I have to be honest

It's getting harder to write blog posts. In fact, I've avoided doing it for a couple days now. The pictures I want to show you don't entirely match the feelings I've been experiencing. So, I don't know how to break it up. I don't know what to say. I don't even know who's reading this.

I was hoping to document all aspects of my days, but that is hard. First of all, when we go to memorial sites and visit survivors and perpetrators, I am listening and observing, and in most instances, I feel disrespectful taking a picture. I don't know what this blog is. It's not just me posting a picture with a caption, "Pic of the memorial site. Had fun today!" Even just joking about that makes me uncomfortable. What I am experiencing is important, and I believe every single person should experience this. But, on that note, I am finding it hard to communicate. Usually, I find that I am best with words. But this is hard. I don't know what else to say. It's hard.

But I'll try.

I don't want you to read this and look at my pictures and feel sorry for any of the people I tell you about. I don't want you to feel pity. That's not what this is about. This is about humanity. This is about communication. And this is about truth. This is not only about opening oneself up to the traditions of a culture and understanding the political, economic and social constructs of a society, but also remembering the core of being. What happens when part of a population fails at maintaining its humanity? What happens when someone loses part of their being? That's what this is about. There is no pity in that. There is no egocentrism. There is no ethnocentrism in that, and in fact, if there is, that is one of the elements that propels this sort of behavior. We are not invincible. We are not better. As an international community, we cut clear distinctions and divisions; we do not wish to connect, truly. And because of this, we fail when humanity challenges us.

We are not invincible.

Armenia, 1915 - 1918.

Eastern Europe, 1941 - 1945.

Cambodia, 1975 - 1979.

Argentina, 1976 - 1983.

Bosnia, 1992 - 1995.

Rwanda, 1994.

How did this happen? How did it all happen? You cannot ignore it.

Even now, I am facing a wall. I have so many thoughts; I don't know how to continue. I will start with yesterday.

We drove to Nyamata, a village about 30 minutes south of Kigali, and during the ride I just wanted to be silent. Ellen was snapping pictures because she's good at catching the right moment of passing trees and scenery. Me, I just looked. I wish I could show you. We tried to catch all the evanescent hills while Emmanuel told us the story of how and where his family had been killed and how he had pretended to be Hutu in order to survive as he traveled through the bush. There was a dichotomy of vision as we traveled; I imagined the farms, river, hills, fields, cows, goats and homes as they were in the present, and I imagined them as they were in 1994. That is how I feel when we travel or walk through Kigali. That is how I feel when we pass over the bridge where the UN Senegalese officer Captain Mbaye Diagne was killed by a random mortar shell that landed near his Jeep. Although Diagne worked for the UN, he ignored their commands to not intervene and conducted solo missions to save Tutsis. It is unknown how many Tutsis he saved, but no matter the exact number, he was one of the just.

I am always thinking of 1994.

When we reached Nyamata, we pulled up to the gates of a church. It was the Nyamata memorial site (http://www.kigalimemorialcentre.org/old/centre/other/nymata.html). A young woman with braids gave us a tour; it actually went quite quickly. Everyone was silent. We walked into the church to heavy piles of clothing sitting on the pews, bullet holes casting tiny openings of dusty light onto the floor and remnants of blood on the walls. This church is where approximately 2500 people were trapped and murdered after being separated into groups. The children were forced into one corner of the church and they watched as their parents, siblings, relatives and friends were killed with machetes and clubs; they thought they might be spared. But they were killed last; many of the infants were killed after being smashed or thrown against the wall. Downstairs, the remains of the bodies have been maintained in glass cases. There are skulls lined up one after another to show the brutality of the murders and the way the machetes were used to massacre. On many skulls, you can see the swiping scar of a deadly machete blow. It looks much like a crescent moon that has been pulled tightly at both ends. Underneath the glass cases, there is one coffin that is decorated with a silk covering and a brown cross. It is a woman who was raped and then horrifically mutilated; the perpetrators inserted a spike into her vagina and left her for dead. Outside of the church there are burial sites. Under the burial sites are more remains -- this time skulls, bones and other coffins.

These people trusted a higher spirit, they trusted their priest, they trusted the church. And they were not safe.

When the tour was over, I went back inside the church and sat on a ledge where I could see all of the pews. There were striped shirts, torn hats, sneakers -- all overwhelmed with dust. I cried. No matter my spiritual beliefs, I felt that I needed to sit with them for awhile. I could feel them in the church with me, and I cringed and cringed to see their faces. I wanted to know them and see them there with me. I wanted to shake their hands and tell them I that I am sorry. I wanted to take full responsibility for their deaths, even though I did not kill them, because I know that their justice is slow and nonexistent. Even so, they calmed me when I was sitting in the church with them, and I did not want to leave.

And here I am again, I think I've hit another wall. I feel the gravity. And there is dissonance within me when I think about now, the post-genocide society, and the memory and reality of sitting in the Nyamata church.

How can we reconcile this? How can we rebuild ourselves? How can we prove that we are really doing this, and not just moving on?

Thank you for reading this, whoever you are. I think your eyes are important. But please remember to not forget.

I will leave you with a simple thought one of our lecturers said today when discussing reconciliation politics.

"We have trees all over these hills that we cut down, but we do not extract the roots. If we do not extract these roots, we are in trouble. But we do not think this way. But we must."

Yanna

My first day of dancing in Kigali

Today, I danced. It started here, in the van.

(Ha! I love this picture of Ellen!) Obviously, weren't dancing in the van, but the journey started here. We were in the van driving to see the Women For Avenir cooperative, the place where I will intern later this month. I was expecting to find strong women who believed in unity through counseling, but I wasn't expecting to dance. I was so utterly impressed and humbled after leaving Avenir; but me, here, in this picture -- I was on my way to Avenir, excited and anticipating being impressed and humbled, but having no idea how it would happen.

When I stepped out of the van -- admittedly feeling a little queasy from the heat and traffic -- Avenir was upon me, just over a yellow gate. There were three of these (two this size, one bigger).

These houses that, at first, seemed to me like tiny castles. In the middle of the tripod, there was a big gazebo with about 12 women and five children sitting on mats. A woman in a red dress with a heart-patterned neckline greeted us at the gate and then animately chatted with Bea in Kinyarwanda as we all slowly walked toward the gazebo. It was beautiful. It seemed safe, clean, dreamlike almost, and I wondered how/why this space was created for the Women For Avenir ("avenir" meaning "future" in French).

A brief story of the history of Avenir says that Madame Florence, a women who was living in Paris in the late 1990s, met some people from Rwanda who had escaped and survived the genocide. She traveled to Kigali and decided to create a cooperative for widows of the genocide in the center of the city, and she built these homes to define counseling within a traditional society; she knew that these widows and women who had survived the genocide wanted a home of their own, and she decided to build traditional Rwandan round form houses (see above) as the site for the counseling center.

Avenir is the space for the reconstruction of self. 

That's what this woman said, the woman in the red dress who laughed openly with Bea. She is Avenir's counselor and has been a counselor for genocide survivors and perpetrators since 2002.

She herself is a genocide survivor, and she is one of the most relentlessly compassionate people I have ever met. I don't know if I feel comfortable sharing her personal story about the genocide yet, but maybe after I spend some more time with her and feel confident that she would accept my storytelling, I will. 

After she shared with us, we all embraced each other, and she spoke about the women at the cooperative. She spoke about the traditional home art that they create, and how it doesn't particularly sell well at the market because traditional art isn't practical or in demand, but how creating the art itself is essential to the women's healing process. 

"In my opinion as the counselor," she said, "they have a strong concentration to what they are doing while they paint, like they are connecting to the past."

So, the women come to the Avenir site, they paint the traditional symbols of home -- like protection and long life -- they attend counseling sessions, they open up to the counselor and also to each other and themselves, they laugh, they cook, they breastfeed their children, and they dance.

After the presentation, the President of Women for Avenir, a woman also named Bea, told us that she wanted to welcome us into their home and thank us for listening to their stories; they show this appreciation and hospitality through dance. 

So, they stood up, and helped each other stand up, and they each spread their arms and stomped their feet and danced. I wanted to take a picture, but Emmanuel pulled us up to dance with them, and then I was just so happy to be communicating with them through dance that I didn't think of anything but that.

What a beautiful, beautiful day.

Now, for some visual stimuli. Here are some more pictures of Avenir and a bonus picture of us posing with a Rwandan comedian/celebrity who Emmanuel spotted during our dinner at the Gorilla Resort. Enjoy.

Murabeho.

Bonus picture: A famous comedian in Rwanda (forgive me, I don't remember his name) and the rest of us. Just in case you don't believe me, check out the billboard below. Bam! Also to note: Robert DiNero and Ben Affleck are in town, so if the stars allign, there may be some more celeb pics to come.

Yanna

Richard drives us everywhere

Without him, we would be nowhere. He totes us around in the 7-seater throwback van with striped curtains that he feeds diesel, and Bea shakes her head disapprovingly because we cannot breathe when we step out into the cloud of exhaust.

But Richard smiles, and he takes us wherever we need to go. (Note: You will probably see more pictures of our van because it is our spaceship, and I already feel like it's my "family van.") Emmanuel speaks to him in Kinyarwanda, Rwanda's native language, and I wish I knew what they were talking about. When I climb out of the backseat, all I can say is "Thank you" or "Urakoze" ("Thank you" in Kinyarwanda) when I remember, and I always kick myself a little bit when I forget. Otherwise, when I see him, all I can say is "Amakuru" (How are you; hello) or "Murabeho" (Goodbye). Today, I asked him in French if he could bring us a picture of his 9-month-old baby girl, and he said, "Yes, the day after tomorrow." He is practicing his English. It's amazing how technically mundane a conversation can be between two people who are learning each other's language ("Hello," "Hello," "Goodbye," "Goodbye"), but how excited you both are when the words come out right. I wish I had spent more time learning Kinyarwanda before coming here, but instead of fretting, I'll just write down a new word every day.

Tomorrow's word:

"Ni meza, nawe?" which means "I am good, and you?" After Richard says "Amakuru," I will say "Ni meza, nawe?" and see what happens.

There is a linguistic history in Rwanda that reaches far back to the Belgium colonization of the early 1900s; the country was split between Francophone and Anglophone, and at different times, there was practiced hatred toward both groups. I could speak to Richard in French, but I would prefer to speak to him in his native language because I believe it is a way to show respect.

Now, I would like to show you the faces of the people I am living with and learning from (picture of Richard soon to come). Yesterday, we all went to the Kigali Genocide Memorial Centre, and the experience is something I cannot fully express to you, but I was happy and so lucky to have Emmanuel, Amanda, Lauren, Ellen and Gwen with me. It was an overwhelming exhibition of genocide history and artifacts, but it is so important to open oneself up to viewing this history and to not pretend that it did not happen. Going to this memorial was one step in acknowledgment, and also lent itself to personal acknowledgment; I now feel that I am apart of an international society that must educate and advocate for prevention and reconciliation.

Here we are, outside of Chez John, a yummy restaurant where we ate casaba leaves mixed with rice, yams and beef.

From left to right, there's Ellen, me, Bea, Amanda, Gwen and Lauren. We are still waiting for another Lauren to join us. Her flight was delayed, so she'll be here tomorrow afternoon.

And, for the man behind the lens, here is Emmanuel.

More on him later. First, this next picture, where I show my true colors. I think Emmanuel is slightly better at making this face than I am, but I blow him out of the water with the Marjorie face. More on THAT later. When we took this picture, young school children were walking by yelling "Amakuru!" and laughing at our faces. 

Emmanuel is our bodyguard, the Cookie Man, a swell dancer, friends with seemingly everyone wherever we go, a balcony serenader, and so so so much more. Like I said, more on him later.

Ijoro ryiza. (Goodnight).

Yanna   

I can finally see the hills

This morning, Amanda and I woke up and were quite confused.

We stumbled down to Emmanuel's room, thinking of the alarm we heard going off for three hours but did not respond to. But we laughed about our delirium, and pulled ourselves together.

But good news! I got dressed and stepped outside and saw this:

The hills. The beautiful hills. And the beautiful greenery of outside. That figure on the horizon is the Kigali Mountain and, if you can see, the white building to the right is the American Embassy. To the left of the embassy -- also a white-looking building from this point of view -- is the Ministry of Education and the Ministry of Infrastructure. This picture is taken northeast of the city from our two-story home. We are living like queens, really -- there are two living rooms and each bedroom has its own bathroom. But I hardly want to be inside when outside is this view.

After breakfast, Bea took us to a restaurant where she had requested la potage, a vegetable soup with carrots, potatoes, spinach and basil. 

But we didn't stop there. I asked for a refill of Fanta citrine, which tastes amazingly sweet because they use real sugar, not corn syrup, and ordered the Tilapia that Emmanuel urged me to try.

Amanda ordered chips (French fries), so I traded some of my rice for a few of her crispy chips. They are baked so yummy from sliced potatoes, not like the processed fries of the U.S. We ate our lunch slowly, with the leisure of full stomachs and enjoyed the view of the Valley of Kibagabaga Kigali.

Afterward, we drove downtown, and I was happy to finally see all of the hills. The night before felt like a dream, because of the jet lag and because it was dark; Kigali at that time was just headlights and house lights. Now, I can see the hills. And the trees. And the colors of rooftops and dresses and billboards. Downtown, we went to the market to buy a phone and groceries, like Rwandan yogurt and South African red wine. Driving through the roundabouts in our '80s minivan, I watched what looked like chaos -- motos (motorbikes) weaving through traffic, people crossing the street despite oncoming cars, crowded sidewalks -- but did not interpret it as chaos. It was simply the inner workings of a city, and I was stimulated by the commotion and colors. I am anxiously anticipating experiencing the city as one of those people on the crowded sidewalk.

When we got home, Amanda and I were antsy from all the sitting, and we asked Emmanuel to go on a walk with us. Our house is in a beautiful neighborhood that is sitting within beds of hills; we walked a couple miles and then went inside the Tennis Club -- a gym with a restaurant, sauna, tennis court, treadmills and weights. Emmanuel's got all the connections. Inside the workout room they were blasting French pop music, which I got super into, and despite feeling weird from jet lag, I jumped on the treadmill and grooved out to the Katy Perry-like music (which is to say I ran). It felt good. Everything felt good. My run (though nothing too impressive) just added to this continuing moment of clarity, which I'm realizing now is slightly selfish. I say it's selfish because it begins with me -- with realizing that I must know and improve myself in order to know others. So first, that. Realizing that I am proud of myself and proud of the challenges and adventures I present myself with. Then, the next part. The selfless part of learning. Kigali.

This blog just got all diary on you.

Goodnight.

Yanna    

Leavin' on a jet plane

Four airplanes. 22 hours. Six (?) questionable in-flight meals. One awesome in-flight snack (ice cream bar with hazelnuts and chocolate). An unmentionable amount of Belgian chocolate. Two smelly armpits. One jabbery neighbor. Three lost suitcases.

And there it is. An accurate summary of my flight to Kigali.

This is how it went: Once upon a time on Thursday, May 31, I said goodbye to this guy and hopped on a plane with a fellow traveler, Amanda.

We were excited, but hardly knew what was ahead (foreshadowing). The flight from St. Louis to Washington Dulles was easy peasy. The next stop: Brussels. My first time out of the country (besides Canada)! Sometime mid-flight, I turned to Amanda and said something like, "I just realized we are flying over the ocean right now." When I fly overseas, I apparently become very childlike. But it was a fantastic and magical realization.

The time difference was especially throwing me off, though, and I could not sleep. Instead, I indulged in watching Before Sunset, which I thought was appropriate because it is a story about a traveler, and alas, I am a traveler. It is also about romance, and in a way, I see the romance of falling in love with a new country in my trip; versus the very sweet American boy-European girl connection between Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy in the film. I also read my book. I also ate some nuts and airplane food. I also...oh, who cares, this was not the exciting part.

Amanda and I landed in Brussels, and the airport was quite sleek and modern, and everywhere I heard French and German people conversing. Here we go: some romance. But when we landed in Brussels, we were informed that our flight to Kigali had been canceled (of course). Fortunately, we were rerouted through Nairobi. Unfortunately, this would add approximately 5 hours to our trip. Were we prepared for an 11-hour trip to Nairobi? I think not. So, to distract ourselves, we went shopping.

The airport in Brussels looks quite similar to other airports I have visited.

Except for this. Cheese!

AND THIS. CHOCOLATE. I didn't take a picture of the complete collection of chocolates offered in the airport shop; clearly, at that point, my jaw was grazing the floor and I was wandering around aimlessly making strange noises. But then, I pulled myself together and bought this:

I'M SET.

Note to my mother: Please notice how responsible I am being by only purchasing four chocolate items. Another responsible act to note: Some of this chocolate still exists. In other words, I did not eat it all at once. 

Though, I wanted to. Especially after spending some time on the Brussels flight to Nairobi. Amanda was sitting next to a talkative character, and although he had some interesting comments to make about Rwanda, he did not seem to notice that Amanda wanted to sleep. At one point, he proceeded to show Amanda 2,000 photos on his digital camera while I fell in and out of sleep; I finally woke up to the staccato sound of beeping and the intuitive feeling of Amanda's distress. But no bother, we were served some yummy fish TV dinners and a Super Krokant Belgian Quality Ice Cream bar. I managed to document the exact moment when I was handed this ice cream bar by the lovely Belgian flight attendant in my journal, which is now stained with chocolate fingerprints. 

I've had beef pasta, fish in cream sauce, yogurt with a banana bar -- AND!!! I was just handed a Super Krokant Belgian Quality Ice Cream bar!!! I'm in heaven, or at least close -- 40,000 feet in the air or something like that. More later, must eat ice cream before it's melty.

And finally, the Brussels-Nairobi flight had to end at some point (see: 11 hours). Eventually, we landed in Nairobi and climbed the stairs into the sticky air of the Nairobi airport, where we met a friendly Belgian man who was returning home to Kigali. He has lived there for almost three years with his French wife and three young children. Kigali, he says, is a wonderful place to raise children. Kigali, we kept hearing, was a place we would love and want to return to someday. I was daydreaming of hills and fruits and probably slightly delirious from all the traveling; it was what time? We left on Thursday and now it's Saturday? Tomorrow's Saturday? I should have bought a watch. Then, we boarded our last flight, were handed warm towels and I konked out for the one-hour flight to Kigali. 

But first: a beautiful moment of clarity. I was on the shuttle to The Pride of Africa (our plane to Kigali), grasping the hanging handle and bumping into strangers as the shuttle lurched around corners. I was tired. My backpack straps smelled like sour B.O. My clothes were stained with chocolate and chicken fajita sauce. Somewhere in the midst of still wondering what time it was, I realized I was listening to everyone's conversations -- these strangers who were packed around me in the shuttle -- and that I couldn't understand a single word being said. Perhaps it was the fatigue or the fact that I was possibly delirious, but I grinned openly and even cried a little bit. I realized something. I realized what I was about to do, and I felt completely alive. I felt completely alive as the minority, challenging myself to understand other people, other cultures, other traditions, other conversations. 

This is what I came here to do. This is what I am here (alive) for. I know this.

And then, landing. After we landed in Kigali, I took a horrible picture of The Pride of Africa because it had made me feel pride, and I want to remember that feeling.

    

And now we are here. And I will attempt sleep. And we will see what tomorrow brings.

Yanna

Long time no see

Well, I sort of forgot I had a blog. (The actual date of this posting is May 19, not April 19).

I really have to ease myself into this. I'm thinking: Blog = word vomit. So I just have to go for it.

Well, IT'S OFFICIAL. I am going to Kigali. It was never un-official, except that I had a Plan B in case I couldn't raise the funds in time. But now that I'm good on $$$, it's back to Plan A.

As I settle upon the cusp of packing and reading for class, I want to take this moment for some super-deserved THANK YOUS. This is my version of the Oscar speech. Because truly, I could NOT have done this without the support of so many generous people.

I want to give all of you a big THIS (hug).

This endeavor has been marinating for a couple years now, and this summer was le moment ideal. Ideal times, I've learned, are only completely ideal if something strong and tough and reliable is provided to secure the flawlessness. The money I've raised has been that base for this beautiful opportunity, and I want to say thank you to all of the beautiful people who are sending me to Rwanda.

Sam, Ali, Megan and Ben in Columbia, thank you. You guys are the best.
Elizabeth and Margo in Idaho, thank you.
Grandpa and Michele in Idaho, thank you.
Paula in Iowa, thank you.
Steve and Scherrie (my surrogate parents) in Columbia, thank you.
Gabbie (my favorite dance partner and babe) in New York City, thank you. <3
Cliff and Stephanie in Iowa, thank you.
Stuart and Dana in Iowa, thank you.
Uncle Tim and Aunt Lydia in Texas, thank you. I cannot describe the amount of love and thanks I send to you for your generosity.
Tom Duffy and the Duffy Fund Committee from the Journalism School in Columbia, thank you. Thank you for seeing the journalist in me and recognizing this as an opportunity for me to grow.
Brian Brooks and the Friedham and Field scholarships from the Journalism School in Columbia, thank you. Thank you for seeing this opportunity as necessary for my character and professional growth. I cannot thank you enough for your support.
Kerry Chao from Yogoluv in Columbia, thank you. Thank you for helping out an old employee who may or may not have eaten one too many yogurt samples.
Katie Worzel, Renee Reed-Miller and Vessels International, Inc. in Columbia, thank you. Thank you for working with me and recognizing my potential as an asset to the program and to your organization.
Dr. Bea Gallimore in Columbia, thank you. Thank you for inspiring me to join the program two years ago and thank you for supporting me as I worked toward my goal. Thank you for your grace, generosity and tenacity.


Now, to my friends and boyfriend, Scott. Thank you. Thank you for holding me up as I raced around, wild-eyed and strung out from lack of sleep. Thank you for the toasts (extra shout out to Em). Thank you for the hugs. Thank you for the inspiration. Thank you for the advice. Thank you for the dances. Thank you for being proud of me, as I am proud to be your friend. Extra shout out to Alex for Smangin'. Extra shout out to Lucy for the "jogs." Extra shout out to Scott for all the back rubs and long talks. Y'all are my life. I love you.

Finally, to my family. I may be a bit of a Black Sheep at times, with my head always dreaming of something, but thank you for recognizing my passion and commitment to this program. And thus, thank you for supporting me. Thank you for offering the logical voice, and for working for ways to support me. Gabe, thank you for working with First Rate for a donation. Grandma, Jacek, Mom and Brian, thank you for your donations. Most of all, thank you for believing in me. Thank you for recognizing my capabilities and encouraging me to press on. I cannot articulate how lucky I am to have fallen onto this planet surrounded by all of you. I love you.

And now, a big breath. That definitely exceeded the Oscar committee's maximum speech time. But I cannot stop saying it, thinking it, living it: THANK YOU.

Yanna

A poem for my grandfather

I wrote this poem for my grandpa, Zenon, who lives in Poland, and whom I've never met. I wish my wanderlust would have led me to you.

The Mountains

if I met you now, we’d go to the mountains

you’d drive me in your little yellow European car to the summer house, with Gypsy and Cuba, even though I keep forgetting that Cuba died years ago

nevertheless, she’d come too

because dogs and cats and people alike love the mountains

and we’d cook sausage, but first you’d pour me vodka, and we’d toast, and we’d speak in Polish, and I’d know all the words

if I met you now, we’d go swimming in the Baltic

and my dad would be there, too

and I’d ask about the time when you were in a rock band, and when you wore leather pants

and I’d ask if you liked my dad’s hair in the ‘80s when it was long, when he liked metal

and I’d ask you about Joanna, because that’s my name, too, and she was beautiful

and I’d ask you to tell me the story about how you met, and how she liked reading, how she worked in a castle, and how you were in a rock band

because I don’t know that story, but I know you met in the mountains

if I met you now, we’d meet in the mountains

and I’d comment on the cultural differences, but it wouldn’t matter because

you and I wouldn’t have cultural differences

and my dad would be happy that we were together, and he’d pretend I was his sister, and he’d have that time back with you, and we’d play card games, and Gypsy would sit on my lap

if I met you now, I’d meet Zosia, too

and we’d cook dinner and gossip together, and I’d say I like her new haircut, and she’d say I was beautiful, and she’d say I look like Joanna

and then we’d go out into the living room, and you’d show me the place where you’d Skyped with me, and then we’d laugh because we were together, and Skype was a material device that plasticized my face and plasticized your face, and we’d admit

we never liked doing that because it was never enough

and then we’d watch football, and my dad and I would yell at the same times, and I would notice I look more like him than I thought

and then we’d fall asleep, and Gypsy would snore, and you and I would sneak out into the dark night, and you’d show me the way your garden beams from the starlight, and the flowers would brush against my ankles

and we’d fall asleep, and we’d wake in the morning, and that’s where we’d be


Yanna