This afternoon a young man came to visit me. I’d forgotten his name and nearly forgot where I met him. “Narcisse,” he reminded me (when I asked could he please spell it - a “trick” I think I’m using when I forget people’s names), and I remembered that I met him at the market on Friday afternoon. I’d gone too late to buy anything and instead chatted with some women who were sitting off to the side. He is a cousin of one of those women, visiting on his school holiday (he’s in university in a location I also forgot). He’d walked back to the health center with me that evening and said he would like to learn English and asked for my phone number. Many people, especially young men, say they’d like to learn English and I don’t want to give out my phone number to everyone who asks so I told him he could find me at the health center if he wanted to talk to me again. I saw him again on Saturday and he said he specifically wanted to know how to describe family members in English. Since he was so specific with his request I told him I could chat with him on Sunday. He said he’d come by the health center then. I was only a little nervous that I’d arranged a date with him and after confirming with my site-mate I was pretty sure this was merely an English lesson, not a date... hopefully. But I missed him on Sunday, apparently, so he showed up again today. Tuesday.
So we drew a family tree and labeled all the people. He was surprised - pleasantly surprised - that aunts and uncles are simply aunts and uncles and that nieces and nephews are all just nieces and nephews. In Kinyarwanda each relation has a different title. You can’t call your brother’s kids the same thing you call your sister’s kids. Additionally your mother’s brother and your father’s brother have different titles. AND if I’m talking about my mother’s brother it is a different word than your mother’s brother, and even different if it’s his or her mother’s brother. Confused yet? Families here are complicated. And big.
So when we finished the family discussion he said he had so many questions for me. Supposedly, I’m the first American he’s ever talked to. He asked where I’m from and how I got here. I described the purpose of Peace Corps and the application process. I told him a bit about my family and going to school. We were back and forth in English and Kinyarwanda. I was pretty pleased with our effective communication. Then he asked if I chose Rwanda or if I was placed here. If you know anything of my journey, that’s a very interesting question... I think it’s both...
I’ve been at my site for almost two weeks now. That’s not a long time... at all. I’ve been in Rwanda for almost 3 months. Not a long time either. I don’t know a whole lot about this place. But I have read some things and written some things and learned a little already. I was lucky enough to be blessed with another Peace Corps volunteer at my site. She is lovely. Her name is Genevieve (I think this is another little blessing from God, as there is another very important Genevieve in my life that I think of and miss dearly on a daily basis), she’s from the southeast, worked at camp and on a ropes course, and likes to hike, camp, and climb. She’s people like me. She’s leaving Rwanda in November. Her time is coming to an end just as mine is beginning. Seems like that’s how it always is, right? Ah, transitions... a constant theme.
I lived my whole 9 months in Missoula either settling in or preparing to go. During the second half of this time I was focused, academically and logistically, NOT emotionally, on Rwanda. In preparation (even though I didn’t know my placement when I registered) I took a counseling class on forgiveness and reconciliation. This idea of reconciliation is constantly in the back of my mind as I walk around every day, making friends, building relationships, and learning from a people who are all too familiar with trauma, pain, violence, and reconciliation.
This was thrust to the forefront of my mind when Narcisse asked why I wanted to come to Rwanda. But how do you carefully and respectfully tell someone you are here to learn about their pain?
Narcisse continued with his questions and asked if I knew of the history of this country, specifically the events of 1994. I was told in my PC Pre-Service Training that people don’t really like talking about it, especially to outsiders, but here was this young man bringing it up only the second time I met him. I had a hard time finding words... even in English. He got to his point and asked why, knowing how violent the people of Rwanda can be, and knowing how much tragedy they’ve experienced in recent years, I would want to come here? “Don’t you have fear?” he asked me. He looked back at the family tree we had drawn. He point to his father, his aunts and uncles, and a few of his cousins. “I lost all of these family members,” he said. The only words that found me were, “I’m so very sorry. I can’t imagine...”
I would like to say that I regained my composure, but, honestly, I was close to tears the whole time. I was able to gracefully manage my emotions, though, as I explained to him that anyone - everyone - is capable of the kind of violence that happened in Rwanda. Given the circumstances, a war like the one here could have happened in my country too. “People are people,” I said, as I still try to believe it. I wanted to tell him that there was a genocide in America (even though it's not officially labeled as such), the difference being it wasn’t stopped and was fairly successful in wiping out an entire civilization, but I think that is a conversation for later, and even then, how can I try to compare the two histories. I tried as best I could to explain that, no, I’m not afraid, that Rwanda stands out as a successful country among others in East Africa... that the infrastructure, the leadership of the government, the healthcare system, the economy are all growing successfully and Rwanda is setting an example for other nations.
In the end he said, “You have no need for fear, Amanda. We are strong, we have a very strong president, and we love peace. You are welcome here.”
These words from a young man who lost his father and most of his large family at a young age. Who still lives in the place where that happened. Who understands more than I may ever what it really means to forgive and make reconciliation.
After I walked him out to the gate of our compound and said goodbye I came home and organized some things in my house. On my last night of that forgiveness and reconciliation class in Montana we met at our teacher’s house. Everyone shared their stories of their final projects. Many were very personal. As a part of one classmate’s project a poem was shared. As I walked out the door that evening someone handed me a copy of the poem. Somehow this is one of the few things that made it into my bags to Rwanda. I must have shoved it in my school bag and never taken it out. I found it among some PC paperwork last night. The last stanza is this:
We forgive mostly not from strength
but through imperfections, for memory
wears transparent as a glass with the pattern
washed off, till we stare past what injured us.
We forgive because we too have done
the same to others easy as mudslide;
or because anger is a fire that must be fed
and we are too tired to rise and haul a log.
From "How Divine is Forgiving" by Marge Piercy
I won’t pretend to understand forgiveness and reconciliation from the perspective of a Rwandan. I don’t even think I will ever be able to understand what it means here. I’m still wondering if you can have reconciliation without forgiveness... and if some things are unforgivable... What does forgiveness even mean? Can all injuries be looked past?
But I do understand injury, suffering, and anger. Both sides of it.
So as I am transitioning in and Genevieve is transitioning out, and we talk daily about our lives on this side and at home, we inevitably talk about our own injuries, suffering, pain, and anger as well as the pain and suffering we know, are getting to know, and have known here in Rwanda. One reason I think it’s so important to be here is to look directly at the suffering that my own culture ignored and only tried to stop when it was too late. I want to, as much as I can, feel it and acknowledge what happened. As a human I feel a responsibility to the ones who died and to the survivors. And I want to know that, somehow, I am a part of it. And, maybe, I can bring a little peace and love where there was pain. And maybe, hopefully, I, too, can learn how to “ ... stare past what injured us...”
