into the water-coated wooden frames; pushing it down to make the brick firm, sturdy, and compact; and slowly removing the frame. Man has made brick.

After watching the process a few times, I began making bricks mysef. Withba (a fellow UOB employee - one I would actually call my comrade) and I had a sort of cooperative system, and together we made 24 bricks. Locals seemed to be competing with me in terms of brick-making speed, appearance, etc. I may not have been the fastest brick-maker, but my bricks were very compact and straight; therefore, they/I became the subject of much controversy. Apparently, some people thought my bricks were outstanding - looked great and would prove very sturdy - while others thought they would crumble - too straight and too compact. However, one man standing by in this debate vouched for the quality of my bricks, saying he works in construction and my bricks were very good. Of course all of this was relayed to me by Withba.

Regardless of my bricks' quality, everyone seemed surprised/impressed by my diligence - reflected by my mud-covered appearance. I am glad to have shown that a muzungu is not afraid to get her hands (and general person) dirty.

World System Manifest at Quita Izina

Quita Izina - one of the largest, most star-studded celebrations in Rwanda. Quita Izina is the annual gorilla naming ceremony, with those distinguished with the honor of naming a gorilla generally having somehow contributed to conservation - donors, investors, advocates, etc. However, others unaffiliated with conservation, such as "Rwanda's Best Student - Primary and Secondary", can also be selected.

I was thrilled to be able to attend this event, having heard so much about it. Yet again, life seems to be about the connections you make, as I was able to go solely because I knew one of the organizers. She got our names on the list - I felt so posh, for better or worse.

Upon arriving at the event grounds, it became clear that this event celebrating Rwanda's gorillas, their conservation, and ultimately the benefits the gorilla tourism industry has had on the state had a primary audience - the well-to-do and influential - and a secondary audience - everyone else. These audiences were geographically segregated and received differing attention in entertainment and refreshment. The former sat beneath a white tent in chairs, were provided with a several complimentary breakfast options from local sponsors' booths, and were later provided with a complimentary lunch (including alcoholic beverages). On the other hand, the latter group stood in the sun, physically contained behind fences manned by police.

The ceremony was full of a variety performances -singing (including the von Trapps singing the national anthem), dancing, theatrics - most of which I thoroughly enjoyed (I recorded many clips with the flipcam I borrowed from Blayne Sharp). However, only one performer particularly played to the local crowd - a rapper who apparently is very famous here. A few of us muzungus even danced (generally awkwardly) to his bumpin' music.

Eventually, the awaited naming occurred. Those happy few made their way to the stage in their shining robes, introduced themselves, and explained their chosen name - perhaps in context of their particular gorilla. The selection of names was generally inspirational and all in Kinyarwanda, I think. I will upload video clips soon if possible.

Once lunch arrived, evryone made a mad dash for the lunch tent, skipping and pushing to be nearest the buffet line. I found the distant end of the line, which proceeded to remain at an absolute standstill for probably 20 minutes. Many people skipped me, a young, unimposing musungu girl, but I was hesitant to say anything about this on account of my relative social position and the message my doing so might send - not only on my behalf but Americans' and muzungus' more generally.

The man behind me, a student, persistently though (I believe) inadvertently bumped into me, alerting me to my unknown personal boundary sensitivity. I tried to find a balance between leaving a bit of space between the person in front of me and myself and conveying my resolve in not being skipped further. Eventually, the student behind me leaned forward and asked me, "Do you talk?" and we, along with some of his fellow students, struck up a conversation. They suggested I skip to the front of the line, but I was very uneasy about this recommendation. I told them that I did not appreciate being skipped, so why would I do that to all these poeple who have been waiting like I have? They nodded as if they understood and appreciated my reasoning.

After a lunch that may actually have been worth the wait - free and delicious - Tom, Kelly, and I made our way to Tom's car. On the way, we were accosted by a group of probably 30 primary school age children. They asked us about ourselves and persistently but sweetly requested we give them things - money, pens, a football, a French-English dictionary, etc. I truly thought they might swarm the car when we began to open the doors. Somehow three boys even managed to bargain a lift from Tom. Tom, Kelly, and I suspected though that they simply wanted to have the experience of riding in an automobile and that we may have driven them away rather than toward their homes. When they entered the car, they were all smiles and excitement, but when they left, they looked a bit weary and overwhelmed, perhaps thinking, "Was that a good idea? How much farther must I walk now!"

Upon arriving back at the house, I found everyone in such a flurry in preparations for a dinner party of grand proportions. Sarah had gone to great lengths to make this shindig a success:

- She had made tortillas from scratch for the fajitas.

- She had woken up very early this morning to go to the market to purchase cuts of beef for the fajitas; however, she had to return several times, as the cow had not yet been slaughtered. After buying the beef, she trimmed and prepared the meat alongwith rice, guacamole, two cakes (chocolate and yellow), and baked chips from chapatti bread.

- She was cooking and baking all day, sacrificing her opportunity to attend Quita Izina to provide this meal for us.

But it was successful - quite the meal - with lively guests and conversation. Among the guests were two Rwandese sisters and genocide survivors. They told us some of their story and their opinions on international issues - so glad to have met them. They live and work in Kigali, so I hope to hang out with them frequently.

What is normal?

June 18, 2007

After quite a build-up of anticipation, I finally visited Sonrise School - both primary and secondary - along with a large party, including the von Trapps, the Ritcheys, Jack Hannah and his family, Kelly (a temporary guest from Tanzania), and of course Tom. While the rest were taking a brief tour of the grounds, I played with the primary kids. The kids were so friendly - and as strange as this sounds - normal. Despite the horrors they have endured in their childhoods, they are playful, mischievous, inquisitive, bashful, and incredibly hard-working.

At Primary, I met a 13-year-old girl named Alive. She invited me to play a circle game of volleyball with her and her classmates. Of course I joined in the game and played with them for about half an hour. Each cheered on the other and giggled at mistakes made. It was just like a flashback to my days on the playground at recess. Secondary was much the same - with the artistic and musical kids hanging out together, rocking out, and the athletic kids - both giants and short, agile fellows - out on the courts. You would never know that these are orphans of genocide - orphans from both groups.

Of course, we all have our own demons that haunt us. It seems an integral part of the human condition to carry a burden but to desperately try not to let that burden visibly alter our external appearance and behavior. What we have experienced may be dramatically different, and one may say, "Oh, I cannot imagine enduring what you have." Perhaps the heart and the mind can only absorb so much horror and pain until they simply stop processing it. How else can we continue surviving? How else can these kids, the Rwandese by large, manage to not only live but live with peace?

The Land of a Thousand Hills Meets the Land of a Thousand Opportunities

June 17, 2009
I told Tom Allen yesterday afternoon that I was willing to assist with the visa crisis the Rwanda Presidential Scholars were facing. The Rwanda Presidential Scholars, selected based upon national test scores and interviews, are considered Rwanda's brightest and most promising students; on account of partnerships established with a consortium of US academic institutions, they will study in the US for four years (mathematics, sciences, engineering, etc.) and then return to Rwanda to contribute their acquired knowledge and skills to the country's development. Most of the scholars were just issued passports (a few still lack passports), and they were to depart for US in about 10 days. Crisis to say the least, particularly considering the nature of the US visa application process.

Last night I told Tupo about the work I would be doing - my lack of excitement about such tedious work but my commitment to serve as needed. She said, "You're not just filling out forms. You're building their futures. You're building Rwanda's future." I realized I sort of was enabling Rwanda's brightest to achieve great things. I was a link in the potentially very significant chain. Suddenly, I felt very nervous about filling out forms. My mistake could destroy a future.

I notified those leading the team that I could help but received no word of where to be when until 5 a.m. today - fabulous. I rushed to get ready to be there on time, skipping a much needed shower. I took a moto to the location - Christ's Church Rwanda/Kigali International Community School (KICS) in Quasse Socialle. I have decided the most dangerous thing about motos is not what one might expect - the way the drivers weave in and out of traffic or speed and slow suddenly (their generally method of driving) - but rather their feigning knowledge in terms of locations. You tell a driver where you want to go, he says he knows where that is, but really he is not at all confident or has no idea. This particular ride was quite the adventure with several misunderstandings and misdirections - oh, the language barrier. Why did I not study French?

Finally, I arrive at the proper place, actually still a few minutes early thanks to my planning. The other leaders are not there yet - a sign of the way things were headed. It took about an hour to get organized - rooms and computers setup, forms passed out and explained, etc. Then a sort of assembly line procedure began, so I simply helped students complete the same form over and over and over again. The day was certainly about maximum efficiency. Both workers and students went without desired food and beverages. The staff ate and drank meagerly periodically, but I am not sure the students had anything but what they managed to take from us. It was interesting to note the differences in attitude and demeanor among the students - some were clearly diligent in this process and excited to study in US; others appeared very nervous; others seemed like this was something their parents were compelling them to do.

While paying visa fees, we used three different credit cards, with each one subsequently being shut down after a number of transactions. Suspicious activity - a number of US visa application payments from Rwanda on the same credit card.

Needless to say, an additional reason I am a US citizen: I will never have to fill out US visa application forms. Plus, when preparing to come to Rwanda for the entire summer, I did not have to apply for a visa on account of Rwanda's political relationship with the US. Interesting, eh?

The Road to Recovery and the People on It

I am so glad that I called Tom about tagging along with him and the von Trapps to the Nyamata Memorials. We actually visited two memorials - both in churches - and the perspective that the visits lent added much to my appreciation of what happened in the 1994 genocide. The Kigali Memorial was very informational and powerful, but these memorials largely maintained the physical scene, allowing one to better imagine and appreciate what actually occurred. For example, the blood-stained clothes of the victims are still strewn about the church, covering the floor in great heaps. It makes you wonder how this number of people possibly crowded into the vicinity (10,000 in church and 5,000 in the other - and both small churches). Tom was particularly familiar with some of the horrific stories pertaining to one of the sites and relayed them to us:

The doors of the church were barred. The killers, as they were collectively called since they included members of the army, militia, and ordinary men who decided to participate, were outside demanding entry from a group of relative leadership in a locked room within the church. Once the killers broke inside, they brutally killed the people within the locked room, dismembering them, and then threatened the remaining people with their limbs. They tossed their heads into the church and menacingly waved their arms at them, taunting them.

There was mass rape and murder committed on the altar. Generally, the militiamen were responsible for this - kill the Tutsis with as little effort and force (and therefore spending as few bullets) as possible - use machetes, beatings, latrines, etc. Infants were thrown against walls and crushed. One man is reported to have looked at Mary's statue, said that she appeared Tutsi, and shot the statue.

There were a few survivors, one of whom we spoke to - Charles Mugabe. His mother was one of those in the locked room and dismembered. His brother was macheted badly and told him to lie in his blood so as to appear dead and escape the brutality. He laid in his brother's blood while his brother was dying for two days. A man named Patrice, a Hutu unaffiliated with the killers, was helping children (including Charles), giving them food, etc. The killers asked him where the children were hiding, but Patrice would not betray them. The killers macheted him, and Charles helped Patrice crawl to a hiding spot to die. His body was largely eaten by dogs, but when the genocide ended, Charles identified his remains. In the collection of skulls displayed in the memorial, one has the name Patrice written across it - that is this Patrice. Charles wrote the name himself. When these events occurred, Charles was eight years old.

Obviously, following such, we all wondered once again how such inhumanity could occur - how can people hate like that but also commit such evil? Tom responded by saying the only explanation was a most intense spiritual warfare that had broken through the veil of consciousness. He talked about Bishop John's account of unimaginable incidents - primary school children who had gone to school together for years killing one another and then playing soccer with the dead children's heads. It is simply unthinkable. I really do not know how to account for what happened here in Rwanda - not just in 1994 but throughout the twentieth century.

I spoke to Tom about my discussion the previous evening concerning the parallels between the Rwandan genocide and the Holocaust. He informed me of yet another parallel. Prior to the 1994 genocide, the Tutsis were largely geographically segregated into the most undesirable area of land: swampy land that was problematic for cattle raising (Tutsis were largely cattle-raisers) due to the prevalence of the tsetse fly and problematic for health due to the unusually high prevalence of mosquitoes (malaria). When the genocide began, it proved all the easier to annihilate the Tutsis with them gathered together in a concentrated area. --> ghettos, concentration camps

Following visiting the memorials, Tom was feeling adventurous and decided to continue down the road to see where it led. His curiosity proved invaluable, as we drove through rural villages set deep in the Rwandan hills. The people stared at this large SUV-full of muzungus (a word which they often shouted) with both awe and confusion. Some, mostly young children, waved excitedly. Eventually, we truly reached the end of the road and were forced to turn around on the shore of a river winding through the hills. On the return trip, the von Trapps and two of the Ritchie kids (Anthony and Thomas) belted out the Rwandan national anthem in Kinyarwanda. Again, we received looks of awe and confusion. Some truly seemed appreciative of our gesture and effort. In any case, I think our adventure into the hills of Rwanda was somehow a step forward for cultural understanding and dialogue.