Around me, students skip up and down the steep hill, but I move slowly, eyes fixed on every sandy step, plotting my course with intense precision.

Walking with crutches seemed easy in America, with its smooth sidewalks and even floors. Here, on steep inclines covered in loose sand and cut by deep water-carved gashes, it demands concentration, physical coordination, and patience.

This enforced patience separates a continuous string of experiences into individual moments as my focus narrows on the earth in front of me.

One moment, ten years ago:

Water closes over my head, cold with the frozen ghosts of the ice it once was. I had found a rhythm, fingers clutching rough rope, feet pushing off firm stone, body arcing above the deep water, pausing a moment against all the forces of gravity, and then dropping back—but I missed a beat, lost momentum, came to a dead stop hanging above the river, too far to reach land.

And I dropped.

For an eternal heartbeat, my body hangs suspended in a thrumming blue world, muscles petrified in the sudden cold, mind caught between thoughts.

Then I surge to the surface.

One moment, two months ago:

Electric buzzing fills my ears. Strange new discomfort inches down my back—a rough, oddly isolated scratching that occasionally sparks into sharp pain before subsiding. The apex of the table’s hard cushion presses against my chin as the needle deposits a word in extreme slow motion between the layers of my skin:


Be patient. Endure.

Rwandans say this when expressing sympathy. If your grandmother dies, if you slip on the gravel (if tendonitis and an unstable patella make themselves known in a painful burst and require the use of a crutch for a couple weeks) this is word you are given.

In English, they say to me, Sorry, but in Kinyarwanda, they tell me Komera—Be strong—and Ihangane—endure.


One moment, a day ago, a week ago, every day:

A deep breath fills my lungs before I step out my door and the world closes over me. I thought Peace Corps would make me brave, but under the harsh light of high yet vague expectations and the close scrutiny of friendly or indifferent or judgmental Rwandan eyes, my fears are magnified.

A chronic sense of uncertainty has become overwhelming self-doubt.

A mild social anxiety has become gut-wrenching terror.

The sun is drying the rain-soaked dirt road, but I am frozen, paralysed by the gaze of my neighbours. I am walking to the bus stop, to the market, to the school, but my projects hang suspended, caught between ideas and reality.

Every day, I fight toward the surface, and my mind spins an endless mantra:

Take one more breath.


Take another step.


Breathe again.

I finish my journey, I buy my food, I teach my students.

I close my door behind me.

I exhale.

One moment, an hour ago:

Simple words leave my mouth slowly, pronounced with painstaking clarity. My student listens, eyebrows drawn in the concentration needed to keep every word in his mind long enough to understand it and connect it with the others, to catch the meaning in my short sentences. I draw him a diagram, blue ink on a scrap page of a notebook:

a femur

a tibia

a patella.

I tell him tendons and ligaments are like strings holding the bones and muscles together. He knows “string” because we learned it last year.

Understanding lifts his features. His eyes widen, his eyebrows rise, and his mouth relaxes.

“In our culture, when someone is sick, we go to visit them,” he says, nodding, “to say, be sorry.

This student has a courage I lack: he plunges into the water and fights to swim. He strings words together until he can make meaning, even when half the words are wrong, when the grammar is a tangle, when it takes multiple repetitions for me to catch the words or to guess at the ideas they outline.

This student reminds me why I walk out into the current of stares and whispers and giggles every day, why I hobble up steep hills and pick my way across dirt with a crutch.

There’s no glamour in Peace Corps. There’s no saving the world.

Before I came, I said, At worst I’ll spend two years doing something I hate to help someone else.

But it’s not that, either.

It’s enduring.

It’s limping to keep moving. It’s swimming upward despite the cold paralysis of fear. And once in a while, it’s breaking the surface long enough to see a student’s eyes widen in understanding.



16 Days of Activism: GBV in Rwanda

This isn’t a typical blog post. It’s a little long and very serious, and I’m not going to offer you any quick action points at the end. Trying to offer short and simple answers to GBV would be futile and insulting, reducing a complex, multifaceted issue and oversimplify the experiences and mindsets of everyone involved. That’s not to say there isn’t a solution or that you can’t find ways to be a part of that solution, but, honestly, I don’t feel qualified to tell you to go out and take an action. I do, however, believe that awareness is vital, and I believe that ignoring problem simply because we don’t expect to find easy answers to it is a serious exertion of privilege.

Leading up to International Women’s Day, Peace Corps Rwanda is engaging in sixteen days of activism against gender based violence (GBV), from 14 February to 1 March. I think it’s important to be informed about gender-based violence—no matter where you live—and so I want to take a few minutes to talk about it.

Rwanda regularly makes headlines for its gender equality. It leads the world in women’s involvement in government: two thirds (64%) of parliamentarians are women,* compared with only 20% in the US Congress. There are as many girls as boys in primary and secondary schools, and the majority of women participate in the workforce6. Undergirding these metrics is a commitment to gender equality at the highest levels of government and a strong interest in it at the grassroots level.         

However despite this commitment, gender-based violence (GBV) is prevalent throughout the country. Rwandan law defines GBV as “any act, perpetrated because of the victim’s gender, which results in bodily, psychological, sexual or economic harm, or in the deprivation of freedom or in negative consequences within or outside households.”3

In most cases, the victims** are women and the perpetrators are men.

Intimate Partner Violence

Intimate partner violence (IPV) is the most common form of GBV. According to the UN World’s Women Report, over half (55%) of Rwandan women will experience physical or sexual violence within their lives. Of the women who report IPV within their lifetimes, the majority of them also say they experienced IPV within the last twelve months.

For context, consider the statistics cited for Europe in the same report. Here, we see the number of women who experienced IPV within their lifetimes is much higher than the number of women who experienced IPV in the last 12 months. This shows that in Europe, most women faced with IPV are able to escape the situation. In Rwanda, by contrast, most women who experience IPV continue to face it repeatedly throughout their lives.7

This data is compiled from several tables in the UN World’s Women Report; this includes a representative sample of high, medium, and low percentages. For full tables including data for many more countries, check out the full report, especially figures 6.7 and 6.8.

One reason for this is that for Rwandan women, it is especially difficult to leave abusive relationships. Most women in Rwanda are unwilling to seek support for intimate partner violence because they expect severe legal, social, and economic repercussions if they do.

Legally, women worry about losing custody of their children if they pursue a divorce.

Socially, they fear the stigma that surrounds IPV. One study2 notes that “[w]omen feared revealing the abuse to anyone . . . as this would bring shame to the family and worsen their overall life situation.” The same study2 points out that women consider seeking support from formal institutions to be “equivalent to revealing the abuse to the entire community, thus bringing shame to the family.”

Economically, many women are dependent on their abusers. As one married woman said, “Where [can I] go when I bring my husband to prison? I still have to bring him food while he is not bringing anything to the house. I better keep silent about the problems in the house.”

Patriarchal Culture and Colonialism

Beneath this violence is a culture in which men have historically been dominant. The Rwandan government recognises that gender inequality is a deeply rooted aspect of Rwandan society. The National Gender Policy4 asserts that

Rwandan society is characterised by a patriarchal social structure that underlies the unequal social power relations between men and women, boys and girls. This has translated into men’s dominance and women’s subordination. Gender inequalities have not seen [sic] as unjust, but as respected social normality [sic].

In the view of the Rwandan government, this male domination is largely a result of colonization4. In pre-colonial Rwanda, women had a greater role in household decision-making and greater control of domestic resources. They had primary responsibility for farming—though men also helped—and in a purely agrarian economy, women’s control of agricultural and domestic resources translated into significant social and economic power.

But colonial rule shifted the balance of power away from women.

Belgian colonisers instituted a sudden change to a “monetary economy based on paid employment and a formal education system.” Whereas money hadn’t been used in precolonial Rwanda, it suddenly became a “key resource”—one that only men could access and control. Further weakening their position, women were unable to access education5 or open bank accounts without permission of their husbands9.

In the government’s view, the psychological effects of colonisation exacerbated gender-based violence directly: “[T]he violence and brutality undergone by men in their contact with European rule was reflected in their attitude towards women and children.”4 While the policy does not delve deeply into the evidence for its view, it’s plausible that colonialism continues to contribute to gender inequality today.

Cultural Attitudes

Regardless of its causes, the cultural expectation that men should dominate women is widespread in contemporary Rwanda. The National Policy Against Gender Based Violence recognises as much, holding that “Gender-based violence . . . serves—by intention or effect—to perpetuate male power and control.”3

A study of attitudes toward gender roles in 2010 found that most women and men agreed that “A man should have the final word about decision [sic] in his home” (52.8% and 65% respectively).1 Most women (53.3%) and nearly half of men (45.5%) also agree that a wife “has to be submissive to her husband and accept everything.”1 Close to a third of both men and women (32% and 28% respectively) agreed that “A wife who earns more than her husband provokes violent [sic].”1

The UN estimates7 that roughly half of men (55%) and a quarter of women (25%) agree that a man is justified in beating his wife if the wife does one of the following: burns the food, argues with her husband, goes out without telling him, neglects the children, or refuses to have sex with him.

The results from another study1 are grimmer still: most men (60%) and even more women (70%) agree that “[violence against women] is needed to control a wife and women sometimes deserve to be beaten.”

statements graph

Steps Forward: Policies and Metrics

Although gender-based violence is a significant problem in Rwanda, it’s one that the government has been actively working to address throughout the last decade.

In 2008, Rwanda passed a law making all forms of GBV illegal. By the time of one study in 20101, 85% of participants understood the law, and many believed it would have significant social impact.

In July 2010, the government released a comprehensive National Gender Policy, which sets out a vision of a gender-equitable future, an assessment of opportunities and challenges, and a set of targets and responsibilities distributed across sectors of the government.

In 2011, that policy was followed by a National Policy Against Gender Based Violence, which expresses the government’s commitment to eradicating GBV and lays out strategies for doing so. The Policy Principles section of that document is of particular interest at a moment when gender-based violence within the American government is a matter of international attention.

The Government of Rwanda does not condone any acts of gender-based violence;

The Government of Rwanda recognizes gender based violence as a violation of human rights;

The Government of Rwanda strongly believes in, and promotes gender equality, equity and empowerment of women as a crucial human resource for social and economic development;

The Government of Rwanda is committed to using its fullest powers to fight, prevent and provide response to all forms of gender-based violence in society; and

GBV interventions and responses must be conducted in all social, economic and political sectors.

In addition to these policies, in a part of the world where comprehensive statistics in general are hard to come by, the Rwandan government has collected an impressive amount of information about gender disparities.8 Gender equality targets are integrated into the metrics and evaluation for social services like schools and health centres, providing gender-specific data regarding malnutrition, various diseases, school enrolment and dropout rates, and teenage pregnancy from each school and health centre in the country.

The government also tracks indicators that are not tied to a specific service, such as the hours that men and women spend on unpaid labour, the rate at which male and female heads of houses have electricity, and the overall access men and women have to smartphones and other technology.

This abundance of data provides a solid footing for combating GBV.

More Steps Forward: Programming

In addition to policies, Rwanda has a wide range of programmes to address gender-based violence.

Gender is a cross-cutting issue in the school curriculum, meaning that teachers are expected to integrate it into any lesson where it’s relevant. For example, in a lesson on community resources, a teacher would be expected to address gender-specific resources like girls’ rooms (a government-mandated facility in each school where girls can deal with menstrual hygiene. Though implementation is slow, the Ministry of Education puts constant pressure on schools to integrate gender equality into school policies and classroom instructions.

The Rwanda National Police have also been leaders in addressing GBV at the community level.

Throughout the country, women facing violence can seek support from One-Stop Centres, which provide free integrated medical care, emergency accommodation, psycho-social support, and legal aid to victims of GBV or domestic violence. The One-Stop Centres are organised by the police and have been expanded over the past decade with the goal of putting a One-Stop Centre in each community health centre.3

The police also run community-organising programmes to prevent and address GBV. The campaign, supported by the UN, consists of “a club, a mentorship program and a 3 months [sic] training module,”10 allowing police to disseminate information, train community members, and intervene in relationships where GBV is present.

Last year, the Rwanda Peace Academy organised a training on sexual and gender-based violence for military, police, and civilian officers from five countries in the region. The training focused on understanding the humanitarian impacts of GBV during and after conflicts, and on strategies to prevent and address GBV in conflict zones.11

In addition to the government-run programmes, various NGOs focus on grassroots prevention of GBV. One organisation deserves particular attention: The Rwanda Men’s Resource Centre (RWAMREC) focuses on engaging men to support gender equality and prevent GBV.

RWAMREC’s study on attitudes toward gender and gender-based violence is exceptional in providing a clear window into the cultural attitudes, beliefs, and histories that affect gender in this country’s unique context. RWAMREC also runs a programme called “Boys for Change” that engages secondary school boys in gender equality, healthy lifestyles, and sustainable development.

In addition, they offer a programme called Positive Masculinities focused on “sensitising men towards gender equality by challenging traditionally held notions.”9 As a part of this, for example, women and men are asked to switch household chores for three days.

RWAMREC constantly challenges men and boys to question their preconceptions and strive toward a more positive masculinity that aligns with Rwanda’s cultural ideals of unity, equality, and dignity for all people.

*This does not extend to all areas of life; women are a minority in other high positions. (Check out this table.)

**In Rwanda, the term “survivor” is reserved for those who survived the 1994 Genocide Against the Tutsi. In the context of GBV, the term “victim” is preferred.

Also: A huge thanks to Claire Pennington for co-authoring this blog post with me. You should check out Claire’s blog.  


1Henny Slegh and Augustin Kimonyo, “Masculinity and Gender Based Violence in Rwanda: Experiences and Perceptions of Women and Men” (Rwanda Men’s Resource Center, 2010).

2Aline Umubyeyi, Margareta Persson, Ingrid Mogren and Gunilla Krantz, “Gender Inequality Prevents Abused Women from Seeking Care Despite Protection Given in Gender-Based Violence Legislation: A Qualitative Study from Rwanda,” (2016).

3National Policy Against Gender-Based Violence, Ministry of Gender and Family Promotion (Rwanda), July 2010, http://www.migeprof.gov.rw/fileadmin/_migrated/content_uploads/GBV_Policy-2_1_.pdf.

4National Gender Policy, Ministry of Gender and Family Promotion (Rwanda), July 2011, http://www.migeprof.gov.rw/fileadmin/_migrated/content_uploads/National_Gender_Policy-2.pdf.

5John Mutamba and Jeanne Izabiliza, “Role of Women in Reconciliation and Peace Building in Rwanda: Ten Years After Genocide” The National Unity and Reconciliation Commission (Rwanda). May 2005, http://unpan1.un.org/intradoc/groups/public/documents/un/unpan031033.pdf.

6The Statistical Yearbook, 2014 Edition, National Institute of Statistics of Rwanda, November 2014, http://statistics.gov.rw/publication/statistical-yearbook-2014.

7World’s Women 2015: Trends and Statistics, United Nations, Department of Economic and Social Affairs, Statistics Division, 2015, https://unstats.un.org/unsd/gender/worldswomen.html.

8National Gender Statistics Report, 2014 Edition, National Institute of Statistics of Rwanda, September 2014, http://statistics.gov.rw/file/3647/download?token=bX071OKj.

9Nishtha Chugh, “A drive to beat Rwanda’s gender-based violence,” The Guardian, November 22, 2013, https://www.theguardian.com/global-development-professionals-network/2013/nov/22/rwanda-gender-based-violence.

10“A partnership to end Gender-Based Violence,” United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) Rwanda, June 19, 2014, http://www.rw.undp.org/content/rwanda/en/home/presscenter/articles/2014/06/19/a-partnership-to-end-gender-based-violence.html.

11“Rwanda Peace Academy trains officers on sexual and gender-based violence,” Igihe, January 18, 2017, http://en.igihe.com/news/rwanda-peace-academy-trains-officers-on-sexual.html.

Be Calm (or, How to Cope in the Peace Corps: 24 tips from an introvert)


Be calm.

Have I mentioned Peace Corps is the hardest thing I’ve ever done?

It’s isolating and exhausting—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Half the time it’s incredibly rewarding, and half the time it feels thoroughly futile, and on top of everything, you can’t buy a pint of ice cream when you have a bad night. After over a year of this, I think I’ve become something of a pro at coping.

From one anxious, introverted PCV to you, here 25 things I’ve found essential:

  1. Keep some clothes that make you feel most like yourself, even if you can only wear them inside your house. In any country with rules about your wardrobe, Peace Corps comes with some identity disconnect, days where you feel like you’ve dressed up as someone else for so long that you can’t remember who you are underneath. Give yourself a break sometimes. I keep a handful of tanktops, short dresses, and leggings on hand. (And honestly half the time I walk around my house in my underwear.)
  2. Exercise regularly, even if it’s only a few minutes a day, even if you hate it while you’re doing it. Exercise really does release chemicals that help regulate your emotions and make you feel better, even if you don’t feel them at the time. Plus, with the total change of diet and lifestyle, Peace Corps makes a lot of people’s bodies change in ways they may or may not like. Exercise gives you control over your own body.
  3. Figure out the easiest ways to eat a balanced meal at site. It’s no walk in the park trying to get a balanced meal; I’ve never paid so much attention to my protein intake or craved vegetables so often before in my life. Figure out not only what’s easy to get at site but what takes the least effort to make. Get into routines with your food. Keep yourself nourished.
  4. Stay in touch with people who refresh you. Pay attention to which people don’t drain you when you talk to them, which people make you feel heard and supported and encouraged. Talk to those people.
  5. Take lots of photos, even if you don’t share them, and look back on them from time to time. It’s fun to look back on where you’ve been. It’s encouraging to see how far you’ve come, to remember the good days and to see that the bad days ended. Plus you’ll want to look back on these in the future, when you’re back in the world of delivery pizza and fast internet.
  6. Keep lots of water bottles full of potable water so staying hydrated isn’t a chore. Dehydration is sneaky, and it ruins all sorts of things about your life, from your energy to your mood to your health, and there’s nothing worse than having to haul water and wait for your filter before you can quench your thirst.
  7. Write down the small successes. Record the moments that make you feel good, the small events that make you glad you came here, the little things that feel like you’re not failing. Keep that list where you can read it sometimes to remind yourself that you’ve done things right and made progress.
  8. Play music in your house, and have impromptu dance parties by yourself. Trust me. It makes you feel better. You may look ridiculous (I do; my cat has told me so many times), but a few minutes of spinning and bouncing and swaying will get your heart rate up and put a smile on your face, even if it’s just because you’re laughing at your silly self.
  9. Keep your kindle charged and loaded. You never know when you’ll need a book, whether it’s during an unexpected wait because scheduling doesn’t exist in your host culture (hey there, Rwanda), on an lazy weekend afternoon, or while your rice is boiling.
  10. Figure out the things that make you feel most like yourself and make space for them in your life. For me that includes keeping a few physical books on hand, making time for lingering over coffee in the mornings, and keeping in touch with writers groups whenever my internet works.
  11. Figure out what you can control. Maybe it’s your diet, maybe it’s your hobbies, maybe it’s your bedtime. For me it’s my workouts and writing events like NaNoWriMo. Even if it seems insignificant, it’s something to hold onto when it feels like everything in your life is spinning into chaos.
  12. Stock up on toilet paper, pepto bismol, and ibuprofen. Trust me. You do not want to be stuck at home with endless diarrhoea using notebook paper because you can’t walk into town for toilet paper.
  13. Keep snacks on hand for emergency coddling on bad days. Hoard your care package goodies—I keep an “emergency American food” trunk in my kitchen—and pick up treats for yourself when you visit a town. Save them for the days when you need a little extra love.
  14. Keep a makeshift clothesline easy to set up indoors for rainy laundry days. It’s bad enough having to run out in the rain to collect your month’s worth of laundry off the line without having to leave it all in a sopping pile while you try to figure out where/how to hang an indoor clothesline.
  15. Always round off a list of complaints with one good thing. Don’t pretend everything is fine when it’s not; air your grievances and acknowledge your frustrations, but don’t end there. Force yourself to find something good that happened during the day, the one thing that went right or at least wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. Even if all you come up with is, “I don’t have malaria,” that’s something. (I’ve had those days. They’re real.)
  16. Make some physical spaces yours. The corner seat in the local tea shop, that one walk with the pretty views, the living room of that neighbour you really like—wherever it is that you feel comfortable, make yourself a little home.
  17. Sleep in sometimes. Or I guess if you’re not a night owl like me you could go to bed early sometimes. Or do both. Sometimes I go to bed by sunset because lying down sounds nice. Give your body and mind a break. Rest.
  18. Journal. You don’t have to write sweeping paragraphs, but write something. Dump your anxious thoughts when your mind is spinning at night. Bullet point the ideas that feel strongest or the details that seem most important. Write lists of events or aspirations or moments that made you laugh. Skim your old entries sometimes; see where you were and how far you’ve come.
  19. Make your living space as comfortable as possible. Shell out for the nicer couch cushions, buy some soft blankets, keep the milk and sugar for your coffee within reach of your armchair. Protip: it is worth it to buy a slightly more expensive lightbulb that will actually brighten your whole house. So many things in your life will be uncomfortable in Peace Corps. You have to make your own happy places.
  20. Take self-care days. Do whatever it is that replenishes your spirit. For me, it’s staying in my PJs and refusing to answer my door. Maybe for you it’s travelling to the nearest town to have a meal that you didn’t have to prepare for yourself while squatting on the ground. Whatever it is, give yourself a break. Don’t check your email, don’t work on projects, don’t worry. You can tackle your M&E and your action plans and your problems tomorrow.
  21. Always know what you’re looking forward to. Whether it’s an international vacation or just some down time on the weekend, you should always have something on the horizon, some rest stop where you can get your breath, have a drink, and do some self-assessment before you dive back into the turmoil of life.
  22. Keep flashlights and headlamps all over your house. There’s nothing worse than losing power in the evening and not being able to find your flashlight. I’m speaking from experience here. I’ve given up at five in the evening multiple times because I couldn’t figure out where I’d stashed my flashlight.
  23. Define ‘successful’ your way. Let yourself be unhappy sometimes. You’re not a failure if you don’t love your site, your counterparts, or your job every single day. Decide what you want success to look like and work toward that. Never mind what everyone else is doing or what the VRF says. If you are at your site, getting out of bed, walking out your door, making an effort to do your job, you’re a good PCV.
  24. Tell yourself, just one more. And then one more. Take one step at a time, one word at a time, one breath at a time. You don’t have to do your whole day, project, or service at once. Right now you just have to take one more breath. And then another.







In Peace Corps, perhaps more so than in other phases of life, it’s easy to get caught up in the negative.

Our conversation patterns fall into a familiar cycle of complaints, implicit or explicit, as we discuss the foods we miss, the aspects of our jobs that frustrate us, the constant shifting of Peace Corps rules, the lack of comforts we took for granted back in the States. It’s harder to remember the things we’re grateful for.

I have a confession: this year I planned not to celebrate the holidays at all. I’ve been pushing my budget and my energy both to the limits lately, and Thanksgiving, especially, has sounded more like a chore than a holiday.

But a friend passing by talking about her love of Christmas reminded me of how much I, too, love the holiday season, and a couple other friends decided to visit me for Thanksgiving despite my having flatly refused to join in on their initial celebration plan, and suddenly the season didn’t seem so bleak and difficult. I’ve spent a few days making holiday decorations and hunting down Christmas music, and just like that, I’m looking forward to the holidays. And just like that, I remembered that there really are a lot of things I’m thankful for.

Here are a few of them—one for every month I’ve been in Rwanda:

  1. Friends who refuse to let me be alone on holidays
  2. Furry animal babies who cuddle me and love me even when I’m grouchy
  3. Neighbours who invest in me despite the language barrier
  4. Local co-workers who are motivated and serious about projects
  5. Holiday foods—we won’t have turkey or cranberry sauce, but if we put a little effort in, we can have goat and mashed potatoes and maybe even pie
  6. My own compound with running water—I will never get over how lucky I am to have a private space with a good wall and water I don’t have to haul in jerrycans
  7. The internet—even if my access to it is limited and slow, I can still communicate with my family more or less instantaneously despite thousands of miles between us
  8. Books—I may be the only person in my village who owns books, and these gateways to comfort, escape, and enlightenment that I’ve regarded as a right for many years suddenly appear clearly to be an incredible privilege
  9. Beautiful things—this week it’s the paper snowflakes I hung from my ceiling and the candles I stuck on some empty bottles on my bookshelf; I’m mesmerised; I can’t stop staring; isn’t it lovely that we have the capacity to create and admire art?
  10. Cozy clothes—jumpers and leggings and socks and hoodies and all the lovely soft clothes that make chilly evenings a little better
  11. Coffee—in a country where coffee is an export crop but not a common drink, I can buy freshly roasted and ground coffee just a 45-minute bus ride away from my site
  12. Rainy season—honestly, during dry season I’d forgotten how beautiful my area is, but now that the rains have returned, the hills are green and the valley shimmers wet in the setting suns and the colours are vibrant without their dry-season coats of dust, and I find myself craning my neck to stare in all directions when I walk up the road
  13. My health—some volunteers have been sick more often than not here; I’ve only been significantly sick three times in the fourteen months I’ve been in country
  14. A long holiday—my mind and body are so happy to have a chance to rest a little before next schoolyear, and I’m looking forward to lying on a beach for a week in early December

Anyway, there’s my list. I hope you, too, have plenty of things to be grateful for and that you take a moment to remember a few of them this holiday season.


The First Year Excerpts

So it’s been a year since we landed in country. I thought you might like to see my year in review via snippets of my journal entries. This is a bit long, because a year is hard to capture in brief. Hopefully the photos break that up.


Wednesday, 21 September 2016

. . . We had probably the smoothest, least painful flights I’ve ever had. Kigali smells like smoke. It’s warm and humid, there are familiar plants and building styles everywhere, armed guards on the street corners, and I love it. It feels like a close approximation of home.


Saturday, 24 September 2016

Everything is overwhelming, but so far nothing is horrible. I’ve just gotten used to the hotel, but this morning we packed up for the drive to Rwamagana, and here I am.

. . . I’m not totally sure who everyone [in my host family] is, honestly. I’m the fifth volunteer they’ve hosted, so I’m sure they’re used to dumb Americans needing lots of help. Still, it feels awkward and it would be nice if I could talk to anyone besides my host father, who speaks English.

There are a lot of people all talking outside my window, but I don’t understand a word. I hope they’ll all be nice to me, as ridiculously petty as that sounds.

I don’t know when I’m supposed to come out or not. I don’t know when dinner is or how we fill the time until then. Tomorrow I need to do my laundry; I still don’t know where to get water, though, or soap. I need a second basin, I think, for rinsing, but I don’t know where to get it.


Sunday, 25 September 2016

First full day with a host family. So far, so good—much better now because we’ve gotten sort of comfortable with each other. I know where I’m supposed to do some things and who to ask. I’ve learnt a few new words. The children are no longer shy of me. I successfully did my first load of laundry and scrubbed my floor. I hauled my first water and filled my filter and remembered to add the bleach way too late but did it anyway. I hope it’s fine.

I feel like we’re a batch of puppies fostered out, and our new families love us and are trying hard to house train us, but we don’t understand everything they ask of us, and we want to please but we’re also slightly scared and confused.

I saw my first cockroaches today—big orange ones in the latrine. I’ve never felt so vulnerable as when I had to drop my trousers with them watching menacingly from the upper corners of the wall!

(Note: this entry ends optimistically with, “Maybe tomorrow I can buy a pillow!”, an aspiration significant only because little did I know it would be three months before I had a chance to buy a real pillow.)


Tuesday, 27 September 2016

My head occasionally hurts from learning. Today we were supposed to just learn “what is your profession” and a few job terms. But, of course, I had a million questions, and we descended into verb tenses and conjunctions and the beginnings of noun cases/prepositions. The saving graces of Kinyarwanda are that there’s no masculine/feminine and there are no article adjectives.

I guess we’ll all get there, though. Eventually we’ll all actually know this language, more or less. We’ll all be fine. Ni byiza…buhoro buhoro.


Wednesday, 28 September 2016

Last night I was allowed to help with supper—as in I was allowed to stir the beans… I also discovered I’m definitely a child—Mama gave me a mug of the porridge they incessantly feed the children in order to make them “grow fat,” as Papa says. It was pretty good, actually. Mild and milky and very hot.

. . . I feel alternately impatient with how slow things go and overwhelmed by how quickly things move.


Thursday 29 September 2016

Nights with the family are getting better. I’m figuring out how to play with the children and sort of help with the dinner. I understand some of what people say. I’m writing down everything, even if I don’t know what it means, and asking later.

. . . We’re a loud, large group, and I don’t know anyone well yet. I find it kind of exhausting. I like most of the people, but I’m still looking for anyone I really click with.

I guess I didn’t expect this group here to feel so much like a group of Americans on holiday, but it really does. I feel so suffocated by the way they talk about the culture and food and customs and language. They’re all always craving American food, for example. It’s been…a week. Two.

(Note: I, too, now crave American food often.)


Friday 30 September 2016

The end of my first week in Rwamagana. Isn’t that crazy?! I speak exponentially more Kinyarwanda than I did a week ago, but still only a fraction of what I need to know.

So far it’s been good, though. I’m getting accustomed to the culture, to cold bucket showers, to the family interactions and the stares on the streets.


Monday, 3 October 2016

The little things are beginning to wear on me, like tiny bits of grit in my shoe, or constant dripping digging a hole in cement. The exhaustion of having the food I take or don’t take questioned at every meal. The feeling of Kinyarwanda always being just one word or grammar rule beyond my grasp. The isolation from lack of good internet. The distance I have to go to do anything with the group. The guilt when I hide in my room. The desire to be a “good PCT” conflicting with my need for personal time. The rain making it impossible to do my laundry. Never feeling clean, even in the shower house.

Honestly, there are so many good things here. There’s so much I love. So much I’m excited for. It’s just that sometimes I have to also recognise the things that contribute to this occasional exhaustion and discouragement so I can dismantle it when it appears. Or at least so I can know it’ll disappear again.

. . . Today everything is muddy. My trousers are muddy. My feet are muddy. I feel gross. I don’t usually mind mud, but the mud here…the mud gets everywhere. The rain doesn’t clean it; it just turns it into a pervasive orange. It’s everywhere. It sticks to everything. It becomes clay and doesn’t wash off. It’s not the kind of mud I expected. It’s not the kind I know how to deal with. It’s frustrating.

. . . I feel confident in my language—what I have of it—until I have to use it. Then I forget everything and panic. It doesn’t help that I seem to be a day behind on the vocab everyone else knows.


Tuesday, 4 October 2016

I got my laundry done today—finally!—after realizing that I’ve spent several days asking if I could guseka rather than kumesa. I think my exact wording last night was, Nshobora guseka ijoro cyangwa umunsi gusa? —“Can I laugh at night or only in the morning?” –facepalm-

So that would be why I got no good answers since Sunday… So once I realised the problem, it all worked out. I got it all done before class this morning, and now I’m just hoping someone took it in before it started pouring an hour ago…

I’m feeling really isolated in the noise today. I can’t figure out how to make conversation and I find myself withdrawing yet wishing someone would approach.


Wednesday 5 October 2016

We have new chairs! This is worthy of being the first sentence because I spend like six hours in them every day. I’m so happy. Soft seats. A little flex in the back rest. I’m in heaven.

I got home last night to find my laundry taken down, but it apparently didn’t dry because of the rain, so my event of the evening was making a clothesline out of dental floss, and my room is now strung with damp clothes. They didn’t dry overnight, but I’m hoping they’ll all be dry by tomorrow, because I’m wearing my last dry clothes right now…

We’re talking about language and I love it. Breaking down grammar and semantics and pragmatics and morphology…it’s beautiful. It’s the first thing I feel totally competent in.


Wednesday 12 October 2016

Microteaching was yesterday. It was scary and exhausting and, ultimately, boring. I’ve never before spent that many hours pretending to say Hello and Good morning and Nice to meet you and I basically hated it. Long. Boring. Exhausting.


Thursday 13 October 2016

Last night I was understanding most of what the family said. We were getting along. I thought that things were pretty good. Then, while I was in my room reading, Papa called me out, I thought for dinner, but it was Charles sitting on the couch. It took a while for him to even say why he was there, and his reason turned out to be telling me off for being grouchy and not wanting to practice Kinyarwanda with LCFs and in the community. He doesn’t know that the very thought of making painful small talk makes it hard to breathe. Today in class it was like it never happened, but last night I cried after he left—partly out of frustration, partly out of fear, and partly out of knowing he was right. I know I should talk to people, but I do talk when I have to, but when it’s just practice for the sake of practising, I have the words in my head but I stand there and just can’t make my mouth open.


Friday 14 October 2016

Everything today feels like it’s just killing time until this afternoon when we find out our site placements. We’re all excited for that and, I think, a bit apprehensive. Everything becomes more real then. Suddenly it won’t be all foggy and “you might be…” It’ll be real. You’ll have electricity or not. You’ll know what clothes to buy. Whether there’s someone there to help you transition. Whether you need to order furniture.


Sunday 16 October 2016

It’s my birthday. Which is just a really weird thing right now. It feels irrelevant, like birthdays are something that only happen to other people, or maybe only happen in places I’m familiar with. Here nobody knows it’s my birthday, and I’m not sure why it would matter if they did. I glanced at the date last night and realised it was coming, and I woke this morning to really nice happy birthday messages from my family, but that’s the sum total of it. I’m kind of okay with it.


Monday 17 October 2016

We had some six hours of language already, and now Daryn is here talking about resiliency. It’s nice to be talking about something I understand instead of scrabbling for anything I get in language. I spend the entirety of my language classes trying to breathe through a growing feeling that I’m being left behind and can’t run fast enough to catch up.

. . . So also, today at Trust I told the guy that I had ifiriti n’imyenda [fried potatoes and clothing] instead of ifiriti n’inyama [fried potatoes and meat]. Woops. My first real public language mistake.


Sunday 23 October 2016

I’m currently sitting at a table in a dim room at the Catholic parish in Kiziguru. I have made my first attempt at using the toilet. I never thought I’d say it, but I prefer pit latrines. They let you squat comfortably and eliminate the struggle of pouring water and wishing it would flush.


Monday 24 October 2016

I’m recovering from a stress- and anxiety-induced bout of crying.

This morning everything seemed great. I stood around outside, greeted people—everyone seems to know my name already—and had a nice little chat in Spanish with a nice little old lady.

Padre Edouard asked if I wanted to see the school since he was going there. I said yes, of course, and we went to the school where he dropped me in the DOS’s office and promptly left. The DOS greeted me, introduced me to someone who may be called Ananias, who is an English teacher and the school mentor, and then he left, too, and I spent about two hours sitting on a bench making stilted conversation and meeting whoever happened to pass by.

And when I decided at last I would just leave, I got called back “to be introduced” in a meeting, because the sector officers were there. Except I didn’t get introduced. I sat on another bench while the sector officers made an hour’s worth of speeches and Padre walked in and out at whim, and then after the sector officers left, he introduced my name, that I was a “new mentor” and that I’m with “Peace Corpse”—which at that point was feeling fairly accurate—and then told me to “make your presentation” and walked out yet again.

Having prepared no presentation, and not knowing what he expected, I stood, said hello, repeated my name, told them I studied writing and would be teaching English, that I was working on Kinyarwanda very slowly, and that I hoped we could all learn from each other and work together. As I sat down, Padre came back in to ask in surprise if I was done my presentation. When I said yes, he told me to “tell them your programme.” I still have no idea what he meant by that. I told them I would be here til Thursday meeting people and getting got know the community and that I would be back in December or January. He seemed to think I should say more, but I didn’t know what and had anxiety rapidly constricting my throat, so I made my escape as politely as possible, had a cry in my room, and here I am, trying to process and cope and move on.


Tuesday 25 October 2016

I’ve already had a good cry this morning.

Padre Edouard didn’t show for breakfast. Last night after dinner I caught him and reminded him that I needed to get some things done while I’m here, and he said of course, and we agreed to look at my list this morning after breakfast. But, of course, I never saw him. After breakfast, I asked Padre Innocent and he said Padre Edouard was already at school. I managed to convey that it was fine, that I did not want to walk to the school, that I would wait.

I hate moments like that. The feel of my heart beating too quickly, of my words tumbling half-formed over each other, of my eyes beginning to burn and my fingers shaking, an odd isolation as if my head were separated from both my body and everything else in the world by a cold fog…

So I returned to my room and lay down to cry. Then I told myself it was time to be done crying, to stand up and do what I could. Since nobody was taking me in hand, I would simply have to take hold of the situation.

But I’ve been faced here in Rwanda more than ever before with the magnitude of my own fear. I lay on the bed asking myself, What would a brave person do? And I decided the answer was that a brave person would ask one of the other men to guide her around town and, if nobody could be found, would go alone and introduce herself to as many people as possible.

I am not that brave.


Friday 28 October 2016

I’m home. And today “home” means a brown cement-over-mud-brick house and a red iron gate in Rwamagana.

Simbi was grinning before the gate was open, and Nziza must’ve heard my voice, because by the time the gate was closed, I could hear her in the house shouting my name. It was very nice to come home and be welcomed and feel missed. Papa fed me. Nziza happily taught me a dozen words I already knew. Mama, over the malaria, came home while I was finishing my laundry and let out a pleased, “Ehhh!”


Tuesday 8 November 2016

People stopping me on the street is seriously an ordeal for me. I never know what they want or whether my response is right or wrong—or whether the way they approach me is normal or not. For example, last night a row of guys heading toward town accosted me on the way home. They led with “muzungu” and the one in front of me led with an outstretched hand and when I kept on without answering he actually put it on my shoulder as if to physically stop me passing, and the whole thing felt very threatening, but anyone unexpectedly stopping me feels threatening no matter what, and maybe they were just saying hi. And I know not greeting people is super rude here, but I think them accosting me in the street is also maybe rude? Especially leading with “muzungu” instead of “mwiriwe”? But when I passed, they said “okay, okay,” as if I were the rude one, which all left me feeling uncertain and shaken and semi-guilty and semi-angry and overall just tired.


Wednesday, 9 November 2016

It’s Election Day and nearly everyone in the room is or has been crying.

We all came to the Hub early this morning—I left my house around 4:30 after barely sleeping and walked to the Hub through the black pre-dawn and the early birdsong and wheeling crows. We were all expecting to watch Hillary win. JD came and got coffee and hot water for tea going, and he’d bought a 4G router and subscription for BBC, and we all crowded in on those hard wooden chairs in sweats and socks, cuddling mugs of hot drinks, watching the numbers shift and the map change colours and stocks and economies around the world fall as Trump slowly but steadily pulled ahead.

By the time it was light, Ryan and Tai were making crepes on the back porch and the election had reached a kind of stalemate, with them refusing to call some critical states like Pennsylvania and Michigan. Everything kept slanting in Trump’s favour. People began crying. Hillary’s person told everyone to go home and implied that she would not be conceding. And then, suddenly, there was everyone saying she’d conceded. The phrase “President elect Donald J Trump” got actually spoken on a live international broadcast.

We all sat in shock. The people who hadn’t skipped their language classes got told over group text. Dr Laurent sent a message that he’s available to conduct or facilitate counselling for anyone who needs it. We have been given the afternoon off—as a day to mourn and cope. The staff here has been wonderful so far, understanding that this is a hard day for us, modifying the schedule to give us time.

. . . How did this joke in bad taste become reality? How did we elect such hateful rhetoric, such blatant disrespect and narcissism and misogyny and racism and xenophobia? Lori put it well when she said, with tears in her eyes, “How can I face Rwandans?” How do we talk about empowering women when we’ve just elected a man who devalues them at every turn? How do we promote peace and international friendship with xenophobia sitting in the oval office?

I’m so grateful not to be in the country right now. I’m so glad to be here for two years. But I don’t know what I’m going to tell people who ask me. I’m dreading the comments and questions.


Saturday 13 November 2016

We’re at the genocide memorial, and I’m crying. All of us are crying. We just walked through the reflection of hell. I saw time-yellowed photos of families, all dead now. A photo of a woman teaching her child to walk. A young boy careening around a corner on a bike too big for him. Siblings holding hands. The last words of a ten-year-old who was killed with machetes, the favourite food of a two-year-old smashed against a wall. A large photo of a little girl stabbed through the eyes. Children. There are a million stories—literally—of torture and killings and death and betrayal.

But there are also a thousand stories of people protecting each other and sacrificing for each other and coming together. It’s too much. There’s nothing in me with the capacity to accept or understand that this happened, much less why. And there’s an entire floor of information about other genocides around the world. How does this happen so often? How does such hate proliferate? How does this keep happening? And how is it always, always followed by denial? To commit such horrific atrocities and then to claim they never happened?


Saturday 19 November 2016

Site change: Apparently the house they had found for me is in a big compound that’s still under construction, meaning people would be coming and going all the time. So instead of fighting that, they decided it would be better to do a site change. So now I’m placed in the south. Here is what I know: It’s in the south, and the house is already approved and is, according to Kassim, beautiful. I’m feeling pretty good about the entire situation, though. I’m sorry to be losing all the work I did to know my site and the people in the east. But I’m also excited to see a new site and to officially have a house and to see Butare.


Monday 21 November 2016

It’s an actual Clint Barton day and I have no Pizza Dog to comfort me.

I felt really good about my lesson [for model school], but when I went to do it, things fell apart. I tried to take on some disciplinary issues that I probably should have just ignored, and then things devolved. It felt like a sinkhole. I was waiting for it to end.


Tuesday 22 November 2016

This morning was definitely better than yesterday. My class specifically went really well, I think. We scaled way back and just tackled sunny, windy, cloudy, and rainy. They understood the crossword puzzle after the first round and I’m trying to figure out how to make it an individual activity. But it went well and tomorrow we’re talking about past and present and future tenses in context of the weather. Hopefully that’ll go well and give me a good idea of how to handle Thursday and Friday, because on Friday I’m being evaluated.


Friday 25 November 2016

It’s my last day in P6 and I find myself feeling surprisingly sentimental about it. I’ve gone from abject terror and wishing the morning over to feeling like they really are my students. I like recognising their faces, knowing when they get it and when they don’t, knowing when a kid getting the right answer is a big deal for them, being able to divide the room into strategic groups so there’s a decent English speaker in each group. I let a few of them stay during the break to finish taking notes off each other’s group projects, and one little girl paused going out the door, opened it a crack, just far enough to wink at me before she closed it.

I think the whole TPI went pretty well. And even if I didn’t get good marks, I’m happy because the group of boys at the back who never seem to get anything, ever, did a pretty good job on their group project—definitely some grammar and usage problems, but overall they came up with solid ideas and managed to communicate them, and I’m proud of them.

So I’ll finish my story about my embarrassing fall: I was heading home from the Hub about ten minutes late, so I was booking it. I must have not lifted my foot high enough, because I hit the curb, thought I could recover, realised midair that I couldn’t, and hit the pavement hard.

I was up in mere seconds, and I was halfway to the corner before I realised my skirt was split down almost an entire side seam. Then when I looked down at it I realised I couldn’t see, and I had to walk back just hoping my glasses were somewhere, just hoping they hadn’t been stepped on—hoping I wouldn’t step on them trying to find them in the dark.

I’ve never felt so vulnerable as when I managed to mbabarira [“forgive me”] a couple of mamas into stopping and said, “Ushobora kumfasha? Naguye, kandi imarinete…” [“Can you help me? I fell, and glasses…”] they understood the significance immediately, and I got some very sympathetic “Mana weee!”s before a uniformed big-gun-toting policeman brought them to me, cradling them in his hands like a baby bird, saying, “So sorry. So sorry.”

They were unbroken. I put them on, said, “Murakoze cyane,” [“thank you very much”] and, because they seemed amazed when I added, “Bibaho” [“it happens”] to their continued Mana we-ing and so sorry-ing, I booked it home. I had a cardigan to wrap around my waist to hide the split skirt, and it wasn’t til I got to my room to change that I realised I had two skinned knees, a skinned shoulder, and blood all over. Yesterday I realised I also skinned the back of one wrist (?? how??) and everything is pretty bruised.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving, and I keep forgetting about it except when I see it listed on people’s Facebook statuses or when people message me to say happy Thanksgiving and I have to explain that we don’t get the holiday, but we do get to slaughter eleven turkeys…


Monday 28 November 2016

I spent Saturday morning doing umuganda. Papa and I helped make a road with hoes and machetes, from which I have a blister on one hand, and then we stood about in the woods for a very long time while the village voted on new leaders, of which my Papa is apparently one. They gave short impromptu speeches and then the nominees stood in a row with their backs to the group and everyone else queued up behind whomever they wanted to vote for and someone counted them, and that was the extent of the formal voting.

I did my laundry because my clothes were beginning to smell funny and it was hot and there were no dark clouds in the sky. Then I left my laundry on the line and went to the Hub to lesson plan. It was so hot and I was congratulating myself on having finally after two months picked a non-rainy day to do my laundry. I’d been at the Hub all of maybe fifteen minutes when it started pouring. So much for my laundry.


Tuesday 29 November 2016

I am tired. Lesson prep took much longer than I expected last night, and life in general here still takes much more effort than life other places. I know my way around now and can more or less communicate, but I’m still being watched every moment, even at home, or at least that’s how it feels, and I’m on a very rigid schedule that I can’t control, and I’m on a steady diet of miscommunication from people in charge, and it’s exhausting.

I’m grouchy today, though. I’m not always this grouchy. And I really do love being here. For everything I get annoyed with there are a dozen things to love. For example, my latest favourite thing is dignified older mamas wearing traditional dresses in ironic igitenge [local patterned material]. The little old lady in faded Power Puff Girls print; the woman on the street covered in dollar, pound, and euro signs; the tall woman at umuganda covered in pictures of mosquitos in slashed circles in between word clouds saying that we can eradicate malaria in Rwanda (or something like that; it was in Kinyarwanda—I only understood most of the words).


Wednesday 30 November 2016

The date for swear-in has changed yet again—we now have a week and a half. We all have to get packing and shopping in a hurry. Suddenly everything is getting real and this strange host family/PST limbo is ending. LPI is on Wednesday. We leave for Kigali on Saturday, we swear in on Sunday, and then we start shipping out to our sites on Monday. I’m in a state of lowkey panic.


Saturday 20 December 2016

This week has felt strange, unreal. Not like one last push to the end, the way finals feels, but like everything is a lackadaisical rehearsal—like we’re just filling time and going through motions. . .

I spent about an hour last night packing and sorting and now I think it will be the work of twenty minutes tonight to finish organising the suitcase and putting the last few items in.

It’s crazy to think PST is over. Tonight will be my last night with my host family. Suddenly everything will be real.

What then?


Thursday 15 December 2016

I probably should’ve written days ago. I meant to, but I’ve been so exhausted lately. Everything got really, really busy. We went to Kigali on Sunday, which involved an obscene amount of everyone’s luggage being loaded into Peace Corps cars, unloaded at the Hub, loaded into big lorries, and unloaded at the hotel. Then there was shopping, eating ice cream outside Nakumatt, being called a spy by a man on a bus…

Monday was the swearing in ceremony. We all looked fabulous despite the rain, danced pretty decently I think, ate delicious food, and swore to uphold the Constitution and, basically, the Peace Corps legacy.

Tuesday most of us shipped out for site installation, including me. That turned out to be a long process involving several stops for mattresses and gas stoves, a rushed market visit in Huye, and a longer-than-expected period of watching the driver and my landlord talk while Holly and I stood by waiting.

And then they were all gone and I was left with a house and a lot of keys and all my things in a pile on the floor.

I spent several hours getting all my things more or less organised and didn’t eat until noon yesterday, when I finally boiled water for ramen. I did all my laundry except my sheets and towels that morning and walked into town in search of protein. I wound up with ten eggs—I’m already sick of them, but there’s no helping it until I get peanut flour and beans.

My landlord’s wife has stopped by every night to ask how I’m doing and remind me to ask if I need anything. Last night I asked where to buy charcoal, and this morning I woke up to a phone call from Theophile saying he had someone on the way with charcoal. He’s been a fantastic neighbour/landlord so far.


Friday 16 December 2016

Here are some things I have done and seen since coming to site:

I’ve seen a woman carrying an entire banana plant on her head as she walked down the road. I’ve seen three or four dogs, none of which seem to hate or fear humans, which makes me optimistic. I’ve seen seventeen episodes of Friends, which I find very soothing at this point in my life. It’s a brief journey back to a world I almost lived in but never quite did—one I spent years wishing to be in before realising it didn’t exist and that I’d hate it if it did.

I’ve swept and mopped my whole house, then swept it again after carrying a filthy urwego—ladder—through to pound nails into my ceiling to hang my mosquito net. I’ve lit my imbabura for yesterday’s lunch, which used up a whole box of matches and several hours, and then spent several more hours and another entire box of matches failing to light it for yesterday’s dinner. I’ve bought more matches and a handful of candles, which have relieved me of the time, stress, and uncertainty related to lighting the coals as well as the pride and satisfaction related to having built a fire using nothing more than matches, air, skill, and paper-ish products probably coated with pollutants.

I’ve walked to town by myself twice. It makes me far more anxious than I had expected. That’s probably partially a result of walking through a strange, people-filled place alone and partly a result of town feeling like an eerie old memory, like half a dream. Like I may have once been there as a child. It’s all dirt; strange, steep, water-cracked rolling spines of dirt, all built over with wooden-slat shanties and shacks, all cracked and weathered and clinging to the steep dirt, wide spaces glaring between the boards, fading signs advertising them as restaurants or shops when they barely look like more than oversize fruit crates, doors open or half-heartedly covered with thin sheets or curtains, sullen, suspicious people pausing to watch me as I pass, barely answering if I greet them or ask a question. Like a set of the California Gold Rush or the Great Depression.

Anyway. Today I tried to go to the market, which is a lot of rickety wooden tables covering a wide dirt plain, but that’s all it was when I got there—empty wooden tables. I asked Mama Lysette and she said the market doesn’t start til 4:00, which makes some sense now but was very confusing at the time and left me returning home feeling very defeated.

I spent all day inside apart from that adventure. Mama Lysette came by to ask why I hadn’t come to visit and tell me that it’s bad to be inside alone all day, to which I tried to explain that I’d gone by but she hadn’t been there and that I had been out several times. That ended in me trying to tell her that I’d gone out to buy milk and her saying, “You want milk? I have milk. In the morning, at night, if you want milk, just ask, I give you milk.”

And then, before I went inside, she came back and said, “Come, I give you milk now.”

That ended in me having a pitcher of fresh milk and, because she wouldn’t hear me explaining that I had already bought eggs, she said, “I give you two eggs for tonight,” and sent me home with six.

She’s so motherly that I just do anything she says.


Wednesday 28 December 2016

It’s apparently only been a couple of weeks since I wrote, but it feels like a lifetime. This little town is beginning to feel more like home. I experience only normal levels of anxiety when I leave my house, and as long as I keep moving I’m generally fine.

I’ve been back and forth between really good and really bad. Some days I think I’m making friends and learning my way around. Other times I cry because I can’t understand what the neighbour’s umukozi is saying about my lights.

It’s not the physical difficulties of living here that get to me, or even the language and culture barriers; it’s feeling like I have to be social and make lots of friends or Peace Corps will think I’m doing it wrong. I’m fine with knowing a few people and not interacting much, but IntegrationTM seems to mean I have to go everywhere and meet everybody and I am just not good at that.


Sunday 1 January 2017

It doesn’t feel like a new year. I mean, last year didn’t either, or the year before that—it never really does—but this year especially I have nothing on which to pin a sense of time’s passage. I spent last night watching movies til midnight, but aside from staying up that late, it felt like any other night.

Well. Not any other. Yesterday was one of those days. My water was out intermittently all day. My electricity went out. Mobile banking refused to let me pay for more, so I didn’t have electricity til after dark, when Theophile sent me a code to put in the meter.

I think what it is, is failed expectations. I think I had expected myself to be somehow further, to have done or be doing more. I’m trying really hard to let go of that, to let myself do this in a way that works for me and to let Peace Corps’s expectations for exactly what my life here will look like fall by the wayside. Not easy, but I’m trying.


Thursday 12 January 2017

I may be mitigating my loneliness in about two months. There’s a PCV whose dog is due any day now. I still have to check with Theophile, but I’m really hopeful. The company would be really nice. I’ve even tried harder to leave my house to prove I deserve a puppy. Which, I know, is pathetic, but I’ve been trying.

Also Lysette seems to have taught my name to most of the children on the street, and there’s that little boy who runs to hug me any time I’m out.


Monday 23 January 2017

I have survived my first day of Rwandan school.

Yesterday I managed to get told to show up at 8:00. This morning I showed up at 7:50 to find all the teachers in the teacher room with the headmaster saying something or other to them in Kinyarwanda.

I was introduced, and over the course of the next several hours I saw the library; stood around a ton; met about a hundred students, all of whom were compelled by Alexis to tell me their names and “what you like in general,” which they did for the most part inaudibly, and some of whom he compelled to ask me questions and then sing and dance for me; talked with all the English teachers—all of whom are male and all of whom tried hard to show off their English; received my timetable; had lunch at home.

I went back at 2:20 anticipating being taken to my next class, but Alexis ignored me and I spent the last two hours of school sitting with a group of mostly maths teachers and chatting off and on. I think we made friends. We laughed a lot at least and I remember some names.


Tuesday 31 January 2017

What should I say about the past week? I’ve had ups and downs, usually alternating every minute or so.

Things I have done:

  • taught a lot of classes with marginal success, but more success than I really expected
  • met probably every child in this village
  • made friends with a woman named Violette who is unfortunately going back to Kigali in a week to study ophthalmology and is therefore not a viable person to ask to be my tutor in Kinyarwanda
  • marked a lot of really rough English exercises
  • watched my garden grow, fretted over the curled leaves on my cucumbers, and murmured encouragements to my tiny but apparently thriving basil and oregano (Note: I never did get to harvest my baby crops; about a month later the neighbour’s umukozi killed them when she cleaned my yard, apparently not knowing they were food. I mourned.)
  • finished reading Beloved and started Good Omens, which is already hilarious and is a good chaser for Beloved, which was frustrating and dark and important but frankly unenjoyable

Things I have learnt:

  • stopping to explain and define every single word is necessary but when the students actually understand, they do participate
  • the library is a mess and there are no books for my classes and the only non-textbook books are a series of African authors which is good but (1) does not broaden these kids’ understanding of the world beyond Africa and (2) are mostly way beyond these kids’ comprehension level
  • there is an electric piano at the school which I’m allowed to play if I can ever find out who keeps the keys to that room
  • there is already an English/debate club run by the language teachers
  • if I don’t have enough cash the lady at the milk store will let me take the oil and pay her back on Monday
  • agatebe should cost 500RWF, not the thousand I paid the man on the side of the road, but I don’t mind and didn’t have a 500 note with me anyway

Today I thought I heard a kitten crying and went out the front door to see, but it was just a kid with some kind of squeaky toy, but then three children ran onto my porch, so I couldn’t just go back inside, so I didn’t know what to do besides keep standing there but then I remembered I have all these tiny lumps of chalk that I won’t actually use in school, so I brought them out to let the kids draw and wound up with half the neighbourhood on my porch doodling in chalk on the concrete. Integration checked off my list for the day.

At some point I did go over to pay for the milk and Mama Lysette flatly refused to take it. She insisted that it’s free and that as long as she has milk, I will have milk—despite earlier having quoted me the price of 150/half litre and stipulated that I should pay monthly not daily. And because the woman has two abakozi, two cows, two incomes, and a fridge, I have no qualms about taking the free milk and being humbled by and grateful for her generosity.


Thursday 17 February 2017

Today I left class early. I looked at my watch, got confused, my brain shut down, and I decided we were done. Twenty minutes early. And I realised it was 20 minutes early before I ever left the room but I just couldn’t make myself stop.


Sunday 19 February 2017

I’m lying in bed with my mind spinning, and part of it is just the kind of day it is, and part of it is this: I’m very suddenly about to own a kitten. I mean I’ve been planning to get a kitten as well as a puppy for…well, ever since I found out they were both options. But I haven’t heard anything about available kittens so I figured I’d be waiting six-ish months until Irene’s cat has hers. But then tonight I saw a photo Giulia posted of her new kitten, so naturally I asked where she got it. Turns out some expat in Kigali has two kittens left.

I messaged her and am very suddenly looking at a very full week: Tuesday, shopping in Nyanza for food dishes and a kitten basket and fish to feed it, Thursday, after school, going to Kigali for a kitten.

There’s a part of me that has deep reservations about all this. What if I’m being too hasty? What if this is bad timing or an overall bad decision and I’m being equal parts stupid and selfish, getting what I want now and ignoring the long-term commitment? But part of me thinks that’s really not valid, that I can solve problems as they arise, that I’m so tired of being alone and that if I don’t do this now I’ll never do it. And that’s the part I’m listening to. Plus this will be a great excuse not to visit people if I don’t want to—sorry, can’t, I have Carlos and Cecil to look after.


Monday 27 February 2017

Today I have:

  • docked an entire class points because a kid talked after I said “if anyone talks again I’ll dock points”
  • walked home in the rain for lunch
  • walked back late because of the rain
  • had a Rwandan teacher say, “Wait, let me do like you,” and then take exaggeratedly long strides and say, “Such power”
  • drank a half litre of icyayi [tea] that I didn’t want because I had an hour to kill between my last class and the English club debate
  • not had a debate because the ground was too muddy for anyone to sit and watch, which nobody bothered to tell me til I showed up looking for them at 4:00
  • wondered as I left whether I should have stayed to do other English club-type things
  • bought eggs, amandazi, and a Kinyarwanda Bible from Festine
  • had a very friendly confusion over price because I had the words for “five” and “six” mixed up—again
  • left without paying the last igihumbi [thousand] because when she says “Uzagaruka” [“You will return”] I can never figure out how to say, “I don’t need this now, so I could come back for it and not owe you money”
  • told two children they could gusura nyuma yo koza inzu [“to visit after to wash house”] and hoped they understood in spite of my bad (lack of) conjugation—they haven’t knocked again so I guess it’s fine?
  • admired the views around my community, first buried in clouds and fog and rain, looking like Brigadoon rising from the mist, then glistening in the sun
  • breathed wind rising off the valley so fresh that I felt sure it had been born in the mountains and flown down to visit me in a fit of exhilaration
  • cuddled Carlos, pet Carlos, talked to Carlos, kissed Carlos, played with Carlos


Sunday 5 March 2017

On Friday I went to get Cecil, which was a long trip that involved a dozen people looking at her through the basket while I waited for a twege, a very long, very bumpy twege ride, a long wait for a bus, and then a long bus all with a puppy in a basket.

Violette brought her son to visit. They started out very wary of the animals but made friends. The WASAC guy came and called them good animals. Yesterday when Cecil first came home all the neighbour kids came to visit, rapidly got over their fear, and watched the end of The Jungle Book while intermittently trying to pet either her or Carlos. And Theophile and Mama Lysette came over to see her and agreed that she’s very small and sweet and not scary.


Thursday 9 March 2017

I’m feeling rather inadequate lately. I’m having trouble thinking I’m worth that 5USD a day. I feel so guilty about all the things I have and the space I take up. I had a moment today when I had to consciously remind myself that my village is not losing anything by my presence—that they’re not paying me, or housing me for free, or feeding me (with the exception of the milk). Nobody’s unemployed because of me, assuming PC regulations are being followed. Even at my bare minimum I bring more benefits than costs to the people here.

But I still feel like a drain on everyone. I teach a quarter of the time other teachers do. I don’t do half the things they do. Today the headmaster told me there’s a training on how to use computers in teaching and when he said I didn’t have to go, I just didn’t. I also came up with an excuse to skip the sex ed/AIDS prevention thing earlier this week. I did go to English club that one time, but I’ve never gone back (it keeps getting cancelled). We talked about a choir, but then never did anything about it. I have books now. But I’ve not talked to anyone about it or found a way to share them with people. I have dreams of making my living room into a neighbourhood-friendly study room, but at the same time my anxiety spikes when anyone comes in my house. I feel ineffective in the classroom and find myself resenting the students for not understanding and the school for having no resources and the curriculum for demanding that we work on complex concepts so far beyond the students’ comprehension—of both the content and the language it’s conveyed in.

I love so much about my life here and think that’s part of why I feel guilty. I think I’m afraid that my focus is on my comfort, not my work, that I’m somehow not good enough to deserve this—living for the first time in my own house, with a puppy and a kitten; and IST is in two weeks and I haven’t talked to my sector officials, and I haven’t prepared exams, and I haven’t finished planning revisions, and my CNA isn’t done, and the thing is that I get opportunities to do other things, but they all seem so exhausting, and I keep thinking I should do them—should want to do them—but I just…don’t.


Monday 20 March 2017

It’s exam week. I must confess myself still at a total loss as to how the exams are administered here. Alexis took me down to a room filled with teachers and papers clearly organised in some manner or other, though I couldn’t get a proper view through all the teachers. He then invited me to watch the 8:00 exam he was supervising. I went with him to a classroom full of students from at least five different secondary levels—though not all the students of any level—and proceeded to hand out various exams to them and then tell me I could wait in the teacher room. So my brief glimpse of the examining procedure left me more confused than otherwise.


Monday, 10 April 2017

Friday was the seventh of April. The twenty-third anniversary of the first day of the genocide against the Tutsi in 1994. Rwanda commemorates the genocide every year—for all of April, to some degree, but specifically on the 7th.

It was…a long experience. It involved a lawyer telling us about what not to say about ideology, the men’s choir from the Adventist church singing surprisingly beautiful songs about hope, unity, Jesus, something about rukundo ryirakonje and the earth being old and us journeying. It involved a near-silent “walk of remember” to the Songa memorial a couple of kms away, involving so many people I could see them around the hills. We stood at the memorial for two or three hours listening to speeches and singing and Kagame talking on the radio. It was very moving.


Sunday 16 April 2017

It’s Easter. A strange Easter; I’m not at school, I’m not on chorale tour, I’m not with friends, I’m not home. I’m not in church. I’m not putting on pretty clothes. I’m not eating ham or mashed potatoes.

Here’s what I am doing: I’m curled up on the couch with my puppy, my journal, and my phone.

Last night I considered going to church today, since it’s Easter, but I’m not sure what time the service is or if I could find the church again by myself, and also I didn’t feel like leaving the house. I read part of the crucifixion passage in Kinyarwanda before bed and called it good.

And today is…rough. I woke up, fed the animals, did a 7-minute workout, felt great, and I decided to drink coffee and listen to choral hymns. And here’s where things began to be wrong.

First off, I have no matches because I failed myself this week, so no way to make breakfast. (Actually, I wound up eating tuna and mustard out of a tin. Yummy, but still.) And a few things happened all at once: my stomach began seriously hurting; Cecil and Carlos fought; I realised my room smells slightly of decomp and worried a bird had died in the ceiling; Cecil went under my bed and it turned out it wasn’t a dead bird, it was that Carlos had pooped under there.

So here’s me on Easter, curled up on the couch with stomach pain and no food.

It’s really not terrible. I just want to curl up and sleep the day away. And I might.


Friday 28 April 2017

Two weeks in and school isn’t a disaster yet. In fact, I think things are going better than last term, probably due in part to my decision to slow down a ton and not worry about whether we finish anything on time.

This week I finally talked to Jonas about tutoring me.

I also talked to the headmaster about logistics for a choir and made an announcement about it to the kids at lunch yesterday.

And the one from Congo, the one whose name I can never remember, asked me when I would start teaching him English, so I think it’s time to start an English club of sorts for teachers if I can figure out how or when to do it.

Oh—and after several weeks of not knocking on my door—probably because I spent several weeks ignoring them—I had kids ask for a film a couple nights ago, and more kids than fit on my couch showed up to watch The Lion King.

Still, yesterday was rough. I woke up with that pre-sick tickle in my throat. I clamped down hard and, to be honest, a bit mean on some classroom issues. I nearly cried at a totally reasonable change to my schedule, and nearly cried again when I got confusing information from people just trying to help me. In a fragile state of rising fever and headache and affective barrier, I pled ill, came home for lunch, and didn’t go back. Instead I cuddled with my babies, watched four straight episodes of Daredevil, ate a box of chocolate-covered pretzels and a protein bar, read most of Through the Language Glass, discovered my water was out, told children to go home because “ndarwaye” [“I’m sick”], fried an egg, and went to bed exhausted by nine.

I slept til 8:30—bless Carlos for not waking me early—and had a leisurely morning despite my sinuses definitely being swollen. I have water again, so I had the luxury of doing my dishes and bathing after my workout. I cleaned and swept, and I’m no longer feeling the extreme hopelessness or that sense of inevitable insufficiency I did yesterday.

I never consider ET-ing, but I have a near-constant fear of being told to leave because I’m not doing enough. It’s probably irrational and unlikely, but on days like yesterday, it feels very reasonable and real.


Saturday 27 May 2017

It’s been a surprisingly good week all around. I feel like all my literature classes are beginning to catch on. My English class got really involved the other day, the S5 kids did a great job on their debate, and the video clips were a hit in S4. I successfully bought goat scraps for Cecil, which she happily buried all over the yard like she was performing some dark ritual and then ate with gusto when I dug them up and boiled them for her.

Yesterday Kassim dropped by with an hour’s forewarning to do a site visit, since he was in the area. Overall I’m apparently doing well. Points of interest:

  • my headmaster and sector officials think I’m getting good results with my classes
  • they all thought I was a spy until they saw that I come to work on time and care about the kids (I guess spies are chronically tardy and heartless?)
  • some people still think I’m a spy because I’m quiet, so I have to say hi to people more or something (?)


Sunday 28 May 2017

That Sunday night dread is back. That feeling like my life is not in control and will never be in control. This is compounded this week by the fact that last night I bought the abused puppy from across the street. I didn’t do it spontaneously. I mean, I didn’t see it coming, but I did sit and think about it a solid 10 minutes or so before I told the kid yes. It went like this in my head:

  • The kid does not want the puppy; the kid does not take good care of the puppy. The kid probably can’t afford to feed the puppy.
  • I can currently afford the puppy. I cannot take the puppy to America. But I can almost certainly find someone to adopt her within the next year and a half.
  • I’m tired of hearing sad/hurt/scared puppy yips from across the street. I’m willing to pay to have that stop. The kid probably needs the money.

Things I did not consider:

  • puppy has fleas or ticks—I think fleas
  • puppy takes time because I have to create a new routine.

And now I’m tired and I feel unsuccessful and insufficient. I’m worried that the puppy—Dana—was a bad idea. I’m concerned that maybe I’m just not responsible. I also burned my beans today and have no veggies and feel underprepared for tomorrow.

Sometimes I really just don’t know what I’m doing here. Why I thought I could do this.


Monday 12 June 2017

I would like to state for the record that tonight I do not feel insufficient, out of control, or unsuccessful.


Friday 23 June 2017

The weekend felt too short, probably a combined result of Saturday’s emotionally taxing excursion and my decision to make a board game for my S2 students. The board game itself wasn’t too bad, but I had to make multiple copies of it and write out something like a hundred chance cards by hand, and make dice, and I wound up spending most of Sunday and Tuesday on it and still wound up making game pieces on Wednesday morning while gulping my coffee and watching 7:00 creep nearer.

On the bright side, the game was a massive success, at least on a having fun scale, and I think it got them engaged in the idea of different post-secondary-school options.

Other things that happened this week include:

  • Having choir in the kitchen room because the other room is being renovated, and it turned out okay
  • S5 not sucking at an admittedly poorly designed and vaguely defined economy roleplay game and winding up really invested—no pun intended
  • Getting stung by a caterpillar when I reached in my bag for something
  • Ordering a bookshelf

Oh, and I’ve asked Esperance to help with polite ways to say that only potty-trained kids can visit me and learnt this gem: in Rwandan culture, it is good luck if a child pees on you, because it means you will have many children. …this is an aspect of Rwandan culture that I will not be adopting.

Today things feel okay. They feel manageable. They feel somewhat predictable and organised and controlled. Today I do not feel like a failure.


Friday 7 July 2017

I’m slightly laughing seeing the end of that last entry. The next day was the worst. It went like this:

  • My original plan to go to Huye early and do ThingsTM was overturned by waking up to discover it was umuganda and I therefore couldn’t travel till 11:00ish
  • I had to wait so long for a bus because I lost the “which bus company will accurately tell me when a buss is coming” roulette
  • My umuriro went out before I left my house and I twice tried to purchase cash power and twice got I&M notifications that the payment had been made but never got a token number
  • I got to Huye to discover nobody in either Horizon office had a package for me
  • The people selling cash power were all closed and in trying to find them I twice got harassed by a guy in a bar
  • I eventually went back home having successfully done nothing except make a long, anxious, frustrating trip

Relevant follow-up information includes the fact that I did eventually get cash power via mobile money.

This week felt highly successful. This is probably due in large part to two factors: (a) I had a 5-day weekend thanks to Independence Day and Liberation Day, and (b) we watched Mr Bean’s Holiday in almost every class this week. I also taught my S2C kids Heads Up 7 Up, which they seemed to love despite being an entire roomful of shameless cheaters.


Monday 17 July 2017

Revisions week was long and short at the same time. And then it was over. My weekend went fast and busy. Friday I spent most of the day sorting out marks for the term.

Then Sunday—yesterday—I went to Kigali to take Dana to her new home. In some ways the trip was amazingly easy. I got a Ritco bus, meaning comfy seats, not too full, nice leg room, USB charger ports. We didn’t make a ton of unnecessary stops, although we did have to stop a few times for vehicles coming from Kagame’s campaign in Huye.

But problems included…well, mostly there was one problem: Dana apparently gets motion sick. She was on a gross cycle of vomiting, eating the vomit, and vomiting again the entire way there, including the taxi ride from Nyabugogo. I’m also pretty sure the taxi driver overcharged me, but I just didn’t question it. I got back home in the dark on another Ritco bus, nearly fell asleep on the bus, and went straight to bed (at 19:30) upon reaching home.

Walking home included passing scads of people presumably coming from the campaign and also getting passed by some six or seven lorries packed completely full of police. Between the bunting draped everywhere, Kagame’s face on every flat surface, and the excess of cops, election season is definitely an experience.



A Journey


A journey

I want to share an entry from my journal. This happened about a month ago (of course, because I’m absolutely not on top of blogging, sorry). I was in Huye, a local regional town, for what turned out to be a long, tiring morning, and I headed home, wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed with a good book. Instead, when I got home, I had this to write:

I get to the gare (bus station) and do my usual thing where I tell the first bus employee who approaches me what town I want, let him put me on a bus, and give him money to buy me a ticket. The bus guy puts me on a bus, brings me my ticket and change, and assures me it is the correct bus. I put my change away, put my ticket somewhere, and realise my leftovers from Chinese are beginning to leak oil through the box and bag, so I scramble to get it out and into a second bag before it can make a mess in my backpack where my cardigan, laptop, and notebooks are.

I finish that and realise I have no idea where my ticket is.

I check all my pockets and every part of my backpack two or three times in a mounting, disbelieving panic. I never lose my ticket; I’m a very careful person, and yet I can’t even remember what I did with it. All I remember is seeing it in my lap while I put my change away. I check all the pockets again, stand up to check my seat, the floor under my seat, the aisle…

People near me ask what I’m looking for. I tell them, and they look, too, but we find nothing. A six-inch-long ticket has magically disappeared.

When the convoyer comes, I tell him I lost my ticket and offer to pay again. He says it’s no problem.

I’m so flustered about the ticket that I don’t pay attention to where the bus goes. Suddenly I look up and realise we’re on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. We should be on a paved road through towns and forests.

In Kinyarwanda, I ask the guy next to me, “This bus goes to Nyanza—is it true?”

He says, “No. Are you going to Nyanza?”

I say the bus employee told me this was a bus to Nyanza.

He and several other people shout to the driver that there’s a muzungu who wants to go to Nyanza and that, also, she doesn’t speak French, which is bad, because they all speak French and not English.

The bus driver says we will turn around.

We do not turn around.

Half an hour of dust and curves later, we reach a crossroads that has motos. I try to stop the bus to get off and take a moto back to the gare. They all say no, and tell me we’re going to a gare where there will be a bus to take me to Nyanza. I gesture forward and say, “There are buses that way?”

They all say yes. So I stay on the bus.

Fifteen minutes of dust later, they stop a private vehicle going the opposite direction, and I hear the bus driver explaining that there’s a muzungu trying to get to Nyanza. They tell me the car will take me back to the gare. I tell them I am not getting into a private vehicle with strangers.

I spend a while extremely frustrated that they wouldn’t let me get a moto much closer to Huye but now want me jumping into some car to essentially hitchhike back.

We are now in the middle of nowhere on a dirt road dusty and bumpy enough to rival the backroads of the desert I left behind in America. There are no people, no houses, certainly no gare. I regret not jumping off at the first chance I had and resent these people for stopping me.

Ten minutes later, they stop a bus coming the opposite direction and tell me it will take me back to Huye. But that bus’s driver refuses to take me unless I pay, which my driver thinks is robbery; he therefore refuses to let me off.

I begin to suspect the motos were my best option and that the people didn’t want me to have to pay extra money. I try to tell them I don’t mind paying extra. I don’t know how to convince them that all I want is to quit going the wrong direction and get home as fast as I can.

An hour down this forsaken road, rattling over potholes and past foliage coated brown with dust probably kicked up by the buses that rattled by before us, we finally meet a bus that will take me back for free. I trudge through thick red sand to the other bus.

I climb on and discover it’s already filled past capacity. Most rows have five people or more, and the doorway is clogged with luggage. The passengers stand and crowd and shove and herd me toward the back of the bus where, in the next-to-last row, a young man moves over to squeeze onto the jump seat with someone else, giving me the window seat.

I sit, grateful.

I don’t cry, but I consider for the millionth time that I could have just stayed in bed today.

We begin the journey back—dusty, bumpy, crowded, uncomfortable. I breathe in dirt despite the closed windows and balance my slowly leaking Chinese leftovers in my left hand, nearly tossing it with every rock and pothole.

The man beside me introduces himself as a university student and begins asking the normal questions about where I live and how long I’ve been in Rwanda and why I wound up on the wrong bus an hour from the nearest village. And then, when I expect him to begin with the questions I hate about whether I’m married or if I’m a spy, he asks, “Are you a Christian?”

He proceeds to explain that white people brought Christianity here, but now it’s difficult to find any who actually believe. He tells me he has a friend in Nyanza who is “very serious about God.” He asks if I know other PCVs who are believers and when I explain that there are some but we don’t meet often, he says he wants to put me in contact with this friend, because God made our souls to need fellowship, and it’s difficult to be alone, especially in a country where the culture and language make it difficult to form relationships.

If there’s no shared experience, he points out, it can be hard to form relationships, but when people believe the same thing, no matter their skin or culture, the spirit can be felt there, and there is a bond.

He asks about my favourite Bible verses for different situations, and we talk about Christ coming not to condemn but to save, about Paul’s assertion that “it is through grace you have been saved,” about God as the great provider who sees even the sparrows that fall.

He points out that compared to America, Rwanda is very undeveloped; I point out that while America was developing, Rwanda was struggling with colonialism and other difficult events, and that I see the people here as very strong, very optimistic, and very courageous, working to both maintain their culture and develop their country. He asks me, when I see this disparity, what it makes me think of God. I have to admit I still don’t know that answer.

He tells me he thinks God put me on the wrong bus so I could meet him, because God did not intend our spirits to be isolated.

I think he may be right.

My life often feels like a long, uncertain bus ride in the wrong direction. Especially lately, I find myself wondering if maybe I got on the wrong bus. Today I was reminded that God has guided me this far. I have never once doubted that I am where he wants me. I’m not on the wrong bus. I may not see it through the dust and confusion, but somehow there is something he wants to show me down this road.

(Oh—and I did eventually get home, and without having to buy a second ticket.)



To Liberate


To liberate oneself

A hundred days ago, I wrote about Kwibuka 23, the national memorial day for the beginning of the genocide perpetrated against the Tutsi in 1994. Today is another commemoration day of a different kind—Liberation Day. Today we remember the end of that genocide.

On the 4th of July in 1994, the Rwanda Patriotic Army (RPA) succeeded in overthrowing the government and bringing an end to a hundred days of inhumane violence.

“Every time I remember the genocide, I think that I have to love people. I give a lot of value to people. Sometimes when I’m with my little daughter, I cry, because I remember . . . what happened to other daughters. . . . I knew people who were killed, people who were killing, and still sometimes I think, ‘Did this really happen? Was it a dream?’ Because it is beyond what I can understand.”

—Kassim Ndindabahizi

A hundred days sounds short when you say it, but it feels long when you live it.

Three months feels like an eternity to me; I barely remember the long-ago days of April’s beginning—the holiday from school, the lesson prep, the visits from friends.

Imagine what a compounded eternity that was for the Rwandan people, then—over three months of bloodshed and horror and fear, of unimaginable loss and pain with no end in sight. In retrospect, we know it was a hundred days. In the moment, living that nightmare-come-reality, they had no idea when it would end. They could not count down the days to liberation; they could only count up the days of violence.

My point is not to dwell on the terrible things that happened during those three months, but to point out the impact of liberation here.

We call this “Liberation Day,” the day the genocide ended, but the truth is that liberation in Rwanda is more than a single event. It is an ongoing process that began twenty-three years ago and continues today.

“‘Every night when we went to bed, we did not know if we would wake up the next morning.’ … How can we not have hope after that, when that nightmare is over? So many things have changed that there is no way that we don’t have hope. It’s like a big dark curtain in front of you that is not only disappeared but is taken far away. It’s gone, and everything has changed… Rwandans now working together to build our country, that’s our hope. …The hope is also built by those who want to listen to us, who want to observe, who want to learn, and then who want to walk with us [to get] where we want to go.”

—Gloriosa Uwimpuhwe

1994 saw the climax of a long history of systemic inequality, division, and mistrust. Long before the killings began that April, there had been policies depriving Tutsis of educational and career opportunities; there had been strong voices propagating divisions among people; there had been a growing mistrust.

All of these things fuelled the atrocities committed during the genocide, and in its wake, the Rwandan people—liberated from the physical conflict—were left with a broken country.

Rwandans have spent nearly two and a half decades liberating their country.

Together they have worked and continue to work toward liberation from divisive ideologies, from resentment, from fear. The Rwandan people are realising a vision of their country in which all people are respected and valued and given equal opportunity, in which there are no artificial divisions, in which hatred is not tolerated.

“My hope is that in this country there is no discrimination . . . Everyone is Rwandan. Everyone can go to school. Everyone can get a job. We are living in a place where there is no longer discrimination.”

—Esperance Munganyinka

Rwanda today is not perfect. Rwandans are quick to tell the ways in which they want to continue developing their country. They are quick to acknowledge that there are problems to be solved and disparities to be evened out. Most individuals live with some form of loss and trauma that no number of years can erase.

But they are also proud of their country—as they should be.

Rwanda has made incredible progress against significant odds, constantly improving its security, successfully using a culture-specific justice system to address millions of cases related to the genocide, repatriating millions of Rwandans who had fled the country, actively working to diminish poverty and increase education, and caring for hundreds and thousands of people left orphaned, widowed, wounded, or traumatised.

“My hope is in the youth. When I have discussions with the youth, I think, ‘Perhaps this country has a good place it is going.’ . . . Different people have different perspectives on the history. . . but the youth say, ‘No, this cannot happen again.'”

—Moise Muhire

Today Rwanda is one of the safest countries in the world. Children play freely in the streets because, as one Rwandan Peace Corps staff member pointed out to me, their parents know that anywhere they go, someone will look out for them. My students are quick to emphasise unity and the value of supporting one another.

There are no longer systemic divisions; instead each person says proudly, “Ndi Umunyarwanda”—“I am Rwandan.”

“I find hope in the progress that Rwanda is making. I was here in 1994 after the genocide. It was like chaos. Everything was kind of destroyed. Even people were fearing each other. But now the progress in unity is so high. If you look at 1994, 1995, 1996, there is always something more in Rwanda. When I meet foreigners, they always say, ‘Kassim, do you realise how Rwanda is a good country? Do you see how it is progressing?’ I don’t always see that, because I live here and I see things as normal, but people from other countries, when they see how . . . Rwanda is developing—they keep telling me, ‘Kassim you are lucky, you have a good country.’ That’s what makes me feel hopeful. And because I know how things have been progressing from the worst to the best.”

—Kassim Ndindabahizi

Today in Rwanda, there is hope.

And today I feel incredibly privileged to be here, to know these people, to witness the progress they have made and continue to make. I am inspired by their optimism and determination. I am touched by their unity and strength.

I am encouraged by their hope.


If you want to learn more about the history, stories, or current events surrounding the genocide perpetrated against the Tutsi in 1994 or the liberation on July 4 1994, this is a great place to start.
An extra reminder that this is my personal blog sharing my personal views. While I strive to make any factual assertions accurate, please remember that the ideas I present and those shared in any quotes I include reflect individual perspectives and do not represent the views of the Peace Corps, the American government, or the Rwandan government.



There is no word in Kinyarwanda for this concept.

Gloriosa, one of Peace Corps’ Rwandan staff members, explained: “In the Rwandan context, ‘allyship’ isn’t a special word, because you’re supposed to already be there for everyone. . . . There are people around you who count on you.”

But in English, we have this word. Allyship.

ally (v.) to unite for a common cause

In American culture today, this is a politically charged word. It immediately conjures ideas of minorities, systemic oppression, protests, and angry social media posts. But at its simplest, to ally means to join together for a cause.

To stand with someone. To support them.

At a recent Peace Corps conference, we discussed this idea of allyship. We talked about what it means to us and the different ways we see it—or don’t see it—in our own lives. I was struck by the intensity of the feelings revealed during this discussion, and by the unexpected bits of wisdom and poetry presented as people allowed themselves to be vulnerable.

Let me share some of their words with you.

“Being an ally is being okay with being uncomfortable . . . to help someone avoid being hurt.” – Aimee Carlson

Here in Rwanda, allyship takes on a more personal significance for all of us. In this context, in this place where we are perpetually other, we become uniquely aware of our own diversities.

Some of us are PCVs of colour who struggle against stereotypes of what an American should or should not look like.

Others of us represent diverse genders or sexualities and struggle to fit into a culture that doesn’t accept or acknowledge those aspects of our identities.

Justice will not happen “…until my pain is your pain…until I step down from my fight and you step up.” – Dominique Henderson

We may represent minority religions or no religion—both cause interpersonal discomfort in a highly religious culture.

Still others of us are differently abled physically or live with mental/emotional health problems that make daily life a unique struggle.

“Being an ally requires us to constantly manage our own ignorance.” – Claire Pennington

We come from different socioeconomic, family, and educational backgrounds but face the stereotype that all Americans are wealthy and successful.

Many of us are single and have to justify this to neighbours, coworkers, and even strangers on the bus.

“You won’t fix them. . . They don’t want you to . . . Its someone else’s struggle.” – Stina Stannik

Our desperate need for allies is thrown into stark relief against the backdrop of life in Rwanda. Our need is not merely for political allies but for personal allies, at times and in ways that we never would have imagined.

We live isolated lives here. We see each other from time to time, but in general we live alone in our villages, tiny islands of our own culture in the midst of people we love but sometimes cannot comprehend. People with whom we often cannot share our struggles or to whom we cannot explain our fears. Well-meaning people who are at times the cause of these struggles and fears.

“Absorb some of their pain into yourself.” – Claire Pennington

So we become allies for each other.

We correct stereotypes over and over, even when they don’t apply to our own identities. We listen to one another’s fear and despair and exhaustion and tell one another that it’s okay to be tired and afraid and so done with this. We celebrate one another’s small victories. We acknowledge one another’s identities. We do the small things we can do—over the phone at night after long days; over beers in regional towns on weekends; over WhatsApp in between classes and visits and lesson planning.

“I am an individual in a community made up of people who I don’t have to know to defend.” – Gloriosa Uwimpuhwe

Allyship looks different here than you might expect. We find it in unexpected places and at unexpected times, and not always in just PCVs.

I find it in the lady at the market who shields me from unwanted attention. In another single woman who tells me it’s okay not to be married. In a teacher who accepts that my dog and cat are my family here and always asks how they’re doing. In a neighbour who tells others not to ask me for money. In my headmaster who tells the teachers and students my name and asks them not to call me muzungu. In Peace Corps staff who acknowledge how difficult it can be to integrate and who remind me to take time for my own mental health.

“Before taking action, we need to listen to the problem, understand the problem, and accept that a problem is there.” – Esperance Munganyinka

In some ways, each one of us has it easier than the others. In some ways, each one of us has it harder. We find it essential to stand for each other—to join together for a cause.

My time in Rwanda has taught me many things, but this is one that I’m just now realising—the value of allies. The inevitability of each person having some unique aspect of identity that puts them in need of someone to stand with them.

The simple yet elusive truth that each of us needs allyship in a different way.

“What people want is for other people to not be afraid of their diversity (but not be stupid). . . to walk into the world with them.” – Claire Pennington

For many, it is political. For many others, it is personal. For all of us—no matter our identities, no matter our diversities, whether in Rwanda or America or anywhere else—it is vital.

So today, stand with someone. Stand for someone. And maybe find someone who stands with you and tell them thank you.


​You know you’re in Peace Corps Rwanda when…

This experience is challenging me and changing me in ways I never expected,and I try hard to share those metamorphic experiences with you, but ​I don’t have something important to say all the time. Sometimes all I can do is look at where I am and who I’ve become and laugh. 

This is a list I’ve been adding to since PST. If you’re in the Peace Corps, especially here or somewhere similar, you may see yourself in these items. If you’re not, you can probably get a more realistic picture of my life from this than from any of my thoughtful posts.

Without further ado, you know you’re in Peace Corps Rwanda when…

  • You have strong feelings about the best types of pit latrine
  • You have a stockpile of paper bags because you know market vendors will charge you for a bag
  • You get really excited about balanced meals

  • You fear schisto but will probably swim in a lake at some point during your service
  • You have no qualms about someone sitting on your lap on the twege
  • Your fantasies include ice, berries, varieties of cheese, and cold milk that won’t give you TB
  • You can’t remember the last time you left the house in shorts and you feel marginally indecent in a sleeveless shirt
  •  “I’m so glad I’m not on a bus” is a sentiment you feel frequently
  • You no longer assume that a library will actually have books in it
  • You assume everything will start an hour or so behind schedule 
  • You have a favourite method of lighting your charcoal stove and are suspicious of any other way—bonus points if that method is not “bury a candle in it”
  • You’ve accepted that at some point in your service you will be on a bus with someone else’s vomit on you
  • You own multiple igitenge clothing items, probably in Western styles that no self-respecting Rwandan would actually make out of igitenge
  • You know all the best places for American food in Kigali
  • You’re semi-seriously hoping for a mild medical emergency so you can see South Africa on PC’s dime
  • Your excuse about why you’re not married/don’t have kids yet is so automatic you could answer personal questions in your sleep
  • You’ve found sneaky ways to get alcohol into your house without your neighbours noticing that you drink
  • You can discuss diarrhoea like a champ
  • You understand my village is exceptional when I say, “I’ve seen at least ten dogs,” and you know it’s really spectacular when I add, “And nobody throws rocks at them”

  • You either love or hate foods like isombe, ibitoki, and ubugari
  • You have the malaria symptoms memorised
  • You know that 7000 is exorbitant for a single burger, but you’re still willing to pay for it every time you go to Bourbon
  • You no longer equate free WiFi with functional service
  • You consider any trip under an hour to be “not bad,” especially if it doesn’t involve tweges
  • You don’t even question the presence of that 23-year-old in your Senior 4 English class
  • You skip work if it’s raining 
  • And you acknowledge your muzungu-ness any time you do have to walk through the rain
  • You’ve almost forgotten the existence of fridges
  • You know that every PCV falls into one of two categories: those who wear their giant PC-issue moto helmet and those who don’t
  • “Subiramo?” (“Repeat?”) is a staple of your vocabulary
  • You look at any rice sack as a potential teaching aid
  • You know that no event is complete without Fanta

Feel free to add in the comments if you think of more I’m missing!