I remember on the way to Africa being amazed with the speed of my travels. Amazed that in a day and a half, I could reach the other side of the globe. Africa seemed so...attainable. But now my flights seem to drag on. It feels like I've been traveling forever. It strikes me, on this return flight, how far apart these worlds really are.

The more The West ignores, manipulates and isolates the developing world, the father away we push them from ourselves. The less we understand them, the more they misunderstand us. One of my African frieds commented on an American delegates dirty jeans the other day. He has only washed them twice the whole trip, but wears them every day. "Maybe this way little kids won't think I'm rich," Ryan explained.
"No," said Amina. "They think all Americans are rich. So they just think you are rich- and dirty." Ha! Yes, we don't understand them, and they misunderstand us.

Getting to and from Africa is so simple today compared to what it once was. As the world shrinks, America pop-culture pervades every knook and cranny. American imperialism is strong as ever. African children know the lyrics to America's gangster rap better than I do. They use our curse words, they watcho ur disgusting and pathetic music videos. Walking down the street I overheard a young man rapping a 50 cent song to himself reciting the n-word along with all of the other english he doesn't understand. What have we given them? Dumped on them? But also, wy have they embraced it?

In addition to music, we've glady gifted our pollution. What should be our droughts, acid rain, a lack of energy. Then, when they try to develop, we say they can't because what they're doing is bad for the environment. There's o nly room for so many polluters in this world. As well as money makers. We need the bottom rungs of the ladder to get to the top. You need to step on someone to be successful.

You'd think that with increased access would ocme greater appreciation and respect for different lifestyles. But we are a stubborn people. The world is shrinking, but our minds refuse to expand.

---

I've been home from Rwanda for three days now. It's difficult readjusting. I find myself back in Africa during dinner, while the converstaion continues on around me. I wasn't gone long, so the culture shock upon my return has been mild, but still it's hard being home. I don't think anyone wants to hear about my experiences as much as I'm dying to talk to about them. My parents are extremely supportive and understanding (much due to their own time abroad I suspect). I'm grateful that although our experiences differed, that even thoughI was gone for less time than they were, that they don't belittle my time away from home. They know how much I have grown.

I don't know all of the ways that this trip changed me, but I am aware I've returned home a different person than when I left. I'm proud to say that I reacted to situations the way I hoped I would, and stayed true to who I am. I've learned to take myself a lot less seriously, which I think is inevitable when you're being laughed at every 5 seconds each day. We were laughed at in joy, in suspiscion, and in lightheartedness. Soon you realize that it's easier to just laugh along with them.

I've been accused by my family as being serious -- too serious. I learned in Rwanda, though, the importance of letting my hair down once in a while. Late in the trip, the whole group went to a dance club. One girl complained about the cover charge, "I don't know why I'm going to pay that much. I'm only going to be here for 10 minutes. I don't even want to be doing this in Rwanda." She didn't want to party in Rwanda because of the painful history. But dancing is even more beautiful in Rwanda because of the genocide. Despite the country's darkness, life goes on, people continue to celebrate. They cannot constantly mourn, just as I cannot be constantly serious. Taking joy and pleasure in life is the gift of being human.

So, I'm back safe and sound. Thanks to everyone for your support and concern throughout my journey. If you're interested in hearing more about my trip and you're in the area, I'll be speaking at Temple Beth Shalom August 13th at 7:00pm. Also, please feel free to email me any questions or comments. For the last time (for now), Mara muche and amahoro.

I'm in the middle of traveling back to The States. Right now I'm in London. The day my money went missing I took a motorbike into town. During the ride I brainstormed a list of thigs I will miss about Rwanda. This is what I came up with as Kigali whizzed by, and I took in gulps of African air.
The look of mixed bewilderment and excitment when kids spot me
The views
Bargaining
walking everywhere
Standing out
The cool mornings and chilly evenings punctuated by a few hot hours mid-day
the people
the bananas
the taxi buses that stink of body odor
the dance clubs, and the dancers
working for amahoro
Rwanda's black tea, coffee, african tea
doing my laundry by hand
bucket showers
feeling like a princess every time I sleep with a mosquito net
fish kebabs
2 hour lunch breaks
waiting two hours for food and even longer for the bill (although inconvenient when hungry or in a hurry, it is a great time for conversation)
the sideways moon
kissing three times when you greet someone
holding hands
Being comfortable with unfamiliarity

I meant to post this a while ago. It is an email I sent to my mom about two weeks ago. It is one of my favorite experiences from the trip.

Oh! I had the most AMAZING night last night. Ryan and I went looking for a poor neighborhood to go play soccer in. Ryan kept saying, "I don't see many kids." But I saw some, and I knew that once they saw white people, the word would spread and we'd have quite the cluster. And boy, what a cluster it was. At first the few kids didn't know what was going on. They were just excited to see us. Then I put the ball down and kicked it to a little toddler. Everyone died. Adults gathered around to see what the white girl was doing, and then more and more kids came. Twenty to thirty little African boys and girls with two mizungus in a big circle on a dirt and rock sloping road, passing an American-flag printed soccer ball. I wish you could've seen it. After a few minutes, a woman came and took my hand. "Come," she said. She only brought me, Ryan was left behind, and I had no idea what I would find inside the dark hut I was lead to. It turned out to be a large group of men and women who were drinking the traditional beer out of wooden straws. When they laid their eyes on me, they laughed and greeted me, and room was quickly made for me on the bench. I introduced myself in Kinyarwanda, which always backfires, because they assume I speak it. But I think they were just fine talking about me and not talking to me. After I sat down, a woman handed me a tin cup with beer in it. Drink! Drink! Two sips later I was drunk. That stuff is STRONG!

After a while there, the same women who took me in paraded me throughout the village, stepping into peoples homes having me wave, and then going to the next door. Finally she showed me her home. Two rooms. She sat us down, and showed us pictures of her family (3 of her children live in Chicago, one lives here still). She keeps the pictures locked up. When she talked about her husband she slid her finger across her throat, implying that he was killed. She made the same motion when she talked about her eldest daughter. My heart broke in front of her. Her eyes began to tear up and you could see her inner battle, trying to suck her storm back under her calm demeanor. I didn't know what to say, and even if I did, I couldn't because of the language barrier. So I reached for her hand and held it. I told her that her family is keza (beautiful). She said, yes, keza. We hugged and I told her I would visit again. I think I will go back tonight and ask if she would like me to send a letter to her children back in the states. Oh, one funny thing was when i asked if she would ever go to Chicago. She reached in the envelope where she kept the pictures and pulled out a passport. She waved it in the air and said 'maybe' with a taunting smile.

After I left her house, I went back to join the soccer game. Even more kids had gathered. We played for a bit longer, but Ryan and I had to be back at the hotel for a meeting. When we started walking away, the kids chased after us screaming "balo, balo!" They thought we had forgotten the ball, and handed it back to me! I found one girl who spoke English and told her, "this ball is for everyone in the neighborhood. Make sure it is shared. Let everyone play." Then I handed her the ball. All the kids had followed what had just been exchanged, and I was overwhelmed when the little boys and girls threw themselves around my waist and shoulders, screaming thank you. We waved goodbye, and then the two mizungus walked off into the sunset. What a night.

So I made it one month and four days without so much as a serious illness, injury or incident. Go figure fate doesn't give me a kick in the tush until 24 hours before I leave. I started packing yesterday morning only to find that all of my American cash is missing. I prided myself on living on a tight budget here. So much so in fact, that I forced myself to go on a shopping spree last weekend because I would've felt guilty returning home with so much money.

Two hundred American dollars is the amount that is gone. That is half of my book money for first semester. I didn't want to tell Gasana because I knew she would assume it was someone in her house. But I told her as we reached the office yesterday morning. She was horrified and speechless with her hands covering her face for a good 5 minutes. When she finally spoke it was to tell me she was going home. Damn! Just what I didn't want to happen.

I can't imagine how hard it must be to wake up at 6 each morning, go to bed at midnight each night, and work tirelessly all day. To be at your bosses beck and call. To cook while they watch TV, set the table while they chat, iron clothes while they shower. And what for? To barely make it by. To get up and do it all over again the next day. Because they are some of the lucky ones -- They have a job.

Yes, I'm bitter and part of me is pissed off, but I don't want this incident late in the trip to taint my whole experience.

Last night Gasana had all of my friends over for a goodbye dinner. It was perfect and very touching to see all of the friendships I have made this past month. At the end of the evening I was given a Rwandese name, Malaika, which means angel. They chose this name because I'm "very humble". Then Natty Dread (a reggae artist) sang a song about coming back to Rwanda from exile and hugging the people, and culture and country. Gasana told me I would soon be hugging Americans. Yes, but I will also fondly remember how I was embraced by this country.

I leave in a few hours for America. I look forward to hugging you all.

Thursday our group went to gacaca, which is an innovative justice system put in place a year ago to try genocide perpetrators in order to ease overcrowding in the jails. Gacaca's main objective is to unify a community rather than deliver credible justice or punishment. Rwanda is divided up by sectors, districts, and then cells (the smallest groupings). Each cell has its own gacaca court once a week, and all the local businesses must close until the hearing is over. There has been strong criticism from the Western world when it comes to this structure for several reasons. One, the accused don't have lawyers -they must represent themselves. This is because the Rwandan government wants the emphasis to remain on unification, and not have gacaca(which means grass - for the grassy areas where these hearings take place) turn into another type of court. Two, there are 7 wise men and women who are elected to hear the case. Rwandans agree, that these individuals can settle personal scores through their verdicts and some who are elected were perpetrators themselves. Now that I've given you just a bit of background, let me share with you my experience.

We attended a village gacaca in Gitarama (about an hour or so outside Kigali). The proceedings were held on the grassy knoll under the shade of a few trees. Benches were set up - a couple for the 7 judges and a few for the white visitors. I was initially concerned how the locals would feel about a group of Americans listening to the troubles of their village's past. I anticipated suspiscion and animosity, but to my surprise, I felt nothing of the sort. We were stared at quite a bit, but not with angry eyes.

Four men were being tried. One for looting and killing cows, another for torturing a child, the thrid for killing a child and the last for working a road block. The hearing was supposed to start at 9:00 am, so right on African schedule, the judges took their seats at 11:00. Every gacaca begins with a moment of silence for the victims of that district. Then, all of the visitors are asked to stand and identify themselves to the court. Next, the accused are called up, their crimes are read and then the witnesses are introduced and asked to leave during the defense of those accused (I'm not positive why).

One by one, the accused are called back in front of the judges either to accept of deny the charges. The frst 3 men denied their charges. Only did the last one accept what he had done. Everything has to be recorded in the court log, so there are painfully long silences between every few sentences. To think - the number of cases that can be heard with no more than a typewriter! The alibis of the defendants varied. On e said he ws still working as a watch guard so he couldn't have taken part in the crimes, another said he fled the country at the beginning of the conflict. I don't remember the reasoning of the third. Anyway, after each defendent speaks, the witness of the crime is called back. There is one witness for each defendent. A couple of witnessses were useless. Many or all of the true witnesses in some circumstances were killed. Many are afraid for their lives to speak. So witnesses who do tesitfy get their information by word of mouth.

The most interesting witness was the mother of the murdered child. She was sharing what she knew, and someone in the audience said she was lying. She snapped back, "I don't have a problem with this man. I had a baby with him, so I don't have a problem with him. Therefore what I say must be the truth." Apparently at some point, I don't know if before or after '94, these two were a couple and had a child together. It was like watching a soap opera.

The hearnig dragged on until 2:00 when the judges finally left to deliberate. The whole morning I struggled to swallow the likely notion that the four men sitting just a few feet in front of me were murderers. And yet to them, today was just another day. They didn't seem nervous, shy or remorseful. They have lived with their crimes for too long.

We were told the deliberation took 15 to 20 minutes...Twenty turned to 30 and then into an hour. Finally most of th group left. Only Jesse, Joe, Laura, Benon (our translator) and I stayed behind. Just as we were ready to surrendur to our stomachs, the judges returned. The observers stood, and the defendants made their way back to the front. I watched their faces closely. How nervous I would be! Suddenly, my mood shifted. The lives of at least four people are going to be darastically altered with the utterance of a single word, right in my presence. I listened closely to Benon as he translated the verdicts. Cow looter: innocent - not even a sigh of relief. Torturer: innocent - didn't even blink. Murderer: innocent - still no sign of gratitude. Finally, the road blocker. Because he confessed and apologized, in addition to him being a minor when the crime was committed, his sentence was reduced to 6 months in prison and 3 months of community service.

I was shocked, blown away, speechless. All I could think was, " I bet he wished he had denied his crime too." The judges didn't even commend him for his bravery and nobility in confessing. How do they expect more people to come forward and confess when those are the only ones sent to jail?

I want to believe in this system so badly, because I fear it is he only legitimate and feasible solution. But after this experience??? I wonder over the credibility of the judges. Is it even possible to convict someone 13 years after his supposed crime? How can a witness remember the details? The faces? What if all the witnesses were murdered? I surprise myself wondering if this formality is even worth it.

But I suppose it is. The victims need to feel like some sort of justice is being done. So, even if the system is corrupt, and even if the perpetrators are no longer the same individuals they were 13 years ago, those who suffered must be given some sort of just compensation - even if that is only the recognition of their loss.

BEFORE READING THIS BLOG, I WANT TO WARN YOU THAT THERE ARE SOME GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS.


I cheated. Three days ago, a few of us went to the most infamous memorial in Rwanda. I haven't written about it yet because I couldn't bare thinking about it again, seeing it again. I've cheated myself out of growth, and out of understanding.

The memorial at Murambi is an hour outside of Butare. It used to be a secondary school, and the compound sits atop one of the tallest hills in the area. The village spreads around the base. During the genocide, the community was lead to believe the school would be a safe refuge. Including the students already there, 50,000 people gathered there for safety. All but six were murdered.

The school is surrounded by a circle of hills. Green, lush hills. The sun pierced through the clouds the day we visited, creating a heavenly glow upon the scenery. How could such an ugly thing happen in such a beautiful place? Once through the gates, the gatekeeper greeted us and started to take us straight to the school. Laura, who was there last year, demanded that he stop and get the guide first, "I want you guys to have an introduction before he unlocks those doors." I knew that skeletons lay within the rooms, but no introduction could've prepared me for what I would see. It didn't help that all our guide said to us was the death toll and a list of what weapons that were used to inflict the deaths. When he listed guns as one weapon used, he pointed his long, skinny finger to his forehead where there was a dent the size of a small bullet. This man lost his entire family at Murambi.

We were standing on the outside of a barrack-type building, and without saying another word, our guide unlocked and shoved open the first door. He turned his back to us before we had a chance to look inside and he marched down the barrack, slamming open each door. How angry he is.

Before the first door had fully swung open, the stench of death rushed up my nostrils. I cannot describe it. I gagged and held my breath as I entered. These are not skeletons. They are bodies still intact and preserved with lime. Tufts of hair are still attached to the bodies head, facial expressions can still be discerned. In all directions of the small room, skeletons are stretched out. Men, and women, children and babies. Their arms reach out as if grasping for something, or someone. Their bodies are contorted. Some skulls were smashed, some men had been dismembered before killed. Every face was twisted in agony. What did these hills echo that day? How many screams were repeated over and over, thrown back and forth between the mountains, until they faded into the sky?

I didn't walk into another room after that first one. I only peered in, attracted to the horror, just like a car accident. You hate to look, but even more, you hate that you can't stop yourself. Room after room of dead human beings. Rooms completely full of adults, rooms full of students, rooms full of the small and fragile bodies of infants. The stink of death followed and clung to me.

The hardest thing I saw was a women lying on her back with a small child laid across her chest. What evil. What sadness. What loss. Not just in the number of human beings killed, but in the amount of humanity that was lost that day, among both the victims, and perpetrators. At least half of the population took part in the 1994 genocide - that's over 4 million people. I wonder how many it took to slaughter 50,000. I wonder how many hearts turned cold and minds turned dark in this single town. And now, today, people still live there. People who witnessed the atrocities, as well as those that carried it out.

After I had escaped the tombs I ran to the edge of the hill. I looked down at the sea of children returning from school, the men harvesting, and the smoke rising from cooking stoves. "I can't think. I can't think." My mind was numb. How am I to comprehend such visions? So I closed my eyes and just listened to the echoes of today. Birds, women's song, and children's playful screams floated up to me. How does life go on here, with this awful reminder of pain looming above them? I never cease to be amazed at the strength of these people...but is it genuine? Are people really forgiving their neighbors? Or is hatred still brewing under the surface, in the privacy of homes?

I heard one true account of a young man whose entire family was killed during the genocide. When the man that killed them was released from prison, he sought he young man out in order to gain his forgiveness. After much heartache the young man forgave. But still, the perpetrator was not satisfied. "If you really forgive me, then take my only daughter as a wife - as a sign of your forgiveness." The young man did. And although it is tense in their home during the days of memorial, the couple is still happily married. There are many similar stories to this one, but then there is also the graffiti etched into the walls of school bathrooms that says, "We will kill you again." Which am I supposed to believe? This country is full of contradictions. I had one young man tell me that there really is a difference between Hutu and Tutsi. In fact, he went so far as to say, "All Hutus are dirty." The very next day another young man (who was also a Tutsi) told me in sincerity, that there is no difference, and that he would marry a Hutu woman. "If I won't marry a Hutu, then who will?"

Who am I to believe - the yin or the yang? Whose opinion is actually in the majority of opinions? I don't know if it's possible to find out considering the government's current policy, which is you can identify as Hutu or Tutsi as long as it doesn't have a hateful intention. Well, saying "I'm Hutu" can be interpreted by the government any way they like. So, because of the fear of being thrown in jail, individuals keep their mouths shut until they're in the privacy of homes, or of bathroom stalls.

I don't know how I feel about this policy. Is it just suppressing heated emotions? Is it prolonging the inevitable? Or perhaps the idea that "we are all Rwandan" is government propaganda being shoved down the throats of the newest generation. Will this propaganda nurture a new and genuine sentiment? Or is such a sentiment only possible with open dialogue? How important is free speech? I realize I'm only adding to a very long list of questions, but that's because I don't know what's right. I don't know enough about Rwanda and its culture to aid its healing.

I was once told that the best solution for the Arab-Israeli conflict would be to completely separate the populations with a giant wall. Let a few generations live like that, and at some point, the Jews and Palestinians will wonder what's on the other side. Slowly the wall will come down. Like I've said before, genuine curiosity leads to genuine understanding. I'm not saying this solution should be applied to the Middle East, but I do see a parallel here in Rwanda. Preventing the open discussion of "ethnicity" and identity is like building a wall between the different "ethnicities" Eventually, future generation may yearn for understanding and begin to open avenues of communication. Who knows. It's just a theory.

I guess one of two things will happen. One, neglectedemotions and differences will build and build until they explode, leading to more mass violence. Or, two, the suppressed emotions will continue to be buried deeper and deeper, until it is forgotten that they ever existed. Either is possible. Both are pending on Rwanda's growth today considering Rwanda is the most densely populated country in Africa, and the poorest. Poverty and illiteracy (another big problem here) have always been manipulated to illicit support for tyrants and conflict.

Development is coming slowly to the area. There are 3 skyscrapers being built in Kigali's city center, and there is also a mall that has a coffee shop which makes Starbucks look shabby. Personally, I think the mall is disgusting. What a show of Western imperialism. But then again, who am I to judge another country's development? I fear that Rwanda will lose its culture in its quest for economic success, for the only way to measure economic success is (unfortunately) against the West. Sustainability is never enough, surplus means success.

After leaving the memorial I felt sick. People wanted to spend time there to process their reactions, but I wanted to get out immediately. What had I just seen? What was the point of seeing it? I did not gain anything from viewing that nightmare. I already knew the genocide happened, I believe the death toll. What am I to do when the baby and its mom return to haunt me? How has the Murambi Memorial made me a better person? A stronger human rights advocate? Horror for the sake of horror. This country has been desensitized.

The whole ride back to Butare, the smell of the dead stuck to me. Back at the guest house I rushed to the shower. What for? To purge myself? And then I wondered, why am I here? Why am I volunteering? Is it to purge myself of any guilt I feel? Why do I feel judged when the survivor of Murambi watches my reaction as I see his dead family? I stumbled upon my answer as I entered the rooms of the bodies. Underneath our defense mechanisms, our neuroses, and egos...underneath our skin color, we are the same. My skeleton will look just like that woman's when I'm finally laid to rest. We are all human beings. And if that is all I got out of that memorial, then what a beautiful revelation to leave with.

On a side note - I know my family is worried about me protecting my heart. Let me just say, that although parts of this trip have been painful, I have grown intellectually, morally, and spiritually while here. Don't worry, I'll be coming home in one piece.

7/6/07

Another day at the office with no internet and nothing to do. so far I've been spending lots of my money and time at the internet cafe working on proposals. Thank goodness I feel passionate about this organization otherwise I'd be extremely frusterated.

Oh, the other day (on the 4th) we went to Jesse's dad and step-mom's house for breakfast. they had some family friends over who were introduced and we politely exchanged greetings. When I hugged one woman I noticed she was missing a sizeable portion of her hand, "'94..." I wondered. Later in the morning when this woman stepped out of the room, Jesse expolained to us, "That's Valentina, from Valentina's nightmare." Valentina's Nightmare is a PBS documentary about a 10-year-old girl who was the lone survivor of a 1994 massacre in Rwanda. She was buried alive under dead bodies, which afforderd her protection, though machetes still reached her hand. For days Valentina lived among the bodies, only venturing out of her hiding place to collect food.

I have seen pictures of her at the end of the genocide. She looks like a Holocaust survivor with gaunt eyes and hollow cheeks - lifeless.

When Valentina reentered the room I searched her face for similarites with the pictures I have seen - nothing. Today she is a curvy young woman with bright eyes, glasses and braided hair. She is constantly smiling and giggling. I spent the rest of the morning chatting with her on the couch. She's 23, and leaving mid-September to go to nursing school in the U.S. The Rwandan community in the U.S. is putting pressure on her not to go back after school, but Valentina is dedicated to returning and working in Rwanda.

How do you survive a thing like she has? Not physically, but emotionally and psychologically? The deamons that must haunt her... How do you grow from an orphan to a young woman? A survivor to a healer? At what point do you stop listening to your memories and start listening to American hip-hop (Akon is her favorite)? I wonder about the scars that lay under her skin and am in awe of her capacity for resiliency.

7/7/07

I remember a story my dad always tells about coming home from the Peace Corps and being served a steak on the plane. He couldn't believe his good fortune, a steak! He overheard a couple near him, however, complaining about the meat. He had just spent years with Africans struggling to make it by each day, and here were two Westerners so blinded by their own privelege that they complained about airplane food.

I haven't been here for even a fraaction of the time my parents were, but I had a similar experience the other day and was disgusted. A group of us went out to Ethiopian food for dinner. I thought my meal was delicious, but one American delegate was not so pleased. "The Ethiopian food back in my hometown is better than this...the anjera bread is so bland here... I think the food in America is better because we have access to fresh ingredients..." Excuse me? They killed the chicken out back right before cooking it for us! And then there was my personal favorite, "This just isn't up to my standards."

You're in Rwanda, eating something other than mashed plantains and have a full belly. What kind of standards are you working with? I wanted to say to her, " You know there are several boys starving just outside this restaraunt door. You should be garteful for the food on your plate." I'm ashamed I didn't.

Back home I can be a very picky eater. It's not that I don't eat certain types of food, it's that when I want to eat one thing, it's all I want and any other food isn't good enough. Not so here. The food doesn't bother me (which is good b/c each meal is the same). I haven't had any cravings for food back home - except for those early mornings when a hazelnut latte would be nice.

A couple weeks ago, friends and I ate an Italian restaraunt and had left over pizza. We wrapped up the extra slices in napkins to disperse to the street kids. When I gave the food away, the young boys unwrapped it and had begun eating it before I waslked away. They really are starving. They're not trying to make a living or get a kick begging off of mizungus. They're just trying to survive.

I've begun my fieldwork placement with Amahoro Great Lakes, an organization that uses athletics and culture to promote human rights and reconciliation. Personally, I feel their vision, and techniques for developing that vision are ingenious. They focus their attention on vulnerable children such as street kids, HIV/AIDs orphans, and child-headed households. They have a center in Kigali that houses 15 boys (ages 9-15). Amahoro pays for all of their school fees and the boys cook and clean. They're also in the middle of plans for building a vocational center for boys and girls who feel they are too old to go back to school.

Yesterday morning I was really busy with office work, but that's because I went to the internet cafe. In the afternoon I was struggling with no computer. It's unbelievable how slow things move without the internet. No wonder Africa is behind the U.S. I never realized how important internet access is for economic success. A little boy who walked me home one day asked for my email address. "How often do you check your email?" he asked. Without waiting for a reply he said, "You're rich. You probably go every day, don't you?" Well, I've never considered myself rich, but back home I access the internet once a day, twice a day, multiple times a day! And at the end of each use, I don't have to pay some old woman behind a desk. In fact, I don't even have to go to an internet cafe. I can log on in the comfort of my own home - or backyard- since we have wireless. So if internet is a measurement of wealth, I'm pretty damn rich. We forget how lucky, how fortunate, we are. It's good to be reminded. Good, but also painful.

Anyway, I'm in the process of sending a proposal to Macalester's Athletic Director to get the school to partner with Amahoro. I don't see how they can turn it down. It really isn't demanding of the school's resources. And the I think the benefits would outweigh the challenges or costs.

Yesterday we met with Amohoro's oldest team of street children. Half of them were either wearing sandals or no shoes at all. None of them had cleats. Whe we asked what they needed, all the equipment I predicted they would say was listed, but so were first aid supplies. That's something I never even though of. How basic, you know? I didn't even think of it, because I KNOW that if I ever get cut or bruised there will be bandaid and ice wiating for me, not to mention advil. Again, all the things we take for granted.

Later in the afternoon we visited the home for the 15 homeless boys. Ryan (my co-volunteer from GYC) brought a bag of crayons and red 4-square balls. The kids went wild with the toys. By the time we left 2 hours later, no ball had been laid to rest.

Gasana (my boss) told me that 4 of the boys are genocide survivors. Two and two are brothers. One pair went to live with their uncle after their parents were murdered, but soon thereafter the uncle left - disappeared! The aunt was left with 5 children of her own, so she told her two nephews she could no longer take care of them and sent them to the street.

Another young boy who lives there now was trying to carry Gasana's bags in the market for a profit last year. She began speaking with him and he said that he heard there was a shelter around, but he could never find it. Gasana took him straight there and according to her, "he hasn't caused a single problem" since he's been there.

I watched and played with the boys, and took so much joy in their happiness. I wonder if a year ago they would've believed they'd be in school, live in a home, have toys to play with - and the free-time to play.

Today I played with Amahoro's soccer team of 8 to 10 year-olds. It was a blast. They kept saying to pass it the mizungu (white person)! All were impressed that a girl knew how to play. I was happy to see the pennies I brought over get some use, but playing with them broke my heart. They use what must be a 10-year-old ball that's only halfway pumped and beginning to tear. Their field is a hard-packed dirt and none of them have adequate gear. Yeah, I brought over a few balls, a pump, pennies and shirts, but these donations don't even scratch the surface. These kids deserve so much more. Partly because of their past, partly because of their present situation, but also because they are the best 8, 9 and 10 year-olds I've ever seen play the game. If their talent isn't recognized soon, I fear they will forget they have any talent at all.

After only two days of this work I look back on my childhood in a whole new light. Childhood is so often taken for granted. Ah, how lucky I have been.

Well, my stomach finally got the best of me. But would it really be a trip to Africa without some food poisoning? I'm still recovering, but doing much better. I'm surprised I went two weeks completely healthy. Here's another journal entry from just a couple of days ago:


6/29/07
I'm on a very narrow road heading for Giseyni ( a town on the western border of Rwanda). The view is absolutely breathtaking. I think this could be the most beautiful scenery I've ever seen. Yes, more beautiful than the Mexican Riviera, and very comparable to Israel's varied landscape.

Hill rolls after hill until you can no longer distinguish one from the next. They are lush and green with terraced farming up and down the steep hill sides. Bannana trees are scattered between the sour ghum and corn creating a stunning contrast between brown, green and yellow. If you look closely, sometimes you can spot the colorful headwraps of women working in the field.

Yesterday we went to a secondary school in Kibuye to watch a play put on by the students about sexual reproductive rights and health. The play was great - with a lot of humor too. Afterwards one of the actors approached me asking for money for his school fees. I'd never spoken with him before and was uncomfortable because of his request. I don't blame him though. He lost his entire family (except for one aunt) in the genocide. I told him about an organization that pays for school fees of orphans in Rwanda. Hopefully that helps him. It took a long time for me to explain that not all Americans are rich, and that I couldn't afford to pay for him.

So many children can't afford school even though it's supposedly free and public. Extra fees are imposed ot supplement the teacher's salary and to cover uniforms.

The other night a group of street children greeted us begging for money. We asked why they were not in school and they explained that their parents were killed in the genocide and could not afford the fees.

Ah, Rwanda has more challenges to overcome than the average African state. But the strides they are making are incredible.