Well readers, it's been an unbelievable year filled with life-changing experiences. This week was no exception.
As some of you know, I live on a major road in Jerusalem, Derech Hebron, which leads to, as you may guess, Hebron. Hebron is one of the holiest cities in Israel (along with Jerusalem, of course, and Shechem, where Joseph's tomb is). Over three thousand years ago, Abraham purchased a large piece of land in Hebron to bury his wife, Sarah, who died at the age of 127. This transaction is recorded in the Torah and is one of the first witnessed land purchases in history. Abraham, Sarah, Isaac and Leah are buried in Hebron. Today, Hebron is a largely Arab city (only 20% are Jewish Israelis). In 1929, there was a massacre in Hebron which killed almost 70 Jewish people, and since then, tensions in Hebron have been high. It is a part of the West Bank, technically (it is beyond the security fence) and requires passing several checkpoints to move between Hebron and Jerusalem. We traveled in a bulletproof bus from "our" side of Derech Hebron to the end, where we reached what looked like an abandoned heap of boarded-up shops, desolate roads and army vehicles. This is Hebron. Where the IDF patrols on regular intervals (we saw them marching up the streets as we walked along, from the patriarchs' tombs to one of Hebron's few synagogues, which was originally a Hadassah hospital building), where streets are divided - one side for Jews, another for Arabs, and where peace seems like a very foreign goal. As I walked on the streets, a low wall (approximately reaching my hip, so it went up to everyone else's knee) ran up the middle; barefoot children on the other side waved and held out their hands for money, screaming "Shalom!" I could barely see them over the dividing wall; I wondered if they knew why it's there.
On a lighter note, this week was also the beginning of the 50th Annual Israel Festival, a collection of arts and music performances that go on in Jerusalem for three weeks. On Monday, one of my friends and I were walking downtown, past Ben Yehuda street and toward Safra Square, where we saw a huge stage and endless folding chairs being set up. When we stopped to ask what was going on there, we were told that the Bolshoi Ballet was giving a special performance with the Israel Ballet of Giselle. I almost passed out. We asked if we could get tickets, what time the show started, etc. Naturally, since this is Israel, we got a different answer from every person we asked. Eventually, we got lucky and some poor guy was stuck with three tickets that I'm guessing his girlfriend purchased without his knowledge (he didn't exactly look like the type to be going to a ballet without her - or with her, for that matter) and now, for whatever reason, wasn't there to claim them, so we grabbed them. It was unbelievable. The dancing, the stage, the fact that the Bolshoi prima who looked like she weighs twelve pounds (in her costume) wasn't taken over by the wind while balancing on pointe - it was unreal. Perhaps one of the funniest (and it wasn't meant to be comedic, but it was) parts of this experience was noticing that a Tuborg beer stand was set up along the side of the square, along with a guy selling pretzels and hot dogs. At a ballet?! Only in Israel would ballpark fare be found at a fine arts function. Ha!
I've spent a lot of time this week saying goodbye to places and things. To the Old City and the Kotel, to Emek Refaim, to the Central Bus Station where I go every Thursday and Saturday night in my travels to Tel Aviv, to Aleh and all the girls in the Bogrot class, to ulpan, to falafel, to my teachers. I said goodbye to Tel Aviv and its beaches, to Nahalat Benyamin and the artists there who have come to know my name, to Dizengoff and Rothschild and all the places that have become my stomping grounds. It's hard to say goodbye, to leave places that you love, but knowing that I'll be back makes it slightly easier. This is me saying goodbye to Israel for now, at the end of this adventure, but not forever.
It's strange, this leaving business. It's the end of so many incredible things and experiences and people, but at the same time, knowing that it happened makes me so grateful and happy. As I look back and remember to the beginning, to the Bat Yam apartment I flooded within an hour of being there, to the gan in Arad and all that happened in Rwanda, and now to the beauty of Jerusalem, I realize all that has changed, all that I've learned and become. I won't be speaking Hebrew or fighting my way onto overcrowded buses, exploring and seeing all that I can, but in my return home, things will be new - I have a new appreciation for all the things and people I once took for granted, for the life I once thought was so natural and normal. It is the end of something wonderful, something unforgettable, but it's also the start of something equally great.
I like to think I've come a long way from the first day I went grocery shopping at the Super Douche in Bat Yam and, not knowing how to ask for chicken breasts, grabbed my chest and pointed to the butcher case. There are so many memories I've made here, and I will miss it, cats and grocery trollies and Hebrew-screaming and all. I know I'll be back, though, and when I return, I will have a whole new view of this place I've come to call home. It's never easy to say goodbye, but I know my life and my adventures will go forward, that I will continue to explore and learn all I can, and to find love and passion wherever I go.
Thank you for following me on this journey. It's been a life-changing one that has taught me more than any book I could ever read. I hope you've all learned something, too, and I can't wait to share more with you as the next part of my journey, wherever it may take me, unfolds.
All the love in the world from Israel, one last time,
Elana
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
We Cry, We Sing, We Dance, We Eat.
Hello readers! I hope this post finds you all well. It’s difficult to believe, but I have just two full weeks left in my adventure; time has truly flown. Here is an update of the past nearly two weeks. It’s been an eventful time in Israel, a time that has brought tearful remembrance and joyful celebration right up against one another, which makes for an emotional rollercoaster.
Sunday, May 2 was Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day in Israel. Year Course was invited to the national tekkes (ceremony) at Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust museum and the world’s leading Holocaust research center. We arrived by bus and then were shuttled to the museum entrance, where we were met by what appeared to be unending lines of security – metal detectors, questioning, pat-downs. It took over an hour just to enter the building. Guests numbered in the thousands and live translation via headsets was given in four languages (English, Russian, French and Spanish). The ceremony’s featured speakers were President Shimon Peres and Prime Minister Benyamin Netanyahu. Both spoke of the importance of Israel in the world, despite the very real and ever-looming threats posed to it by other nations. Most of all, their messages were clear: the Jewish people survived the atrocities of the Holocaust and then came to Israel to make a new start, to begin a new life in freedom. We cannot lose that vision for whom so many died, we cannot lose our dream of the land in which we began thousands of years ago, and which renewed our hope in our darkest times of struggle Without Israel, we return to being a lost and dispersed people. It is our goal, our aspirations, our essence.
In addition to Peres and Netanyahu, six Holocaust survivors were featured in the memorial ceremony. Each lit a memorial torch, one for every million Jews who perished in the Shoah. Every survivor was accompanied by a friend or family member, and before they lit their respective torch, a short film played on several large screens displayed throughout the courtyard in which the ceremony took place. The films were perhaps the most moving part of the ceremony; every survivor told his or her story of fear, persecution, near-death and eventual survival. They told of watching their brothers, sisters and parents die, of the death marches in winter, of Auschwitz and the tattoos on their arms which became, but did not remain, their identity. Immediately, I was reminded of my time in Poland, of all the horror and hell that I saw. Then it became even more real: here were people describing the places I visited, their time surviving in what is now a historical site. My stomach turned and the tears flowed freely down my face. There was no stopping them.
Exactly one week after Yom HaShoah is Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s national day of remembrance for fallen soldiers and victims of terror. The night before Remembrance Day, thousands gather at several ceremonies around the country. We attended one at Ammunition Hill, a pivotal battle site in the fight for Jerusalem in the 1967 Six Day war. The tekkes was a beautiful one – the Hill was lit in blue and white, Israeli flags hanging from every possible tree and light pole. The ceremony featured the stories of seven lost young people – six of whom were soldiers, and one, a 15-year old girl named Malki, who died in the Sbarro suicide bombing in the 2001 Intifada. Days like these bring the entire nation, and the Jewish world, together. It is a time to mourn losses to remember heroism and greatness, and to be increasingly thankful for being and living in Israel.
The following day, which was actually Yom HaZikaron, a group of Year Coursers went to Har Herzl, Israel’s military cemetery. There were thousands of people there, honoring lost family members and attending ceremonies. On our way there, a siren sounded – it went off at 11 AM, all across Israel – and the entire country stopped. For several minutes, no car moved, no pedestrian walked, no vendor sold anything. We were on a bus on our way to Har Herzl, and happened to be stopped at the Mahane Yehuda shuk. In a millisecond, the market went from its usual bustling craziness to perfect silence and stillness. The bus stopped and everyone riding it stood up. Then, minutes later, just as the alarm had sounded and everything had stopped, just as quickly, the siren ended and the day resumed as normal.
When we arrived at Har Herzl, we were handed water bottles to give to people at the cemetery who, in the unrelenting heat, were spending their day mourning and remembering. A friend and I came across a woman named Leila whose story is actually very unusual. She is a Lebanese Christian and her husband is Jewish (they’re originally from New York). They are visiting Israel for several months; she is a writer and her husband is a photographer. She has been staying in Ramallah, an Arab village in Israel, where her mother’s family now lives, while her husband does his photography work throughout Jerusalem. Something she said that really made an impression on me was that her mother’s family loves living in Israel, but the reason people in Lebanon and in Palestinian territories support terrorist governments is that they promise to provide for people who have nothing; when you are threatened, you want to support those who swear to protect you. In 2006, when Israel fought Lebanon in the Second Lebanon War, Leila’s Lebanese family was cheering as they watched Israel’s planes fly over their country, hoping the metal birds with the blue stars on the side would end their suffering under a tyrannical government. But when, after two weeks, nothing changed, and Hezbollah promised Lebanese civilians protection if they would pledge their support, most, in fear for their lives, believed their “government” would save them. This, of course, did not happen, and since, Leila and her family remain staunch supporters of the peace process. Not only that, but on a day when Israel and Jews the world over mourn their losses, Leila stood next to us, supporting her Jewish friends and neighbors, experiencing what she called a most emotional and moving day.
As the sun sets on Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s biggest party of the year, Yom Haatzmaut, Independence Day, begins. The country is turned into one giant celebration. Everyone dresses up in their finest blue and white apparel, complete, if you’re me and my friends, with blue face paint and, of course, all-important glitter. We made our way to the Mahane Yehuda shuk party, which, twelve hours earlier, had come to a complete stop, but was now alive as ever. Light towers, DJ booths and food stands were set up along the main artery of the shuk, along with, of course, several temporary bars. The scene quickly became craziness – dancing on the shuk stall countertops, thousands of people crowded into the market, all singing and dancing and keeping the bartenders quite busy. A little after midnight, we decided to walk down the hill to Ben Yehuda Street to see the celebration there. I have never seen Ben Yehuda that busy or crowded ever; there was literally no room to move. So, to avoid being crushed by crowd, we escaped to one of Ben Yehuda’s many side sreets, which happens to be home to the best waffles in Israel: Babbette’s. A tiny hole in the wall on a street otherwise cluttered with larger restaurants and shops, it’s easy to miss or walk right past, thinking nothing of it. Well, if you find yourself wandering off the main artery of Ben Yehuda, find Babette’s and order the best waffle you’ll find anywhere. It seats about 10 people comfortably, and of course, the night of Yom Haatzmaut, thirty were cramming inside, pushing their way to the register to order waffles with every dessert topping imaginable. Once I was in a chocolate and sugar coma, I headed home.
The following day is a national day off – businesses close (except for most cafes and restaurants), and everyone spends the day having barbecues (al ha-esh, in Hebrew, which means “on the fire”). I went to Tel Aviv to see Roi and his family and enjoyed a delicious lunch with them. A few too many kebabs and loads of salad and pita later, we wandered into the downtown area (buses run on Yom Haatzmaut). Ibn Gavirol, a major street of Israel’s financial district, was hosting several street barbecues and parties, so we wandered through those, stopping for drinks, snacks and some impromptu dancing. We also saw the air show happening near the port – fighter planes decorated Tel Aviv’s cloudless blue skies, zooming and booming above us. After wandering for quite some time, it began to get dark and I returned to Jerusalem.
On my way into those holy hills, I found myself remembering all that has happened in the past months. I’ve lived in different cities, on different continents, spoken new languages and made new friends. I’ve met new challenges, taken new risks and set new goals. I’ve fallen in love with a culture, a place and people. Loving something or someone makes it even harder to leave, but I know my time here has been special and I wouldn’t give it up for anything. Just as I made a change in coming to Israel nine months ago and began this journey, in two weeks, I will make a change yet again, returning home to the next chapter in my life.
One of the most valuable things I’ve learned this year is to fall in love with as many things as possible. So, I urge you all to fall in love with something or someone special, to find your passion and live it.
All my love, see you soon,
Elana
Sunday, May 2 was Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day in Israel. Year Course was invited to the national tekkes (ceremony) at Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust museum and the world’s leading Holocaust research center. We arrived by bus and then were shuttled to the museum entrance, where we were met by what appeared to be unending lines of security – metal detectors, questioning, pat-downs. It took over an hour just to enter the building. Guests numbered in the thousands and live translation via headsets was given in four languages (English, Russian, French and Spanish). The ceremony’s featured speakers were President Shimon Peres and Prime Minister Benyamin Netanyahu. Both spoke of the importance of Israel in the world, despite the very real and ever-looming threats posed to it by other nations. Most of all, their messages were clear: the Jewish people survived the atrocities of the Holocaust and then came to Israel to make a new start, to begin a new life in freedom. We cannot lose that vision for whom so many died, we cannot lose our dream of the land in which we began thousands of years ago, and which renewed our hope in our darkest times of struggle Without Israel, we return to being a lost and dispersed people. It is our goal, our aspirations, our essence.
In addition to Peres and Netanyahu, six Holocaust survivors were featured in the memorial ceremony. Each lit a memorial torch, one for every million Jews who perished in the Shoah. Every survivor was accompanied by a friend or family member, and before they lit their respective torch, a short film played on several large screens displayed throughout the courtyard in which the ceremony took place. The films were perhaps the most moving part of the ceremony; every survivor told his or her story of fear, persecution, near-death and eventual survival. They told of watching their brothers, sisters and parents die, of the death marches in winter, of Auschwitz and the tattoos on their arms which became, but did not remain, their identity. Immediately, I was reminded of my time in Poland, of all the horror and hell that I saw. Then it became even more real: here were people describing the places I visited, their time surviving in what is now a historical site. My stomach turned and the tears flowed freely down my face. There was no stopping them.
Exactly one week after Yom HaShoah is Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s national day of remembrance for fallen soldiers and victims of terror. The night before Remembrance Day, thousands gather at several ceremonies around the country. We attended one at Ammunition Hill, a pivotal battle site in the fight for Jerusalem in the 1967 Six Day war. The tekkes was a beautiful one – the Hill was lit in blue and white, Israeli flags hanging from every possible tree and light pole. The ceremony featured the stories of seven lost young people – six of whom were soldiers, and one, a 15-year old girl named Malki, who died in the Sbarro suicide bombing in the 2001 Intifada. Days like these bring the entire nation, and the Jewish world, together. It is a time to mourn losses to remember heroism and greatness, and to be increasingly thankful for being and living in Israel.
The following day, which was actually Yom HaZikaron, a group of Year Coursers went to Har Herzl, Israel’s military cemetery. There were thousands of people there, honoring lost family members and attending ceremonies. On our way there, a siren sounded – it went off at 11 AM, all across Israel – and the entire country stopped. For several minutes, no car moved, no pedestrian walked, no vendor sold anything. We were on a bus on our way to Har Herzl, and happened to be stopped at the Mahane Yehuda shuk. In a millisecond, the market went from its usual bustling craziness to perfect silence and stillness. The bus stopped and everyone riding it stood up. Then, minutes later, just as the alarm had sounded and everything had stopped, just as quickly, the siren ended and the day resumed as normal.
When we arrived at Har Herzl, we were handed water bottles to give to people at the cemetery who, in the unrelenting heat, were spending their day mourning and remembering. A friend and I came across a woman named Leila whose story is actually very unusual. She is a Lebanese Christian and her husband is Jewish (they’re originally from New York). They are visiting Israel for several months; she is a writer and her husband is a photographer. She has been staying in Ramallah, an Arab village in Israel, where her mother’s family now lives, while her husband does his photography work throughout Jerusalem. Something she said that really made an impression on me was that her mother’s family loves living in Israel, but the reason people in Lebanon and in Palestinian territories support terrorist governments is that they promise to provide for people who have nothing; when you are threatened, you want to support those who swear to protect you. In 2006, when Israel fought Lebanon in the Second Lebanon War, Leila’s Lebanese family was cheering as they watched Israel’s planes fly over their country, hoping the metal birds with the blue stars on the side would end their suffering under a tyrannical government. But when, after two weeks, nothing changed, and Hezbollah promised Lebanese civilians protection if they would pledge their support, most, in fear for their lives, believed their “government” would save them. This, of course, did not happen, and since, Leila and her family remain staunch supporters of the peace process. Not only that, but on a day when Israel and Jews the world over mourn their losses, Leila stood next to us, supporting her Jewish friends and neighbors, experiencing what she called a most emotional and moving day.
As the sun sets on Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s biggest party of the year, Yom Haatzmaut, Independence Day, begins. The country is turned into one giant celebration. Everyone dresses up in their finest blue and white apparel, complete, if you’re me and my friends, with blue face paint and, of course, all-important glitter. We made our way to the Mahane Yehuda shuk party, which, twelve hours earlier, had come to a complete stop, but was now alive as ever. Light towers, DJ booths and food stands were set up along the main artery of the shuk, along with, of course, several temporary bars. The scene quickly became craziness – dancing on the shuk stall countertops, thousands of people crowded into the market, all singing and dancing and keeping the bartenders quite busy. A little after midnight, we decided to walk down the hill to Ben Yehuda Street to see the celebration there. I have never seen Ben Yehuda that busy or crowded ever; there was literally no room to move. So, to avoid being crushed by crowd, we escaped to one of Ben Yehuda’s many side sreets, which happens to be home to the best waffles in Israel: Babbette’s. A tiny hole in the wall on a street otherwise cluttered with larger restaurants and shops, it’s easy to miss or walk right past, thinking nothing of it. Well, if you find yourself wandering off the main artery of Ben Yehuda, find Babette’s and order the best waffle you’ll find anywhere. It seats about 10 people comfortably, and of course, the night of Yom Haatzmaut, thirty were cramming inside, pushing their way to the register to order waffles with every dessert topping imaginable. Once I was in a chocolate and sugar coma, I headed home.
The following day is a national day off – businesses close (except for most cafes and restaurants), and everyone spends the day having barbecues (al ha-esh, in Hebrew, which means “on the fire”). I went to Tel Aviv to see Roi and his family and enjoyed a delicious lunch with them. A few too many kebabs and loads of salad and pita later, we wandered into the downtown area (buses run on Yom Haatzmaut). Ibn Gavirol, a major street of Israel’s financial district, was hosting several street barbecues and parties, so we wandered through those, stopping for drinks, snacks and some impromptu dancing. We also saw the air show happening near the port – fighter planes decorated Tel Aviv’s cloudless blue skies, zooming and booming above us. After wandering for quite some time, it began to get dark and I returned to Jerusalem.
On my way into those holy hills, I found myself remembering all that has happened in the past months. I’ve lived in different cities, on different continents, spoken new languages and made new friends. I’ve met new challenges, taken new risks and set new goals. I’ve fallen in love with a culture, a place and people. Loving something or someone makes it even harder to leave, but I know my time here has been special and I wouldn’t give it up for anything. Just as I made a change in coming to Israel nine months ago and began this journey, in two weeks, I will make a change yet again, returning home to the next chapter in my life.
One of the most valuable things I’ve learned this year is to fall in love with as many things as possible. So, I urge you all to fall in love with something or someone special, to find your passion and live it.
All my love, see you soon,
Elana
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
From Belz to Ben Yehuda, Bagels to Bittersweet Chocolate
Hello readers and Chag Pesach Sameach (Happy Passover) from Israel! I realize it’s been over a month since my last post, and I apologize. I also realize I promised to work on some posts about Poland, but something I learned in Rwanda has persuaded me otherwise. While I was in Africa, I learned that there are several ways to cope with tragedy, and these options fall into what seem like two major categories: the past and the future. Some people deal with emotional and tragic loss by reflecting on the past, on what once was, but I don’t find that helpful. The people of Rwanda taught me to look forward, to think about the future and all the possibilities that lie ahead. So, for this reason, and many others, I am choosing to focus on all the wonderful experiences I have had since I’ve returned to Israel. Since much has happened, here are my top ten updates from Jerusalem:
1. About three weeks ago, I went on a tiyul (trip) with my Comparative Religions class to the Belz quarter of Jerusalem. Belz was originally a very orthodox community in the Ukraine; it existed there for hundreds of years. However, with World War II came the end of Belz; of the entire community, which was estimated in the thousands, only the Belz rabbi and his brother survived the Holocaust. They arrived in Israel in 1945 and began rebuilding the Belz synagogue, the epicenter of Belz life. Today, the Belz synagogue stands at 14 stories, half of which are underground, and cost $70 million to construct.
The synagogue includes study halls for up to 100 people (men), a tea and coffee room that seats 7,000, a plaza with bleachers to seat 10,000, a mikvah with 25,000 towels and hundreds of showers, and seats in the main sanctuary that sell for up to $1 million. The main sanctuary is for men only; the seats in the main sanctuary must be purchased (seats in the middle and toward the back cost about $5,000). Some seats can be “double purchased,” which means that the man who first purchased the seat is not a Jerusalem resident or doesn’t come to services weekly (there are many members of the Belz community in America and Europe, so they buy seats and only come to the synagogue for the High Holidays and maybe Pesach). These seats can be purchased for a cheaper price by someone who frequents the synagogue, but during the holidays, when the primary owner is attending services, the second owner cannot have the seat. Above the main sanctuary is the women’s area which seats over a thousand women (the main sanctuary seats several thousand men), and above the women’s area is another partition for yeshiva boys and children. With thousands of people in the synagogue at a time, how does anyone hear the rabbi? To maintain quiet, the service leader (the gabbi), uses the “clapper.” Now, this clapper is about as long as I am (five feet), and looks like a giant wooden soup spoon. As a prayer ends, the gabbi raises the clapper and beats it against a special pillow that causes the sound to resonate throughout the synagogue. The gabbi continues to hit the clapper against the pillow until there is silence.
Today, the Belz community numbers about 100,000 followers worldwide; families have many children (a family of a mother, father and eight children is considered small). People travel from all over the world to meet the Belz rabbi and seek his advice; he has two secretaries and a letter-answering service to keep up with responding to everyone who contacts him. To learn more about Belz and the Belz Great Synagogue, visit: http://www.gojerusalem.com/discover/item_10306/The-Belz-Great-Synagogue.
2. The Mahane Yehuda market is slowly becoming my favorite place in Jerusalem. Not far from the city center, the market (shuk), is always bustling with people; don’t even try to walk through there on a Thursday afternoon or Friday morning before Shabbat, you’ll probably get smacked in the head with a crate of challahs or fish being thrown between stalls. Not only is all the produce very cheap and fresh, there’s always something new to find that seems hidden. Last week, I found a handmade pasta stand, which also sells homemade cheeses and sauces. Naturally, I had to buy some (pre-Passover indulgence). There are also some great restaurants and food stands scattered throughout the mess of fruit, vegetable and meat stands – try falafel in a bag (ask for “rak falafel” – only falafel, no pita – in a paper bag) and for four shekels, it’s a great snack, or go to Fish n’ Chips, a very well-hidden takeout place that features ingredients found in the shuk for maximum freshness. It’s fun to walk around, take a taste of whatever is being pushed in your face, and try not to get stepped on – making it out of the shuk unharmed can be a major feat.
3. I am lucky enough to volunteer at probably one the most amazing places in Jerusalem. I work at Aleh, which is a hospital, school and residence for Israeli children with very serious mental and physical disabilities. None of the residents at Aleh are able to walk (they are all in wheelchairs) and very few can communicate at all (none can speak, but a few can make small noises or motions). I work in the Bogrot classroom, the oldest girls at Aleh. These girls – there are seven of them – have been at Aleh the longest and are now in their late twenties or nearly thirty. I arrive in the mornings for breakfast, which is one of my favorite times in the day. I’m learning (slowly) who can eat what – some of the girls can eat mashed up food, some can only have liquid, and a few are on feeding tubes. Every morning, I feed Naama. Naama loves breakfast – she sees me come in with a tray of yogurt, mashed up Israeli salad and cottage cheese and her eyes light up. I sit in front of her chair, fill the spoon and show it to her before bringing it up to her mouth – she likes to see what she’s eating. I know it’s good when she begins to rock back and forth in her chair (I usually have to lock the wheels to ensure her breakfast doesn’t end up in my lap when the “ta’im meod” – very tasty – dance begins), and she leans her head toward me. After breakfast, we sing songs, do art projects and watch movies. It’s impossible to know how much they understand, but I like to think they know I’m there, and that I love the time I spend with all of them. To learn more about Aleh in Israel, visit: http://www.aleh.org/.
4. Last week, my Comparative Religions class went to the Dome of the Rock. Prior to this trip, I hadn’t realized it was open to the public, but apparently, a few years ago, visitors were allowed up to what once was the Temple Mount. However, it is only open to the public one hour a day, and that hour changes without notice (for example, the day we were there, we were supposed to go up at 12:30, but we were then told it wouldn’t open until 1:30). In any event, the Dome of the Rock itself covers a rock which bears significance to both Jews and Muslims. Jews believe that it was from this rock that God created the Earth, and Muslims believe that Muhammad ascended to heaven from this rock at this very location. Until destruction by the Romans in 70 CE, what is now the Dome of the Rock was the Temple Mount; in the far right corner of the Dome compound is what Jews believe was the Holy of Holies. As Jews, we don’t walk on that part of the plaza (in the time of the Temple, only the Cohen Gadol – the High Priest – could enter the Holy of Holies). A common misconception is that the Dome of the Rock is a mosque. Across from the Dome is the Al-Aqsa mosque, the Dome itself is not a place of prayer. In the early 1990s, the Jordanian government undertook the project of recovering the Dome in gold, which cost approximately $8 million. Today, the Dome of the Rock is an area under Muslim control; this area has been the cause of much and ongoing conflict.
After visiting the Dome and Al-Aqsa (we aren’t allowed inside, only on the plaza and surrounding outer areas), we met with Professor Dajani, a former member of Lebanese Fatah until 1975. In the late 70s, Dajani left Lebanon and went to Europe, and then America, where he earned two PhDs and now teaches at a university in Jerusalem. He returned to Israel in the early 90s when his father was sick with cancer and was being treated in an Israeli hospital. Dajani was convinced that the Israeli doctors wouldn’t treat his father the same as they would an Israeli patient, but he was wrong; the doctors did everything they could for his father. Years later, his mother became very sick with asthma and needed emergency medical attention. When Magan David Adom arrived, Dajani was once again skeptical, but the Israeli medical team caring for her treated her and Dajani’s family with respect and kindness; they even brought her to a special army medical center for treatment. Although his mother didn’t survive, Dajani remains thankful to Israel for helping his ill parents. Today, he is the leader of a moderate peace organization and believes in the ongoing peace process between Israelis and Palestinians. To learn more about Dajani’s efforts for peace, visit: http://www.bigdreamsmallhope.com/.
5. Number five is especially important. On Thursday, April 7, Young Judaea and FZY Year Course participated in a five-minute freeze at the Ben Yehuda pedestrian mall in Jerusalem to honor the kidnapped soldier Gilad Shalit. Gilad has been imprisoned by Hamas for nearly five years; we froze for one minute for every year that he’s been missing, for a total of five minutes. Wearing our official YC shirts, we took to Ben Yehuda Street, and after receiving a mass text message, froze for five minutes, in the middle of foot traffic, until receiving the “unfreeze” text. To see the video made that day, go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kSNHGmFlnCY. Gilad Shalit Lives!
6. I realize I’m jumping horribly out of order, but I must mention my family’s visit to Israel! At the end of March, my parents, brother and Bubbie and Oggy came to Jerusalem to visit me. We went to the shuk, Aleh, the Old City, and Tel Aviv for Shabbat. It was great to see all of them, and I can’t believe the next time we’re all together will be in June when I’m in New Jersey! Hugs and kisses to the Wiser, Stern and Estin families – miss you all!
7. On Tuesday, my Comparative Religions class (it’s a tiyul-based class, so every week, we travel to another part of Jerusalem and the surrounding area) went to Abu Ghosh, a Muslim village about twenty minutes from Jerusalem, and home to the best hummus in Israel. Across from Abu Ghosh is the village of Ein Rafa, where we met the Imam (the leader of the mosque, the Muslim equivalent to a rabbi) and a woman named Yasmin. Yasmin is originally from England and first came to Israel while studying landscape architecture in college; she worked at the Biblical gardens where she met her husband, a Muslim man living in Ein Rafa. Years later, she returned to Israel and converted to Islam, learned Hebrew and Arabic and changed her name from Jessica to Yasmin (her husband wanted her to have an Arab-sounding name so the small Ein Rafa community wouldn’t exclude her as an outsider). She is now a practicing Muslim and has three children. It was interesting to meet her, hear her story and listen to her views on Israel (Abu Ghosh and Ein Rafa remain at peace with the Israeli government).
8. It’s important to have friends in high places, I’m learning. I am now on a first-name basis with the laundry guys down the hill from my apartment – I’m one of their best customers – the people who run the bagel place, Bagel Bites, a few blocks from Ulpan (they also know my order, which is equally frightening), and a few of the vendors at the shuk (the cheese guy, an older man and his very intimidating wife who own a storefront where I get canned tomatoes, olive oil, etc., and of course, a butcher who knows I always order two kilos of chicken). It’s these small relationships that make a place feel like home – that people know me and I know them, and even for a short while, we were a minute part of one another’s lives. This is what makes me feel like I know a place, and what makes me miss it once I’m gone.
9. Roi has been asking me to teach him how to cook. So, in the spirit of Pesach, I asked my mom to send me the recipe for my Aunt Muriel’s famous kosher for Passover mandel bread. Roi and I went to the supermarket (taking your boyfriend to the supermarket in Israel two days before Passover is a notoriously bad idea), bought the necessary baking ingredients (we thought) and began our project. It wasn’t until we had mixed everything together that I realized something wasn’t right; the dough didn’t look as smooth or cake-like as it usually does. So, due to baking emergency, I called my mom and asked her what could have gone wrong. In our haste (and stupidity), Roi and I had used matzah meal instead of matzah cake meal, which is apparently much finer than regular matzah meal and is meant for baking. Well, we were stuck with lumpy mandel bread dough, and since we couldn’t exactly start over, we mixed in the chocolate chips and hoped for the best. Forty-five minutes later, we took them out of the oven, let them cool and tasted our creation. It was delicious! Conclusion? Even in the event of lumpy dough, cook the mandel bread anyway. With enough butter and chocolate, what could actually be so terrible?
10. It’s been an unbelievable month in Jerusalem, and now in Tel Aviv for the seder (there’s only one in Israel), and tomorrow, Eilat for vacation! It’s crazy for me to think that a year ago at this time, I was deferring from UPenn and committing to this life-changing adventure, with some hesitation. Now, the weather is getting warm again – it feels like September in Bat Yam (only with fewer cats) – and I can’t believe this journey has happened and will, in six weeks, come to an end. I’ve learned that some of the best, most memorable things can’t always be planned, but just must unfold by themselves. I’ve never been good at letting life surprise me, but I think I’ve learned, to some degree, to let life happen… and to worry about the lumpy dough only after the food processor can’t fix it.
Thanks for reading, as always. All my love,
Elana
1. About three weeks ago, I went on a tiyul (trip) with my Comparative Religions class to the Belz quarter of Jerusalem. Belz was originally a very orthodox community in the Ukraine; it existed there for hundreds of years. However, with World War II came the end of Belz; of the entire community, which was estimated in the thousands, only the Belz rabbi and his brother survived the Holocaust. They arrived in Israel in 1945 and began rebuilding the Belz synagogue, the epicenter of Belz life. Today, the Belz synagogue stands at 14 stories, half of which are underground, and cost $70 million to construct.
The synagogue includes study halls for up to 100 people (men), a tea and coffee room that seats 7,000, a plaza with bleachers to seat 10,000, a mikvah with 25,000 towels and hundreds of showers, and seats in the main sanctuary that sell for up to $1 million. The main sanctuary is for men only; the seats in the main sanctuary must be purchased (seats in the middle and toward the back cost about $5,000). Some seats can be “double purchased,” which means that the man who first purchased the seat is not a Jerusalem resident or doesn’t come to services weekly (there are many members of the Belz community in America and Europe, so they buy seats and only come to the synagogue for the High Holidays and maybe Pesach). These seats can be purchased for a cheaper price by someone who frequents the synagogue, but during the holidays, when the primary owner is attending services, the second owner cannot have the seat. Above the main sanctuary is the women’s area which seats over a thousand women (the main sanctuary seats several thousand men), and above the women’s area is another partition for yeshiva boys and children. With thousands of people in the synagogue at a time, how does anyone hear the rabbi? To maintain quiet, the service leader (the gabbi), uses the “clapper.” Now, this clapper is about as long as I am (five feet), and looks like a giant wooden soup spoon. As a prayer ends, the gabbi raises the clapper and beats it against a special pillow that causes the sound to resonate throughout the synagogue. The gabbi continues to hit the clapper against the pillow until there is silence.
Today, the Belz community numbers about 100,000 followers worldwide; families have many children (a family of a mother, father and eight children is considered small). People travel from all over the world to meet the Belz rabbi and seek his advice; he has two secretaries and a letter-answering service to keep up with responding to everyone who contacts him. To learn more about Belz and the Belz Great Synagogue, visit: http://www.gojerusalem.com/discover/item_10306/The-Belz-Great-Synagogue.
2. The Mahane Yehuda market is slowly becoming my favorite place in Jerusalem. Not far from the city center, the market (shuk), is always bustling with people; don’t even try to walk through there on a Thursday afternoon or Friday morning before Shabbat, you’ll probably get smacked in the head with a crate of challahs or fish being thrown between stalls. Not only is all the produce very cheap and fresh, there’s always something new to find that seems hidden. Last week, I found a handmade pasta stand, which also sells homemade cheeses and sauces. Naturally, I had to buy some (pre-Passover indulgence). There are also some great restaurants and food stands scattered throughout the mess of fruit, vegetable and meat stands – try falafel in a bag (ask for “rak falafel” – only falafel, no pita – in a paper bag) and for four shekels, it’s a great snack, or go to Fish n’ Chips, a very well-hidden takeout place that features ingredients found in the shuk for maximum freshness. It’s fun to walk around, take a taste of whatever is being pushed in your face, and try not to get stepped on – making it out of the shuk unharmed can be a major feat.
3. I am lucky enough to volunteer at probably one the most amazing places in Jerusalem. I work at Aleh, which is a hospital, school and residence for Israeli children with very serious mental and physical disabilities. None of the residents at Aleh are able to walk (they are all in wheelchairs) and very few can communicate at all (none can speak, but a few can make small noises or motions). I work in the Bogrot classroom, the oldest girls at Aleh. These girls – there are seven of them – have been at Aleh the longest and are now in their late twenties or nearly thirty. I arrive in the mornings for breakfast, which is one of my favorite times in the day. I’m learning (slowly) who can eat what – some of the girls can eat mashed up food, some can only have liquid, and a few are on feeding tubes. Every morning, I feed Naama. Naama loves breakfast – she sees me come in with a tray of yogurt, mashed up Israeli salad and cottage cheese and her eyes light up. I sit in front of her chair, fill the spoon and show it to her before bringing it up to her mouth – she likes to see what she’s eating. I know it’s good when she begins to rock back and forth in her chair (I usually have to lock the wheels to ensure her breakfast doesn’t end up in my lap when the “ta’im meod” – very tasty – dance begins), and she leans her head toward me. After breakfast, we sing songs, do art projects and watch movies. It’s impossible to know how much they understand, but I like to think they know I’m there, and that I love the time I spend with all of them. To learn more about Aleh in Israel, visit: http://www.aleh.org/.
4. Last week, my Comparative Religions class went to the Dome of the Rock. Prior to this trip, I hadn’t realized it was open to the public, but apparently, a few years ago, visitors were allowed up to what once was the Temple Mount. However, it is only open to the public one hour a day, and that hour changes without notice (for example, the day we were there, we were supposed to go up at 12:30, but we were then told it wouldn’t open until 1:30). In any event, the Dome of the Rock itself covers a rock which bears significance to both Jews and Muslims. Jews believe that it was from this rock that God created the Earth, and Muslims believe that Muhammad ascended to heaven from this rock at this very location. Until destruction by the Romans in 70 CE, what is now the Dome of the Rock was the Temple Mount; in the far right corner of the Dome compound is what Jews believe was the Holy of Holies. As Jews, we don’t walk on that part of the plaza (in the time of the Temple, only the Cohen Gadol – the High Priest – could enter the Holy of Holies). A common misconception is that the Dome of the Rock is a mosque. Across from the Dome is the Al-Aqsa mosque, the Dome itself is not a place of prayer. In the early 1990s, the Jordanian government undertook the project of recovering the Dome in gold, which cost approximately $8 million. Today, the Dome of the Rock is an area under Muslim control; this area has been the cause of much and ongoing conflict.
After visiting the Dome and Al-Aqsa (we aren’t allowed inside, only on the plaza and surrounding outer areas), we met with Professor Dajani, a former member of Lebanese Fatah until 1975. In the late 70s, Dajani left Lebanon and went to Europe, and then America, where he earned two PhDs and now teaches at a university in Jerusalem. He returned to Israel in the early 90s when his father was sick with cancer and was being treated in an Israeli hospital. Dajani was convinced that the Israeli doctors wouldn’t treat his father the same as they would an Israeli patient, but he was wrong; the doctors did everything they could for his father. Years later, his mother became very sick with asthma and needed emergency medical attention. When Magan David Adom arrived, Dajani was once again skeptical, but the Israeli medical team caring for her treated her and Dajani’s family with respect and kindness; they even brought her to a special army medical center for treatment. Although his mother didn’t survive, Dajani remains thankful to Israel for helping his ill parents. Today, he is the leader of a moderate peace organization and believes in the ongoing peace process between Israelis and Palestinians. To learn more about Dajani’s efforts for peace, visit: http://www.bigdreamsmallhope.com/.
5. Number five is especially important. On Thursday, April 7, Young Judaea and FZY Year Course participated in a five-minute freeze at the Ben Yehuda pedestrian mall in Jerusalem to honor the kidnapped soldier Gilad Shalit. Gilad has been imprisoned by Hamas for nearly five years; we froze for one minute for every year that he’s been missing, for a total of five minutes. Wearing our official YC shirts, we took to Ben Yehuda Street, and after receiving a mass text message, froze for five minutes, in the middle of foot traffic, until receiving the “unfreeze” text. To see the video made that day, go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kSNHGmFlnCY. Gilad Shalit Lives!
6. I realize I’m jumping horribly out of order, but I must mention my family’s visit to Israel! At the end of March, my parents, brother and Bubbie and Oggy came to Jerusalem to visit me. We went to the shuk, Aleh, the Old City, and Tel Aviv for Shabbat. It was great to see all of them, and I can’t believe the next time we’re all together will be in June when I’m in New Jersey! Hugs and kisses to the Wiser, Stern and Estin families – miss you all!
7. On Tuesday, my Comparative Religions class (it’s a tiyul-based class, so every week, we travel to another part of Jerusalem and the surrounding area) went to Abu Ghosh, a Muslim village about twenty minutes from Jerusalem, and home to the best hummus in Israel. Across from Abu Ghosh is the village of Ein Rafa, where we met the Imam (the leader of the mosque, the Muslim equivalent to a rabbi) and a woman named Yasmin. Yasmin is originally from England and first came to Israel while studying landscape architecture in college; she worked at the Biblical gardens where she met her husband, a Muslim man living in Ein Rafa. Years later, she returned to Israel and converted to Islam, learned Hebrew and Arabic and changed her name from Jessica to Yasmin (her husband wanted her to have an Arab-sounding name so the small Ein Rafa community wouldn’t exclude her as an outsider). She is now a practicing Muslim and has three children. It was interesting to meet her, hear her story and listen to her views on Israel (Abu Ghosh and Ein Rafa remain at peace with the Israeli government).
8. It’s important to have friends in high places, I’m learning. I am now on a first-name basis with the laundry guys down the hill from my apartment – I’m one of their best customers – the people who run the bagel place, Bagel Bites, a few blocks from Ulpan (they also know my order, which is equally frightening), and a few of the vendors at the shuk (the cheese guy, an older man and his very intimidating wife who own a storefront where I get canned tomatoes, olive oil, etc., and of course, a butcher who knows I always order two kilos of chicken). It’s these small relationships that make a place feel like home – that people know me and I know them, and even for a short while, we were a minute part of one another’s lives. This is what makes me feel like I know a place, and what makes me miss it once I’m gone.
9. Roi has been asking me to teach him how to cook. So, in the spirit of Pesach, I asked my mom to send me the recipe for my Aunt Muriel’s famous kosher for Passover mandel bread. Roi and I went to the supermarket (taking your boyfriend to the supermarket in Israel two days before Passover is a notoriously bad idea), bought the necessary baking ingredients (we thought) and began our project. It wasn’t until we had mixed everything together that I realized something wasn’t right; the dough didn’t look as smooth or cake-like as it usually does. So, due to baking emergency, I called my mom and asked her what could have gone wrong. In our haste (and stupidity), Roi and I had used matzah meal instead of matzah cake meal, which is apparently much finer than regular matzah meal and is meant for baking. Well, we were stuck with lumpy mandel bread dough, and since we couldn’t exactly start over, we mixed in the chocolate chips and hoped for the best. Forty-five minutes later, we took them out of the oven, let them cool and tasted our creation. It was delicious! Conclusion? Even in the event of lumpy dough, cook the mandel bread anyway. With enough butter and chocolate, what could actually be so terrible?
10. It’s been an unbelievable month in Jerusalem, and now in Tel Aviv for the seder (there’s only one in Israel), and tomorrow, Eilat for vacation! It’s crazy for me to think that a year ago at this time, I was deferring from UPenn and committing to this life-changing adventure, with some hesitation. Now, the weather is getting warm again – it feels like September in Bat Yam (only with fewer cats) – and I can’t believe this journey has happened and will, in six weeks, come to an end. I’ve learned that some of the best, most memorable things can’t always be planned, but just must unfold by themselves. I’ve never been good at letting life surprise me, but I think I’ve learned, to some degree, to let life happen… and to worry about the lumpy dough only after the food processor can’t fix it.
Thanks for reading, as always. All my love,
Elana
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
American Returns to Israel (on a more permanent basis)
Dear Readers,
I am finally back in Israel for more than a few days at a time, and I can honestly say that I have never been happier to see Jerusalem. After landing at Ben Gurion, the entire plane began clapping and screaming - we had arrived home. Poland was a very difficult, but important experience. I am currently working on blog posts to share with all of you - I will most likely post them next week. It's going to be hard to summarize such an experience in words, especially in blog posts where word counts are limited, but I promise to do my best. Instead of relaying what we did and saw every day, I am going to divide my posts into time periods (Jewish life before the Holocaust, during and after). It will most likely be three or four posts, so please be patient, I'm working on it!
As always, thank you for reading, and I promise more interesting and informative (and content-filled!) posts soon!
Love,
Elana
I am finally back in Israel for more than a few days at a time, and I can honestly say that I have never been happier to see Jerusalem. After landing at Ben Gurion, the entire plane began clapping and screaming - we had arrived home. Poland was a very difficult, but important experience. I am currently working on blog posts to share with all of you - I will most likely post them next week. It's going to be hard to summarize such an experience in words, especially in blog posts where word counts are limited, but I promise to do my best. Instead of relaying what we did and saw every day, I am going to divide my posts into time periods (Jewish life before the Holocaust, during and after). It will most likely be three or four posts, so please be patient, I'm working on it!
As always, thank you for reading, and I promise more interesting and informative (and content-filled!) posts soon!
Love,
Elana
Saturday, March 5, 2011
American Returns to Israel (for now!)
Hello from Jerusalem! Well, it’s officially real: I am back in Israel, unpacked and living in my new apartment on Derech Hebron. It’s been a surreal few days; orientation, meetings, choosing classes, taking Hebrew placement exams and learning my new neighborhood. We’re about a 15 minute bus ride from the center of Jerusalem (Ben Yehuda Street and King George), which is really nice.
There isn’t much to report from here – we spent last week moving in and getting to know what our final three months of Year Course in Israel will be like. I’ll be volunteering most days of the week at Aleh, which is a day care and hospital for children with special needs. I’m also taking classes (Ulpan, of course) and hopefully, one on comparative religion and the other on Israel advocacy. I’ll find out my actual schedule once I return from Poland.
This brings me to my next adventure: tonight, about 80 members of Year Course (there are over 300 of us, divided into three sections) are leaving for a week in Poland on the Kuma Journey. We will be visiting old Jewish communities, the Warsaw Ghetto, and, of course, the concentration camps. The past few days (I haven’t even been back for a week yet) have been very hectic, so the idea of packing another bag to leave yet again makes me exhausted just thinking about it. I know Poland is going to be an unbelievable trip, very different from the time I had in Rwanda, but in some ways, similar. Both countries experienced some of the worst atrocities the world has ever seen, but recovered very differently. Going to Rwanda, living and working there, was about moving forward and looking to the future; Poland will be about history, looking to the past to try and find some understanding of what once was. It won’t be easy, but it will be challenging in ways that Rwanda wasn’t, it will be emotional and difficult for me, as Rwanda was, at times, but for different reasons. I know Poland will affect me and even change me in new ways, but all this change at once, no matter how important or even how wonderful, is slightly overwhelming.
I won’t have my computer with me in Poland, but I will be keeping a journal, so I will blog about my experiences when I return. I hope all is well with all of you, thanks for reading, as always,
Love,
Elana
There isn’t much to report from here – we spent last week moving in and getting to know what our final three months of Year Course in Israel will be like. I’ll be volunteering most days of the week at Aleh, which is a day care and hospital for children with special needs. I’m also taking classes (Ulpan, of course) and hopefully, one on comparative religion and the other on Israel advocacy. I’ll find out my actual schedule once I return from Poland.
This brings me to my next adventure: tonight, about 80 members of Year Course (there are over 300 of us, divided into three sections) are leaving for a week in Poland on the Kuma Journey. We will be visiting old Jewish communities, the Warsaw Ghetto, and, of course, the concentration camps. The past few days (I haven’t even been back for a week yet) have been very hectic, so the idea of packing another bag to leave yet again makes me exhausted just thinking about it. I know Poland is going to be an unbelievable trip, very different from the time I had in Rwanda, but in some ways, similar. Both countries experienced some of the worst atrocities the world has ever seen, but recovered very differently. Going to Rwanda, living and working there, was about moving forward and looking to the future; Poland will be about history, looking to the past to try and find some understanding of what once was. It won’t be easy, but it will be challenging in ways that Rwanda wasn’t, it will be emotional and difficult for me, as Rwanda was, at times, but for different reasons. I know Poland will affect me and even change me in new ways, but all this change at once, no matter how important or even how wonderful, is slightly overwhelming.
I won’t have my computer with me in Poland, but I will be keeping a journal, so I will blog about my experiences when I return. I hope all is well with all of you, thanks for reading, as always,
Love,
Elana
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Goodbye for now, but not forever
February 28, 2011
I am currently sitting in the same strangely upholstered, uncomfortable red chair I was in a month ago in the Ethiopian airport. Leaving the village today was awful. I woke up at 5:30, unable to sleep, and was lying awake in bed until my alarm went off, one last time, at 6. When I got out of bed and went outside, I realized it would be the last time I saw the blue mountains across the valley, the dirt roads winding through the village, kids walking toward the dining hall and the school. It was the last morning for a lot of things, a final few hours in a place where I left a piece of my heart.
A bunch of us left the guesthouse for breakfast; I got there early and helped the family serving (bringing food upstairs from the kitchen to the dining hall) put porridge on tables and bread rolls on the counter. Kids began coming in to breakfast; we were standing in the doorway near the dishwashing stations, kids stopping to hug us and say goodbye. We didn’t end up sitting down or eating, we just stood in the entrance to the dining hall, saying goodbye to all the students and long-term volunteers. The worst was seeing the girls from my family. I had started crying about ten minutes into my goodbyes when I saw my student Brigitte, whose English has improved tremendously (as has her math); she threw her arms around me and started crying too, promising me she will keep studying so she can come to America. A short while later, as my breakdown continued, Cadette, Vanessa and Souvenir came in. they saw me immediately and we had a group hug, crying together. My shoulders were soaked, as were theirs, but I didn’t care. Cadette wouldn’t let go; she kept telling me “I will miss you so much. Please do not go. Stay, Elana, please stay.” I told her I wished I could, but I had to leave. If I had the choice, I would definitely stay in the village for a while longer, but I know I have to return to Israel. It was an awful hour; some kids who I’d never met or talked to came up to me, hugged me and said goodbye. Many of them saw me crying and apologized, saying, “I am so sorry you are sad.” I told them not to be sorry, but to remember all the wonderful things we experienced together and to work hard in school. They all promised they would; my family kept leaving their porridge and bread on the table to come up and hug me. When they finally left because they were almost late for school, they turned around and waved, blowing me kisses and screaming, “We love you!” After that, I went down to the kitchen to say goodbye to Hilam and the kitchen staff, and then went back to the guesthouse to finish packing, crying the whole way.
By 10 AM we had loaded the bus (the real bus, not the rickshaw van) with all of our luggage (through the window of the bus, since there was no trunk, so we used the back seats for our bags) and headed toward Kigali. We stopped at an artists’ market there for a while, doing some final shopping for souvenirs and gifts. It was a cute little set of shops and stalls, full of baskets, woodcarvings, fabric bags and decorations. Everyone working there called out, “Sister! Please, sister, come into my shop! Buy something nice!” It was like the Arab shouk in Jerusalem, only much nicer, cleaner and better-smelling.
Once we finished shopping, we drove a short while through Kigali to an Indian restaurant called Khana Kazana, which was both beautiful and delicious. Eating my feelings began with some chicken tikka masala and garlic naan bread (very necessary, given that I had cried so much I had to take my contacts out and wear my glasses). After lunch it was time to go to the airport. All day, I had been wishing we would get on the bus and Ebimak would drive right back to the village, to our guesthouse, our home, and we would go back to our usual life there. But it didn’t happen. We drove to Kigali International Airport, and it all became real. We weren’t going back to the hill full of red tiled roofs and hard-working students, full of love and hope and friendship. We were really leaving.
We checked into our flight and going through security, I kept setting off the metal detector. This resulted in a very thorough “pat-down” by a female security guard (this was quite embarrassing since literally the entire airport watched). I then went to go change money; this was also a major failure because they “ran out” of American dollars and Euros, so we now all have useless (and worthless in Israel) Rwandan francs in our wallets. Fabulous. We said a tearful goodbye to Ariela, our long-term volunteer who worked with us the entire month, promised to be in touch, and attempted to distract ourselves with Duty Free shopping (I did find peanut M&Ms, which was a plus) but it didn’t really work.
Our flight left with very few issues – we had the back of the plane to ourselves, which was nice, and I was so exhausted from waking up early and crying all morning that I fell asleep. Our layover in Addis Ababa allowed for some more Duty Free distractions, dinner, a final group meeting where it all started, on the stupid red chairs and, inevitably, more crying. We are really gone. We are no longer in Rwanda, at the village, with the kids. This chapter of my adventure has ended, only for a new one to begin. I keep telling myself that Jerusalem will be fun, exciting, new and wonderful, which I know it will be, but not waking up in the guesthouse, eating something besides rice and beans, surrounded by more than fourteen people at a time, is going to be incredibly strange.
The next time I update you, I will be in my new apartment in Jerusalem, writing about my first days back in Israel. Believe it or not, soon after that, I’ll be in Poland on the Kuma program with about 80 other Year Course students, learning about the Jewish community that once was, visiting the concentration camps and memorials to remember and honor the victims of the Holocaust. I’m looking forward to the trip, and I will update all of you (those are going to be some very difficult blogs) as my adventure unfolds.
All the best from Ethiopia (well, the Bole airport, at least),
Elana
I am currently sitting in the same strangely upholstered, uncomfortable red chair I was in a month ago in the Ethiopian airport. Leaving the village today was awful. I woke up at 5:30, unable to sleep, and was lying awake in bed until my alarm went off, one last time, at 6. When I got out of bed and went outside, I realized it would be the last time I saw the blue mountains across the valley, the dirt roads winding through the village, kids walking toward the dining hall and the school. It was the last morning for a lot of things, a final few hours in a place where I left a piece of my heart.
A bunch of us left the guesthouse for breakfast; I got there early and helped the family serving (bringing food upstairs from the kitchen to the dining hall) put porridge on tables and bread rolls on the counter. Kids began coming in to breakfast; we were standing in the doorway near the dishwashing stations, kids stopping to hug us and say goodbye. We didn’t end up sitting down or eating, we just stood in the entrance to the dining hall, saying goodbye to all the students and long-term volunteers. The worst was seeing the girls from my family. I had started crying about ten minutes into my goodbyes when I saw my student Brigitte, whose English has improved tremendously (as has her math); she threw her arms around me and started crying too, promising me she will keep studying so she can come to America. A short while later, as my breakdown continued, Cadette, Vanessa and Souvenir came in. they saw me immediately and we had a group hug, crying together. My shoulders were soaked, as were theirs, but I didn’t care. Cadette wouldn’t let go; she kept telling me “I will miss you so much. Please do not go. Stay, Elana, please stay.” I told her I wished I could, but I had to leave. If I had the choice, I would definitely stay in the village for a while longer, but I know I have to return to Israel. It was an awful hour; some kids who I’d never met or talked to came up to me, hugged me and said goodbye. Many of them saw me crying and apologized, saying, “I am so sorry you are sad.” I told them not to be sorry, but to remember all the wonderful things we experienced together and to work hard in school. They all promised they would; my family kept leaving their porridge and bread on the table to come up and hug me. When they finally left because they were almost late for school, they turned around and waved, blowing me kisses and screaming, “We love you!” After that, I went down to the kitchen to say goodbye to Hilam and the kitchen staff, and then went back to the guesthouse to finish packing, crying the whole way.
By 10 AM we had loaded the bus (the real bus, not the rickshaw van) with all of our luggage (through the window of the bus, since there was no trunk, so we used the back seats for our bags) and headed toward Kigali. We stopped at an artists’ market there for a while, doing some final shopping for souvenirs and gifts. It was a cute little set of shops and stalls, full of baskets, woodcarvings, fabric bags and decorations. Everyone working there called out, “Sister! Please, sister, come into my shop! Buy something nice!” It was like the Arab shouk in Jerusalem, only much nicer, cleaner and better-smelling.
Once we finished shopping, we drove a short while through Kigali to an Indian restaurant called Khana Kazana, which was both beautiful and delicious. Eating my feelings began with some chicken tikka masala and garlic naan bread (very necessary, given that I had cried so much I had to take my contacts out and wear my glasses). After lunch it was time to go to the airport. All day, I had been wishing we would get on the bus and Ebimak would drive right back to the village, to our guesthouse, our home, and we would go back to our usual life there. But it didn’t happen. We drove to Kigali International Airport, and it all became real. We weren’t going back to the hill full of red tiled roofs and hard-working students, full of love and hope and friendship. We were really leaving.
We checked into our flight and going through security, I kept setting off the metal detector. This resulted in a very thorough “pat-down” by a female security guard (this was quite embarrassing since literally the entire airport watched). I then went to go change money; this was also a major failure because they “ran out” of American dollars and Euros, so we now all have useless (and worthless in Israel) Rwandan francs in our wallets. Fabulous. We said a tearful goodbye to Ariela, our long-term volunteer who worked with us the entire month, promised to be in touch, and attempted to distract ourselves with Duty Free shopping (I did find peanut M&Ms, which was a plus) but it didn’t really work.
Our flight left with very few issues – we had the back of the plane to ourselves, which was nice, and I was so exhausted from waking up early and crying all morning that I fell asleep. Our layover in Addis Ababa allowed for some more Duty Free distractions, dinner, a final group meeting where it all started, on the stupid red chairs and, inevitably, more crying. We are really gone. We are no longer in Rwanda, at the village, with the kids. This chapter of my adventure has ended, only for a new one to begin. I keep telling myself that Jerusalem will be fun, exciting, new and wonderful, which I know it will be, but not waking up in the guesthouse, eating something besides rice and beans, surrounded by more than fourteen people at a time, is going to be incredibly strange.
The next time I update you, I will be in my new apartment in Jerusalem, writing about my first days back in Israel. Believe it or not, soon after that, I’ll be in Poland on the Kuma program with about 80 other Year Course students, learning about the Jewish community that once was, visiting the concentration camps and memorials to remember and honor the victims of the Holocaust. I’m looking forward to the trip, and I will update all of you (those are going to be some very difficult blogs) as my adventure unfolds.
All the best from Ethiopia (well, the Bole airport, at least),
Elana
Goodbye for now, but not forever
February 28, 2011
I am currently sitting in the same strangely upholstered, uncomfortable red chair I was in a month ago in the Ethiopian airport. Leaving the village today was awful. I woke up at 5:30, unable to sleep, and was lying awake in bed until my alarm went off, one last time, at 6. When I got out of bed and went outside, I realized it would be the last time I saw the blue mountains across the valley, the dirt roads winding through the village, kids walking toward the dining hall and the school. It was the last morning for a lot of things, a final few hours in a place where I left a piece of my heart.
A bunch of us left the guesthouse for breakfast; I got there early and helped the family serving (bringing food upstairs from the kitchen to the dining hall) put porridge on tables and bread rolls on the counter. Kids began coming in to breakfast; we were standing in the doorway near the dishwashing stations, kids stopping to hug us and say goodbye. We didn’t end up sitting down or eating, we just stood in the entrance to the dining hall, saying goodbye to all the students and long-term volunteers. The worst was seeing the girls from my family. I had started crying about ten minutes into my goodbyes when I saw my student Brigitte, whose English has improved tremendously (as has her math); she threw her arms around me and started crying too, promising me she will keep studying so she can come to America. A short while later, as my breakdown continued, Cadette, Vanessa and Souvenir came in. they saw me immediately and we had a group hug, crying together. My shoulders were soaked, as were theirs, but I didn’t care. Cadette wouldn’t let go; she kept telling me “I will miss you so much. Please do not go. Stay, Elana, please stay.” I told her I wished I could, but I had to leave. If I had the choice, I would definitely stay in the village for a while longer, but I know I have to return to Israel. It was an awful hour; some kids who I’d never met or talked to came up to me, hugged me and said goodbye. Many of them saw me crying and apologized, saying, “I am so sorry you are sad.” I told them not to be sorry, but to remember all the wonderful things we experienced together and to work hard in school. They all promised they would; my family kept leaving their porridge and bread on the table to come up and hug me. When they finally left because they were almost late for school, they turned around and waved, blowing me kisses and screaming, “We love you!” After that, I went down to the kitchen to say goodbye to Hilam and the kitchen staff, and then went back to the guesthouse to finish packing, crying the whole way.
By 10 AM we had loaded the bus (the real bus, not the rickshaw van) with all of our luggage (through the window of the bus, since there was no trunk, so we used the back seats for our bags) and headed toward Kigali. We stopped at an artists’ market there for a while, doing some final shopping for souvenirs and gifts. It was a cute little set of shops and stalls, full of baskets, woodcarvings, fabric bags and decorations. Everyone working there called out, “Sister! Please, sister, come into my shop! Buy something nice!” It was like the Arab shouk in Jerusalem, only much nicer, cleaner and better-smelling.
Once we finished shopping, we drove a short while through Kigali to an Indian restaurant called Khana Kazana, which was both beautiful and delicious. Eating my feelings began with some chicken tikka masala and garlic naan bread (very necessary, given that I had cried so much I had to take my contacts out and wear my glasses). After lunch it was time to go to the airport. All day, I had been wishing we would get on the bus and Ebimak would drive right back to the village, to our guesthouse, our home, and we would go back to our usual life there. But it didn’t happen. We drove to Kigali International Airport, and it all became real. We weren’t going back to the hill full of red tiled roofs and hard-working students, full of love and hope and friendship. We were really leaving.
We checked into our flight and going through security, I kept setting off the metal detector. This resulted in a very thorough “pat-down” by a female security guard (this was quite embarrassing since literally the entire airport watched). I then went to go change money; this was also a major failure because they “ran out” of American dollars and Euros, so we now all have useless (and worthless in Israel) Rwandan francs in our wallets. Fabulous. We said a tearful goodbye to Ariela, our long-term volunteer who worked with us the entire month, promised to be in touch, and attempted to distract ourselves with Duty Free shopping (I did find peanut M&Ms, which was a plus) but it didn’t really work.
Our flight left with very few issues – we had the back of the plane to ourselves, which was nice, and I was so exhausted from waking up early and crying all morning that I fell asleep. Our layover in Addis Ababa allowed for some more Duty Free distractions, dinner, a final group meeting where it all started, on the stupid red chairs and, inevitably, more crying. We are really gone. We are no longer in Rwanda, at the village, with the kids. This chapter of my adventure has ended, only for a new one to begin. I keep telling myself that Jerusalem will be fun, exciting, new and wonderful, which I know it will be, but not waking up in the guesthouse, eating something besides rice and beans, surrounded by more than fourteen people at a time, is going to be incredibly strange.
The next time I update you, I will be in my new apartment in Jerusalem, writing about my first days back in Israel. Believe it or not, soon after that, I’ll be in Poland on the Kuma program with about 80 other Year Course students, learning about the Jewish community that once was, visiting the concentration camps and memorials to remember and honor the victims of the Holocaust. I’m looking forward to the trip, and I will update all of you (those are going to be some very difficult blogs) as my adventure unfolds.
All the best from Ethiopia (well, the Bole airport, at least),
Elana
I am currently sitting in the same strangely upholstered, uncomfortable red chair I was in a month ago in the Ethiopian airport. Leaving the village today was awful. I woke up at 5:30, unable to sleep, and was lying awake in bed until my alarm went off, one last time, at 6. When I got out of bed and went outside, I realized it would be the last time I saw the blue mountains across the valley, the dirt roads winding through the village, kids walking toward the dining hall and the school. It was the last morning for a lot of things, a final few hours in a place where I left a piece of my heart.
A bunch of us left the guesthouse for breakfast; I got there early and helped the family serving (bringing food upstairs from the kitchen to the dining hall) put porridge on tables and bread rolls on the counter. Kids began coming in to breakfast; we were standing in the doorway near the dishwashing stations, kids stopping to hug us and say goodbye. We didn’t end up sitting down or eating, we just stood in the entrance to the dining hall, saying goodbye to all the students and long-term volunteers. The worst was seeing the girls from my family. I had started crying about ten minutes into my goodbyes when I saw my student Brigitte, whose English has improved tremendously (as has her math); she threw her arms around me and started crying too, promising me she will keep studying so she can come to America. A short while later, as my breakdown continued, Cadette, Vanessa and Souvenir came in. they saw me immediately and we had a group hug, crying together. My shoulders were soaked, as were theirs, but I didn’t care. Cadette wouldn’t let go; she kept telling me “I will miss you so much. Please do not go. Stay, Elana, please stay.” I told her I wished I could, but I had to leave. If I had the choice, I would definitely stay in the village for a while longer, but I know I have to return to Israel. It was an awful hour; some kids who I’d never met or talked to came up to me, hugged me and said goodbye. Many of them saw me crying and apologized, saying, “I am so sorry you are sad.” I told them not to be sorry, but to remember all the wonderful things we experienced together and to work hard in school. They all promised they would; my family kept leaving their porridge and bread on the table to come up and hug me. When they finally left because they were almost late for school, they turned around and waved, blowing me kisses and screaming, “We love you!” After that, I went down to the kitchen to say goodbye to Hilam and the kitchen staff, and then went back to the guesthouse to finish packing, crying the whole way.
By 10 AM we had loaded the bus (the real bus, not the rickshaw van) with all of our luggage (through the window of the bus, since there was no trunk, so we used the back seats for our bags) and headed toward Kigali. We stopped at an artists’ market there for a while, doing some final shopping for souvenirs and gifts. It was a cute little set of shops and stalls, full of baskets, woodcarvings, fabric bags and decorations. Everyone working there called out, “Sister! Please, sister, come into my shop! Buy something nice!” It was like the Arab shouk in Jerusalem, only much nicer, cleaner and better-smelling.
Once we finished shopping, we drove a short while through Kigali to an Indian restaurant called Khana Kazana, which was both beautiful and delicious. Eating my feelings began with some chicken tikka masala and garlic naan bread (very necessary, given that I had cried so much I had to take my contacts out and wear my glasses). After lunch it was time to go to the airport. All day, I had been wishing we would get on the bus and Ebimak would drive right back to the village, to our guesthouse, our home, and we would go back to our usual life there. But it didn’t happen. We drove to Kigali International Airport, and it all became real. We weren’t going back to the hill full of red tiled roofs and hard-working students, full of love and hope and friendship. We were really leaving.
We checked into our flight and going through security, I kept setting off the metal detector. This resulted in a very thorough “pat-down” by a female security guard (this was quite embarrassing since literally the entire airport watched). I then went to go change money; this was also a major failure because they “ran out” of American dollars and Euros, so we now all have useless (and worthless in Israel) Rwandan francs in our wallets. Fabulous. We said a tearful goodbye to Ariela, our long-term volunteer who worked with us the entire month, promised to be in touch, and attempted to distract ourselves with Duty Free shopping (I did find peanut M&Ms, which was a plus) but it didn’t really work.
Our flight left with very few issues – we had the back of the plane to ourselves, which was nice, and I was so exhausted from waking up early and crying all morning that I fell asleep. Our layover in Addis Ababa allowed for some more Duty Free distractions, dinner, a final group meeting where it all started, on the stupid red chairs and, inevitably, more crying. We are really gone. We are no longer in Rwanda, at the village, with the kids. This chapter of my adventure has ended, only for a new one to begin. I keep telling myself that Jerusalem will be fun, exciting, new and wonderful, which I know it will be, but not waking up in the guesthouse, eating something besides rice and beans, surrounded by more than fourteen people at a time, is going to be incredibly strange.
The next time I update you, I will be in my new apartment in Jerusalem, writing about my first days back in Israel. Believe it or not, soon after that, I’ll be in Poland on the Kuma program with about 80 other Year Course students, learning about the Jewish community that once was, visiting the concentration camps and memorials to remember and honor the victims of the Holocaust. I’m looking forward to the trip, and I will update all of you (those are going to be some very difficult blogs) as my adventure unfolds.
All the best from Ethiopia (well, the Bole airport, at least),
Elana
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Before, During and After
February 27, 2011
When you ask a Rwandan about their past, or if they ever offer the information (this has happened to me several times; out of nowhere, kids will start talking about their lives and families before they came to the village) they will refer to a time called “Before.” Before the genocide, before Rwanda became a country torn apart and all but destroyed by violence and misplaced hatred. There was a time before, cluttered by European colonizers and UN attempts at peacekeeping (the UN presence still exists in Rwanda, you see their trucks driving around), and then before turned to “During,” a bloody 100 days that cost almost a million people their lives. Eventually, Rwanda moved to “After,” a time to recover, to rebuild, to regain what they lost. I’ve only seen and lived in Rwanda’s After, and I’ve heard many stories of Before and During, but I know that my life has been so different, and after being here, I know I will continue to change.
Like Rwanda, my life, I now realize, has many Before, During, and Afters. Before I came to Rwanda, I knew the world was a big place, but I never understood just how big, I knew I lived a fortunate and blessed life, but I never knew just how lucky I am. I got caught up in college applications, trivial drama with friends and teammates and I now know I didn’t make enough time for things that simply mattered more. Then a During happened. I left Israel and all the people, places and things I never wanted to give up, to come live in Rwanda for a month. It was during this time that I found new meaning to what is important to me, what it means to appreciate people and things I’ve always taken for granted. I changed. I know I am a different person than I was four weeks ago, and when I return to Israel, I will take the lessons I’ve learned and all the wonderful experiences I’ve had here, and every time I feel overwhelmed by my own silly little life, I will remember my time here. When I take my family and friends for granted, I will think of my time in the village and all the kids who only wanted to know if I have a family and parents where I live, and I will be more appreciative. I don’t know exactly what After will be like, but I know it won’t be easy and I know it will take some adjustment, but I know I will be a richer person, emotionally, mentally and, after weeks at a construction site, physically, for it.
Today I woke up and went to Protestant church services in the dining hall. Church was scheduled to start at 9, which, as I’ve learned, means 9:30 in Rwanda. All the kids (and I) were dressed in our Sunday best. The majority of the service was gospel music, complete with dancing, an African drum and guitar players. Listening (and watching) the kids sing so beautifully and soulfully made me tear up; it wasn’t just a service to celebrate their religion and praise their God, but to celebrate life. They are some of the liveliest, happiest and most unbelievable people I’ve ever met. Despite what they’ve been through, what they survived, what their “Before” was like, their faith never waivered. As Wilton told us weeks ago, surviving the genocide meant God was with you. These kids have never lost their faith; it only got stronger. They believe and love and praise with all their hearts. Sharing that with them this morning was incredible and very emotional. Throughout the service, kids went up to the microphone to give thanks to God. One girl from my house got up and, as the security guard sitting next to me translated, said, “Thank you God for every day I am alive. I have so many questions and problems but you always have the answer. Thank you God for letting me be alive.” This to me is a prime example of Rwanda. Simply being thankful for life, for all that we know or don’t know, and for finding our way when we don’t know where to turn. This is something I know I will take back with me when I leave.
Toward the end, the service leader (there are no pastors in the village, so sometimes, one will come from Rubona or a nearby town, but not this week) invited everyone to stand up and dance in the aisles and in front of the chairs set up on the dining hall balcony. This was my favorite moment, dancing with girls from my house, listening to them sing along and chant to the beat of the drum. Granted, I had no idea what they were saying most of the time (it was all in Kinyarwanda, except for when the guard, dressed in a suit – I didn’t recognize him – translated for me) but it was still beautiful and heartwarming.
After church and lunch (the one thing I will not miss about Rwanda is the constant rice and beans) we had a meeting, our entire group and Ilan, the village director, under the mango tree. This is where our experience here began, and where it’s about to end. Ilan told us how much we’ve impacted the village, not only by building our warehouse, but by interacting with the kids, teaching in the school, learning from them as much or more than we have given. It’s really true: to give is to receive. I came here thinking I would volunteer and work as hard as I could, giving as much of myself as possible, but as it turns out, as much of myself as I’ve given, as much time and French vocabulary and math help and bricks that I’ve taught and carried, I have received that much more. Being here has taught me more about myself and what’s truly important to me than any other experience I’ve ever had, and possibly ever will have. I’ve been given a whole new perspective, a whole new set of eyes through which to see this crazy world, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
As a final surprise, we were given two trees to plant anywhere we wanted in the village, along with a plaque with all of our names and Year Course painted on it. We planted one outside the administration building and the other on the corner across from the mango tree, where everyone walks and passes by at least once a day. This way, every time they pass it, they can think of us and our time here, and, like our tree, the students in the village, and us, can grow from all that we’ve experienced together in the last month.
Once we finished planting our trees and situating our plaque, I went to my family’s house one last time to help them research prospective names for the family. They were still set on naming it after either King David or John Lennon (two very different yet very important men in history), and when I Googled John Lennon, Assoumpta read the URL address on the top of the screen: “Wawawajohnlennoncom? What is this?” I explained to her it’s the website we were using to research John Lennon. She didn’t quite get it. Later, I also convinced them to research at least two women as well. First, we looked up Golda Meir (they had a lot of trouble saying her name, at first), and they loved learning about her and a little bit of Israel’s history in the 70s. Next, I showed them Rosa Parks. One of the girls said, in shock, “She is black!” I explained to them that yes, she is, and she is a very important woman in history because of it. Then we got into a discussion about civil rights, Rosa Parks’ famous refusal to go to the back of a bus, and the change she made in fighting for equality in America. The girls said they are voting for a name soon, they think either tonight or tomorrow night, and I told them I want someone to tell me what they decide. They all promised to send me a message. Before I left, they insisted we sing Amahoro together; we sang it last night at the Talent Show, and now they keep asking us to sing it for them (I think they’re shocked that a bunch of Muzungus have mastered a chorus of a song entirely in Kinyarwanda). For the second time today, my eyes teared up; we were sitting around the living room of their house, singing Amahoro (Peace) together, and at the end, they all piled on top of me, hugging me. I tried to make them understand that leaving isn’t my choice; it’s not that I want to leave, but I have to. They seemed pretty understanding, until Cadette came over to me, as I was about to walk out the door, and said, “You cannot forget us. You promise?” I looked at her and I said, “Of course I promise. I won’t ever forget you. I can’t.” Satisfied with my response, she hugged me goodbye and said she’d see me at dinner.
We (the Young Judaea volunteers) decided to plan a little surprise for dinner: someone would stand up on their chair and start singing Amahoro, and then the rest of us would follow, two at a time, taking cues from one another. Dinner started at 7, so at 7:30, as planned, Jenna stood up on her chair and began to sing at the top of her voice, and then the rest of us followed, singing along, clapping and carrying on while standing on the dining hall chairs. The kids loved it; some were singing with us (none stood on their chairs, unfortunately). The last time I stood on a chair to sing? I was probably seven or eight years old and reciting the Four Questions during a Passover seder at my grandparents’ house. So it’s been a while. In any event, we finished our rendition of Amahoro and as soon as we sat down, the ASYV soccer team came storming into the dining hall, carrying a huge trophy. Immediately, everyone stood up and started cheering. It was nuts! The guys had won a big game in Rwamagana (a town about 10 minutes from the village) and brought home a great trophy, which they placed on the stage in the dining hall for everyone to admire. Truly, a perfect ending to a great night. Definitely the best dinner I’ve ever had in the village (entertainment-wise, not food-wise. The food was, as always, rice and beans and potatoes. Yum).
After dinner we had our final group meeting, which, tonight, included cleaning the guesthouse, packing our suitcases and talking about transferring to the airport tomorrow. Before we all adjourned to finish organizing our things, we filled a bucket (generally used for showering around here) with water and put in 14 candles, one for each of us. We also passed around note cards and each wrote something we contributed to the village, something we are leaving here, and threw the paper into the water. As we watched the paper open up and the ink dissolve in the water, lit only by the candles floating at the top of the bucket, we talked about our time here, passing around a ball of yarn, unraveling it around our wrists as we shared memories of each other, about new friends, about our impact on one another and on the village. When we were finished, we each had a piece of the string around our wrists; we were all attached in a giant, messy web of red yarn. We cut the yarn and now all have pieces of it in bracelets on our wrists, symbolizing what we’ve shared, that we are now a group of people connected by an unbelievable experience, a life-changing one. We are all changed, in our own ways; it’s safe to say that Africa does something to you. For me, it gave me perspective. It taught me to calm down (ha!) and have a little patience when it’s worth waiting, to take risks and trust in myself. Africa has taught me to appreciate everything that I take for granted, all the people and the things that I was never thankful enough for, until now. So thank you, Africa, most specifically, thank you Rwanda, for teaching me, helping me and changing me. I’ll be back soon enough; this Muzungu isn’t gone forever.
We leave the village tomorrow around 9 AM, check out some craft shops in Kigali, have lunch at an Indian restaurant and then go to the airport. The next time I post, I will be in Israel, back to my “usual” life, but I know that everything I’ve done here, learned here, experienced here, will stay with me, no matter where I am, where I go or what I do, I will always have a piece of my heart at ASYV.
Amahoro from Rwanda, one last time,
Elana
When you ask a Rwandan about their past, or if they ever offer the information (this has happened to me several times; out of nowhere, kids will start talking about their lives and families before they came to the village) they will refer to a time called “Before.” Before the genocide, before Rwanda became a country torn apart and all but destroyed by violence and misplaced hatred. There was a time before, cluttered by European colonizers and UN attempts at peacekeeping (the UN presence still exists in Rwanda, you see their trucks driving around), and then before turned to “During,” a bloody 100 days that cost almost a million people their lives. Eventually, Rwanda moved to “After,” a time to recover, to rebuild, to regain what they lost. I’ve only seen and lived in Rwanda’s After, and I’ve heard many stories of Before and During, but I know that my life has been so different, and after being here, I know I will continue to change.
Like Rwanda, my life, I now realize, has many Before, During, and Afters. Before I came to Rwanda, I knew the world was a big place, but I never understood just how big, I knew I lived a fortunate and blessed life, but I never knew just how lucky I am. I got caught up in college applications, trivial drama with friends and teammates and I now know I didn’t make enough time for things that simply mattered more. Then a During happened. I left Israel and all the people, places and things I never wanted to give up, to come live in Rwanda for a month. It was during this time that I found new meaning to what is important to me, what it means to appreciate people and things I’ve always taken for granted. I changed. I know I am a different person than I was four weeks ago, and when I return to Israel, I will take the lessons I’ve learned and all the wonderful experiences I’ve had here, and every time I feel overwhelmed by my own silly little life, I will remember my time here. When I take my family and friends for granted, I will think of my time in the village and all the kids who only wanted to know if I have a family and parents where I live, and I will be more appreciative. I don’t know exactly what After will be like, but I know it won’t be easy and I know it will take some adjustment, but I know I will be a richer person, emotionally, mentally and, after weeks at a construction site, physically, for it.
Today I woke up and went to Protestant church services in the dining hall. Church was scheduled to start at 9, which, as I’ve learned, means 9:30 in Rwanda. All the kids (and I) were dressed in our Sunday best. The majority of the service was gospel music, complete with dancing, an African drum and guitar players. Listening (and watching) the kids sing so beautifully and soulfully made me tear up; it wasn’t just a service to celebrate their religion and praise their God, but to celebrate life. They are some of the liveliest, happiest and most unbelievable people I’ve ever met. Despite what they’ve been through, what they survived, what their “Before” was like, their faith never waivered. As Wilton told us weeks ago, surviving the genocide meant God was with you. These kids have never lost their faith; it only got stronger. They believe and love and praise with all their hearts. Sharing that with them this morning was incredible and very emotional. Throughout the service, kids went up to the microphone to give thanks to God. One girl from my house got up and, as the security guard sitting next to me translated, said, “Thank you God for every day I am alive. I have so many questions and problems but you always have the answer. Thank you God for letting me be alive.” This to me is a prime example of Rwanda. Simply being thankful for life, for all that we know or don’t know, and for finding our way when we don’t know where to turn. This is something I know I will take back with me when I leave.
Toward the end, the service leader (there are no pastors in the village, so sometimes, one will come from Rubona or a nearby town, but not this week) invited everyone to stand up and dance in the aisles and in front of the chairs set up on the dining hall balcony. This was my favorite moment, dancing with girls from my house, listening to them sing along and chant to the beat of the drum. Granted, I had no idea what they were saying most of the time (it was all in Kinyarwanda, except for when the guard, dressed in a suit – I didn’t recognize him – translated for me) but it was still beautiful and heartwarming.
After church and lunch (the one thing I will not miss about Rwanda is the constant rice and beans) we had a meeting, our entire group and Ilan, the village director, under the mango tree. This is where our experience here began, and where it’s about to end. Ilan told us how much we’ve impacted the village, not only by building our warehouse, but by interacting with the kids, teaching in the school, learning from them as much or more than we have given. It’s really true: to give is to receive. I came here thinking I would volunteer and work as hard as I could, giving as much of myself as possible, but as it turns out, as much of myself as I’ve given, as much time and French vocabulary and math help and bricks that I’ve taught and carried, I have received that much more. Being here has taught me more about myself and what’s truly important to me than any other experience I’ve ever had, and possibly ever will have. I’ve been given a whole new perspective, a whole new set of eyes through which to see this crazy world, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
As a final surprise, we were given two trees to plant anywhere we wanted in the village, along with a plaque with all of our names and Year Course painted on it. We planted one outside the administration building and the other on the corner across from the mango tree, where everyone walks and passes by at least once a day. This way, every time they pass it, they can think of us and our time here, and, like our tree, the students in the village, and us, can grow from all that we’ve experienced together in the last month.
Once we finished planting our trees and situating our plaque, I went to my family’s house one last time to help them research prospective names for the family. They were still set on naming it after either King David or John Lennon (two very different yet very important men in history), and when I Googled John Lennon, Assoumpta read the URL address on the top of the screen: “Wawawajohnlennoncom? What is this?” I explained to her it’s the website we were using to research John Lennon. She didn’t quite get it. Later, I also convinced them to research at least two women as well. First, we looked up Golda Meir (they had a lot of trouble saying her name, at first), and they loved learning about her and a little bit of Israel’s history in the 70s. Next, I showed them Rosa Parks. One of the girls said, in shock, “She is black!” I explained to them that yes, she is, and she is a very important woman in history because of it. Then we got into a discussion about civil rights, Rosa Parks’ famous refusal to go to the back of a bus, and the change she made in fighting for equality in America. The girls said they are voting for a name soon, they think either tonight or tomorrow night, and I told them I want someone to tell me what they decide. They all promised to send me a message. Before I left, they insisted we sing Amahoro together; we sang it last night at the Talent Show, and now they keep asking us to sing it for them (I think they’re shocked that a bunch of Muzungus have mastered a chorus of a song entirely in Kinyarwanda). For the second time today, my eyes teared up; we were sitting around the living room of their house, singing Amahoro (Peace) together, and at the end, they all piled on top of me, hugging me. I tried to make them understand that leaving isn’t my choice; it’s not that I want to leave, but I have to. They seemed pretty understanding, until Cadette came over to me, as I was about to walk out the door, and said, “You cannot forget us. You promise?” I looked at her and I said, “Of course I promise. I won’t ever forget you. I can’t.” Satisfied with my response, she hugged me goodbye and said she’d see me at dinner.
We (the Young Judaea volunteers) decided to plan a little surprise for dinner: someone would stand up on their chair and start singing Amahoro, and then the rest of us would follow, two at a time, taking cues from one another. Dinner started at 7, so at 7:30, as planned, Jenna stood up on her chair and began to sing at the top of her voice, and then the rest of us followed, singing along, clapping and carrying on while standing on the dining hall chairs. The kids loved it; some were singing with us (none stood on their chairs, unfortunately). The last time I stood on a chair to sing? I was probably seven or eight years old and reciting the Four Questions during a Passover seder at my grandparents’ house. So it’s been a while. In any event, we finished our rendition of Amahoro and as soon as we sat down, the ASYV soccer team came storming into the dining hall, carrying a huge trophy. Immediately, everyone stood up and started cheering. It was nuts! The guys had won a big game in Rwamagana (a town about 10 minutes from the village) and brought home a great trophy, which they placed on the stage in the dining hall for everyone to admire. Truly, a perfect ending to a great night. Definitely the best dinner I’ve ever had in the village (entertainment-wise, not food-wise. The food was, as always, rice and beans and potatoes. Yum).
After dinner we had our final group meeting, which, tonight, included cleaning the guesthouse, packing our suitcases and talking about transferring to the airport tomorrow. Before we all adjourned to finish organizing our things, we filled a bucket (generally used for showering around here) with water and put in 14 candles, one for each of us. We also passed around note cards and each wrote something we contributed to the village, something we are leaving here, and threw the paper into the water. As we watched the paper open up and the ink dissolve in the water, lit only by the candles floating at the top of the bucket, we talked about our time here, passing around a ball of yarn, unraveling it around our wrists as we shared memories of each other, about new friends, about our impact on one another and on the village. When we were finished, we each had a piece of the string around our wrists; we were all attached in a giant, messy web of red yarn. We cut the yarn and now all have pieces of it in bracelets on our wrists, symbolizing what we’ve shared, that we are now a group of people connected by an unbelievable experience, a life-changing one. We are all changed, in our own ways; it’s safe to say that Africa does something to you. For me, it gave me perspective. It taught me to calm down (ha!) and have a little patience when it’s worth waiting, to take risks and trust in myself. Africa has taught me to appreciate everything that I take for granted, all the people and the things that I was never thankful enough for, until now. So thank you, Africa, most specifically, thank you Rwanda, for teaching me, helping me and changing me. I’ll be back soon enough; this Muzungu isn’t gone forever.
We leave the village tomorrow around 9 AM, check out some craft shops in Kigali, have lunch at an Indian restaurant and then go to the airport. The next time I post, I will be in Israel, back to my “usual” life, but I know that everything I’ve done here, learned here, experienced here, will stay with me, no matter where I am, where I go or what I do, I will always have a piece of my heart at ASYV.
Amahoro from Rwanda, one last time,
Elana
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Reach for the stars
February 26, 2011
Before I start today’s blog, here are a few things that in my exhausted stupor, I forgot to mention earlier:
1. Village Time is done all in Kinyarwanda, with the exception of Ilan’s speech in English and, last night, Anne also presented in English. However, the rest of the hour and a half is complete confusion to me, so I was sitting with some of the housemothers, who were translating for me. One of them translated from Kinyarwanda into French, and then I translated into English. They are such awesome women, and I will never forget them (not to mention their fantastic outfits).
2. During the birthday celebration last night, before the crazy dance party ensued, the people whose birthday it was in the past month or part of the year stood up on the stage in the dining hall and then everyone – I mean everyone, like more than 300 students and volunteers – dashed up to the stage to give them all birthday hugs. I made my way down the line, others doing their best to make a hole for me to sneak my way through while trying not to bump into too many people. I hugged everyone, wishing them a happy birthday and many more. They all thanked me profusely, shaking my hand, hugging me back, and I even got a few pecks on the cheek. Everyone was so excited that we were even there, that we were celebrating their birthdays, that it made me feel as though sometimes, simply being present is the best present of all.
Ok, now I can begin today’s entry:
I woke up this morning, one final time, at 5:30 to run Muchaka Muchaka with my family. There’s something amazing about waking up to blue mountains lit only by a rising sun behind fog and clouds. It’s a gorgeous sight, one I know will never be replicated. I walked to my family’s house and to my surprise, the first person outside the house this morning, waiting for the guards to start our run? Mama Hillary, dressed in one of her finest hand-printed fabric outfits, and her house slippers. I asked her if she was running; she told me of course, she loves Muchaka! I couldn’t contain myself. Eventually, the girls stumbled out of the house and we made our three-line formation to begin the run. Unfortunately, Mama Hillary didn’t actually jog along with us, but she did clap and cheer as we passed. About halfway through, I stopped because my stomach just didn’t feel right. Well, sure enough, I ran right back to the guesthouse and I’m pretty sure last night’s samosas were duking it out in my stomach. This did not end well.
Luckily, I crawled back in bed and woke up feeling much better. I then took up the grim task of packing my suitcase. I know I won’t want to deal with it tomorrow – I want to spend one final day relaxing and spending time with the girls in my family. I am donating my towels and bed linens to the village (volunteers are asked to do this since the village can’t buy hundreds of sets of sheets and hundreds more towels; they just don’t have the funds to spare) so that freed up space for my new African art acquisitions (they all fit, along with my clothes, which was a relief). So now I have a packed suitcase standing in the corner of my room, constantly reminding me that in less than two days we’ll be leaving ASYV to get on a plane and fly back to Israel. It’s not a pleasant reminder, but it’s a dose of reality that I know I needed. A month, I’ve learned is a very short time. In the course of my life, it seems like nothing. But these weeks were something. What I’ve done and experienced and lived in this month will supply memories and lessons for a lifetime; I know I will remember this month forever.
After lunch, I went to visit my family. The girls all came to greet Hannah and me, handing us more cards (one of mine has “Jose” written on the front. This was confusing for a while since I thought it said Jose as in “ho-say,” but it’s from Joselyn and she just ran out of room writing her name on the front of the card. Adorable). For a short while, Cadette showed me pictures of her family, including one of her father that looks like it was taken thirty years ago. She told me it was taken in Israel; he traveled there before the genocide, during which he died. We spent a while talking about America; the girls all want to go to college there. They were asking me how university “happens” (they meant “works”) in America, how they would be able to apply and then go there. I told them they need to work very hard in school now so they can apply and maybe, if they are lucky, got to college in the States. They all promised me they will; they said they want to go to an American university so they can see me and meet my family. I said that this was very thoughtful, but they should want to go to college to get the best education they can, that my family and I would love to see them, but it’s not a reason to go to college in America. They still seem to think it is.
The conversation then turned to after whom they are going to name their house. There’s been buzz around the village about naming houses after Benjamin Franklin; I convinced my girls out of this not only because it’s unoriginal, but also because there are so many other important people in history and they need to do more research. I started naming some of history’s remarkable women (who came to mind immediately): Rosa Parks, Golda Meir, Princess Diana, just to name a few (they had heard of none of these women). The idea of naming their house after a woman inspired them; they had only researched a few people, all of whom happened to be men. I told them that I’ll come back tomorrow with my laptop so we can research more prospective female namesakes together. They all clapped at this, and Mama Hillary opened a box of cookies for us. Then, to show me how prepared they are for school on Monday, they began reciting the French poem I helped them memorize for class, Le Corbeau et the Le Renard. They did very well, given their pronunciation troubles when it comes to “l” and “r,” and they were clearly quite proud of the progress they’d made. Before I left, they all stood up to give me hugs and tell me how much they love me and are going to miss me. I gave them my Facebook contact information so we can keep in touch; they hung the piece of paper I wrote it down on in the living room.
Later in the afternoon brought the dreaded meeting: what we do now that we’re leaving. I know that returning to Israel means going back to some semblance of “real life,” my friends and Roi, classes and volunteering. It feels impossible to give up this new life that I’ve made here with a group that, a month ago, was a bunch of strangers, from all different social circles, and now feels like a family. I’ve spent a month doing what I love to do, helping others, day in and day out, for fifteen or sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, for four weeks. There are so many small things that make this place special, so many people to miss and habits I’ll have to break. I’ll miss the MTN cell phone guy who sells minutes through the fence of the village, the guys with pineapples on bicycles that we can buy for less than 25 cents apiece, the people who make samosas fresh for us when they see us walking through the market, brown paper bags in hand, ready to order a dozen. I’ll miss the Mamas and cooking class, Ciprier and our endless translated conversations, the workers and our English classes together, the school and Aimable and Vincent, and of course, most of all, the kids. Leaving them will be the hardest.
Tonight was our cultural talent show. It was, to say the least, a very Rwandan production. This means it started 45 minutes and ran over an hour late, and featured presentations like traditional African dance, a fashion show of tribal wear, complete with spears and woven baskets, songs and speeches. We performed with the village’s culture club. Our “talent” came in several parts: first, we all did an African “dance” (swaying with strange-looking arm movements, really) while the village culture club sang a traditional song, then we did Ain’t No Mountain all together, followed by the Cupid Shuffle, an American line dance, and we concluded with Amahoro, a Rwandan song that means “Peace.” We got some laughs, lots of dancing and enthusiasm from the crowd, and a very nice round of applause at the end (probably because it was over). Several students performed, including the village’s acclaimed rapper, two of the dance clubs, and Momma Hillary even presented a speech and ended with a song! To finish the show, it’s traditional in Rwandan culture to drink milk, so the village culture club, along with the hospitality club, passed around pitchers of milk and mugs. On the stage (the talent show was held in the village amphitheater) was a traditional African “scene,” complete with a straw mat, woven baskets and small, dome-covered containers filled with milk. Two of the volunteers were invited up to the stage to take part in the scene, only unbeknownst to them, they had to actually drink the milk from the containers. In front of about 400 people. This was, of course, absolutely hysterical.
After the show, a bunch of us brought back the decorations – giant woven baskets (you could put me in one of them), wall hangings, spears and vases – to the dining hall, which is not exactly close to the amphitheater. Doing this walk in the dark carrying a piece of African art the size of me was not exactly easy. On the way from the dining hall to the guesthouse, I looked up and saw the most gorgeous night sky I have ever seen in my life. Amidst complete blackness is an endless patch of stars that seem to shine brighter here than anywhere else. Maybe it’s because of the altitude or the fact that the only light is coming from the stars and not traffic or buildings or streetlamps, but the simple beauty of the sky. They seem close enough to touch, as if I could reach my hand out and pull one down. I continued walking, listening to the birds squawk and the frogs croak, taking in the beauty of this place. It never ceases to amaze me, how unbelievably beautiful Rwanda is; it’s like waking up to a postcard, only it’s real (you realize this when the bugs start eating you).
Tomorrow is our last day in the village, and I know it won’t be an easy one. I’m waking up for church services in the morning, so I need to get some sleep, especially after my talent show efforts followed by schlepping giant baskets across the village. The next time I post from Rwanda, it will probably be my last until Jerusalem, so I’ll do my best to make it a good one.
Lots of love,
Elana
Before I start today’s blog, here are a few things that in my exhausted stupor, I forgot to mention earlier:
1. Village Time is done all in Kinyarwanda, with the exception of Ilan’s speech in English and, last night, Anne also presented in English. However, the rest of the hour and a half is complete confusion to me, so I was sitting with some of the housemothers, who were translating for me. One of them translated from Kinyarwanda into French, and then I translated into English. They are such awesome women, and I will never forget them (not to mention their fantastic outfits).
2. During the birthday celebration last night, before the crazy dance party ensued, the people whose birthday it was in the past month or part of the year stood up on the stage in the dining hall and then everyone – I mean everyone, like more than 300 students and volunteers – dashed up to the stage to give them all birthday hugs. I made my way down the line, others doing their best to make a hole for me to sneak my way through while trying not to bump into too many people. I hugged everyone, wishing them a happy birthday and many more. They all thanked me profusely, shaking my hand, hugging me back, and I even got a few pecks on the cheek. Everyone was so excited that we were even there, that we were celebrating their birthdays, that it made me feel as though sometimes, simply being present is the best present of all.
Ok, now I can begin today’s entry:
I woke up this morning, one final time, at 5:30 to run Muchaka Muchaka with my family. There’s something amazing about waking up to blue mountains lit only by a rising sun behind fog and clouds. It’s a gorgeous sight, one I know will never be replicated. I walked to my family’s house and to my surprise, the first person outside the house this morning, waiting for the guards to start our run? Mama Hillary, dressed in one of her finest hand-printed fabric outfits, and her house slippers. I asked her if she was running; she told me of course, she loves Muchaka! I couldn’t contain myself. Eventually, the girls stumbled out of the house and we made our three-line formation to begin the run. Unfortunately, Mama Hillary didn’t actually jog along with us, but she did clap and cheer as we passed. About halfway through, I stopped because my stomach just didn’t feel right. Well, sure enough, I ran right back to the guesthouse and I’m pretty sure last night’s samosas were duking it out in my stomach. This did not end well.
Luckily, I crawled back in bed and woke up feeling much better. I then took up the grim task of packing my suitcase. I know I won’t want to deal with it tomorrow – I want to spend one final day relaxing and spending time with the girls in my family. I am donating my towels and bed linens to the village (volunteers are asked to do this since the village can’t buy hundreds of sets of sheets and hundreds more towels; they just don’t have the funds to spare) so that freed up space for my new African art acquisitions (they all fit, along with my clothes, which was a relief). So now I have a packed suitcase standing in the corner of my room, constantly reminding me that in less than two days we’ll be leaving ASYV to get on a plane and fly back to Israel. It’s not a pleasant reminder, but it’s a dose of reality that I know I needed. A month, I’ve learned is a very short time. In the course of my life, it seems like nothing. But these weeks were something. What I’ve done and experienced and lived in this month will supply memories and lessons for a lifetime; I know I will remember this month forever.
After lunch, I went to visit my family. The girls all came to greet Hannah and me, handing us more cards (one of mine has “Jose” written on the front. This was confusing for a while since I thought it said Jose as in “ho-say,” but it’s from Joselyn and she just ran out of room writing her name on the front of the card. Adorable). For a short while, Cadette showed me pictures of her family, including one of her father that looks like it was taken thirty years ago. She told me it was taken in Israel; he traveled there before the genocide, during which he died. We spent a while talking about America; the girls all want to go to college there. They were asking me how university “happens” (they meant “works”) in America, how they would be able to apply and then go there. I told them they need to work very hard in school now so they can apply and maybe, if they are lucky, got to college in the States. They all promised me they will; they said they want to go to an American university so they can see me and meet my family. I said that this was very thoughtful, but they should want to go to college to get the best education they can, that my family and I would love to see them, but it’s not a reason to go to college in America. They still seem to think it is.
The conversation then turned to after whom they are going to name their house. There’s been buzz around the village about naming houses after Benjamin Franklin; I convinced my girls out of this not only because it’s unoriginal, but also because there are so many other important people in history and they need to do more research. I started naming some of history’s remarkable women (who came to mind immediately): Rosa Parks, Golda Meir, Princess Diana, just to name a few (they had heard of none of these women). The idea of naming their house after a woman inspired them; they had only researched a few people, all of whom happened to be men. I told them that I’ll come back tomorrow with my laptop so we can research more prospective female namesakes together. They all clapped at this, and Mama Hillary opened a box of cookies for us. Then, to show me how prepared they are for school on Monday, they began reciting the French poem I helped them memorize for class, Le Corbeau et the Le Renard. They did very well, given their pronunciation troubles when it comes to “l” and “r,” and they were clearly quite proud of the progress they’d made. Before I left, they all stood up to give me hugs and tell me how much they love me and are going to miss me. I gave them my Facebook contact information so we can keep in touch; they hung the piece of paper I wrote it down on in the living room.
Later in the afternoon brought the dreaded meeting: what we do now that we’re leaving. I know that returning to Israel means going back to some semblance of “real life,” my friends and Roi, classes and volunteering. It feels impossible to give up this new life that I’ve made here with a group that, a month ago, was a bunch of strangers, from all different social circles, and now feels like a family. I’ve spent a month doing what I love to do, helping others, day in and day out, for fifteen or sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, for four weeks. There are so many small things that make this place special, so many people to miss and habits I’ll have to break. I’ll miss the MTN cell phone guy who sells minutes through the fence of the village, the guys with pineapples on bicycles that we can buy for less than 25 cents apiece, the people who make samosas fresh for us when they see us walking through the market, brown paper bags in hand, ready to order a dozen. I’ll miss the Mamas and cooking class, Ciprier and our endless translated conversations, the workers and our English classes together, the school and Aimable and Vincent, and of course, most of all, the kids. Leaving them will be the hardest.
Tonight was our cultural talent show. It was, to say the least, a very Rwandan production. This means it started 45 minutes and ran over an hour late, and featured presentations like traditional African dance, a fashion show of tribal wear, complete with spears and woven baskets, songs and speeches. We performed with the village’s culture club. Our “talent” came in several parts: first, we all did an African “dance” (swaying with strange-looking arm movements, really) while the village culture club sang a traditional song, then we did Ain’t No Mountain all together, followed by the Cupid Shuffle, an American line dance, and we concluded with Amahoro, a Rwandan song that means “Peace.” We got some laughs, lots of dancing and enthusiasm from the crowd, and a very nice round of applause at the end (probably because it was over). Several students performed, including the village’s acclaimed rapper, two of the dance clubs, and Momma Hillary even presented a speech and ended with a song! To finish the show, it’s traditional in Rwandan culture to drink milk, so the village culture club, along with the hospitality club, passed around pitchers of milk and mugs. On the stage (the talent show was held in the village amphitheater) was a traditional African “scene,” complete with a straw mat, woven baskets and small, dome-covered containers filled with milk. Two of the volunteers were invited up to the stage to take part in the scene, only unbeknownst to them, they had to actually drink the milk from the containers. In front of about 400 people. This was, of course, absolutely hysterical.
After the show, a bunch of us brought back the decorations – giant woven baskets (you could put me in one of them), wall hangings, spears and vases – to the dining hall, which is not exactly close to the amphitheater. Doing this walk in the dark carrying a piece of African art the size of me was not exactly easy. On the way from the dining hall to the guesthouse, I looked up and saw the most gorgeous night sky I have ever seen in my life. Amidst complete blackness is an endless patch of stars that seem to shine brighter here than anywhere else. Maybe it’s because of the altitude or the fact that the only light is coming from the stars and not traffic or buildings or streetlamps, but the simple beauty of the sky. They seem close enough to touch, as if I could reach my hand out and pull one down. I continued walking, listening to the birds squawk and the frogs croak, taking in the beauty of this place. It never ceases to amaze me, how unbelievably beautiful Rwanda is; it’s like waking up to a postcard, only it’s real (you realize this when the bugs start eating you).
Tomorrow is our last day in the village, and I know it won’t be an easy one. I’m waking up for church services in the morning, so I need to get some sleep, especially after my talent show efforts followed by schlepping giant baskets across the village. The next time I post from Rwanda, it will probably be my last until Jerusalem, so I’ll do my best to make it a good one.
Lots of love,
Elana
Friday, February 25, 2011
The beginning of the end
February 25, 2011
Saying goodbye is never easy, especially when it can be said in one of several languages. Today, however, began the long list of goodbyes that, unfortunately, lead to our departure on Monday. This morning I went to teach my final classes in the school – double chemistry. I walked into the classroom and was immediately bombarded with questions, “Teacher, question! Teacher, me! Teacher, please, help me!” Someone then explained to me that they were having an exam today, so they were all very caught up in their final minutes to study. I answered their questions, going around the room to make sure everyone had a chance to ask me at least one, and reminded them that they are all excellent students and should be confident while taking their test. Their teacher, Carissa (a man, who is also called Eugene by some, which is confusing, unless they are two different people and I’m the one who’s confused) had some trouble making copies of the exam, so instead he wrote all of the test questions on the board and had the students copy them down). Once the entire test had been written in chalk and recopied onto notebook paper, I had to leave the room because the kids aren’t allowed to ask me questions during a test. So, I went into the teacher’s lounge where I usually spend my breaks and all of the teacher in there came up to me, telling me how sad they will be when we leave in a few days; Rachel, one of the English teachers who is always wearing at least three inch heels, told me she will be upset not to see my face in school on Monday. I told them all not to worry, that we can keep in touch, so we exchanged email addresses.
At the end of the hour, I went to my usual class, Enrichment Year Class D (I teach chemistry to second year, Senior 4, students) to say goodbye to them. When I walked in, they all started clapping, and we took a class photo, with Aimable, of course. As I stepped into the picture, Emile, who was standing behind me, grabbed my hand and said, “Please, don’t leave. I will be so sad when you go.” Emile usually sits in toward the back of the class, keeps to himself and does extremely well in school. His English is very advanced; more than once, I’ve caught him reading Chekhov in the back corner. We’ve had a few conversations over the past month; he’s very curious about life in America and how it is different from Rwanda (where do you even start when asked that question?) He’s a very intelligent, curious and kindhearted kid, and I’m going to miss him, and the rest of the class, very much. On my way out, Assoumpta stopped me, making sure that I’ll come visit the family over the weekend. I told her a promise is a promise and of course I’ll be there; she said, “Ok, good, because we will miss you. We want to see you. And take more pictures.” They LOVE taking photos, especially being able to see them afterward on digital cameras. I told Assoumpta not to worry, that I’ll be at the house, with my camera, and we can take lots of pictures. As I left, I turned back, and she was smiling, giving me a thumbs-up.
One last time, I trekked back down from the school to the work site. I found the rest of the group cutting up pineapple Ido had bought from a passing bicycle; we got 34 pineapples, so for about 200 francs each, the guy selling them probably went home for the day since his profit from our purchase alone makes for a better business day than most. We all took turns cutting them open, taking off the outside, and saving the tops because tops of pineapples can be planted to grow more fruit, no watering necessary. After opening, coring and chunking 30 of the pineapples into pieces, Ciprier and Eric, the work site managers, gathered all 80 workers (some are building other houses in the village, but we’ve worked with all of them at least once, and they are our English students) and I gave a small speech, in French, on behalf of Social Action Rwanda, and Ciprier translated it into Kinyarwanda. Then, some of the workers wanted to say a few words (in Kinyarwanda, of course) so Ciprier translated into French and I translated to English. It seems like a much more laborious process than it was, but it was crazy hearing all these languages flying around a construction site that smelled of pineapple and cement, all at once. Finally, when the workers and Ido had all finished speaking (Ido joked about none of them taking advantage of our presence to find a Muzungu wife. They found this hysterical, as did we… sort of), the pineapple disappeared in record time (under five minutes, easily). We said goodbye to all of them; many of my and Ilyssa’s English students came up, saying “Teacher, miss you!” and “Thank you, teacher!” I’m going to miss them very much, especially Pelage. Who’s going to hand him bricks? I guess now that the warehouse is essentially done, the point is moot, but not seeing him and the rest of the workers every day for several hours, laughing (usually them laughing at us, but we laugh along anyway) and joking and making the time pass together, is going to be a rough adjustment.
After taking some pictures (including one with Ciprier. He was very excited about this) we washed our hands of pineapple juice and were getting ready to leave for the Rubona market when Ido stopped us. He told us we needed to have a short meeting. Ido began by telling us that the warehouse was built by moving bricks and cement from one place to another, from disorganized piles to neat stacks to the walls that now support a roof and are built on a solid rock foundation. He then said (and this was our surprise) that everyone who comes to the village should know who built it, who moved the bricks and the cement to make it into what it is. So, in front of the warehouse, the path leading to the door, is a cement patch on which we got to write Year Course 2011, put our handprints in the cement (this was a total mess, but lots of fun) and write our initials. There will forever be evidence of the hands that put that building together: our hands. Fourteen sets of hands, all different shapes, sizes and strengths, working together to build something wonderful. What we built doesn’t end with our warehouse; we built relationships, friendships, memories that will never be forgotten. We built a home here, and it’s going to be nearly impossible to leave.
When we had finally finished our handprints and washed off the remaining cement, we walked to the Rubona market. On the way, as usual, we were stopped by children running from their houses and the primary school, screaming, “Good morning, how are you?” It was unusually hot today, so the walk seemed longer than normal, but when we arrived at the market, kids, chasing after us in packs, watching our every move, swarmed us. I went to go look at the printed skirts (they’re in piles on tables made out of tree trunks and spare branches), and I found one! I tried it on over my shorts and the woman told me I could have it for 1000 francs (just under $2). However, it was a little long, so I took it to one of the several women who sit with sewing machines near the fabric stores, and showed her that it was too long. She spoke no English and no French, so lots of miming was involved, but she told me to come back in 15 minutes and it would be done. Well, sure enough, fifteen minutes and 200 francs (34 cents) later, my skirt had been shortened. This is a process that, in America, takes days or weeks and costs way more than 34 cents. I think we have something to learn from the seamstresses of Rubona.
I wandered the market, picking up some fabric (no surprise – it’s cheap and beautiful and packs easily. Triple win) a few mangos to snack on for the next few days, some brochette skewers (last ones for a while) and, for Shabbat, 50 potato and hot pepper samosas for us and the long-term volunteers (Talia and I split the cost of these). We loaded up our brown paper bags (recycled from Nakumatt) and began walking back to the village, stopping along the way for some nun wine. When we got back, I went to braid challah for Shabbat in the kitchen, where Hiram (the head of the kitchen) kept feeding us pineapple and fruit salad. Ido even came to make one with us (he made his challah in the shape of a giant croissant. We were ready to put them in the oven when he realized that there was no egg on top, so he went to go get us an egg and, I have no idea where he found it, a pastry brush). Between the samosas and brochettes, and all the fruit, I felt so full it was borderline nausea.
Later, we went back to pick up the challahs (which turned out delicious) and had kabbalat Shabbat at the guesthouse with all the volunteers. After a short service, we feasted on challah, tomatoes, pineapple (the four remaining after Ido’s morning purchase), bananas and samosas imported to ASYV from the Rubona alleyway samosa guy. After we finished eating, it was time to go to the dining hall for Village Time, the weekly all-village meeting led by clubs and village directors. There is also a weekly village “newscast” done by the ASYV TV club (it really is a cute video). This week, Ilan, the director of the village, after mentioning some world news, talked about saying goodbye to the Young Judaea volunteers. This, for me, made it real. We’re really leaving. In the next two days, we have to pack and leave for Israel. It won’t be easy or fun, but it’s happening, and there is no way around it.
Right after Village Time is always dinner, but Talia planned us a special group dinner – chicken soup! She brought us instant noodles in soup from Israel (she checked through several boxes of food, including one of peanut butter and another of granola bars), which we all had tonight for dinner, just us, at the guesthouse. It was a very nice way to start our last Shabbat together. We finished our group dinner and went back to the dining hall (there was a lot of schlepping involved this evening, but given my samosa and brochette intake, I need all the exercise I can get) for the monthly birthday celebration. Since there are so many kids in the village and some don’t know their birthdays, the last Friday of each month is a village birthday party for anyone born during that month or part of the year. The birthday celebration included cake and roasted nuts (they tasted like peanuts, but weren’t) and performances by several students. At the end, the celebration turned into a dance party on the porch of the dining hall, which is always a blast here because the kids are amazing dancers.
It’s now after 11 and I need to wake up very early tomorrow to run Muchaka Muchaka a final time (and perhaps get it on video… I’m going to need a way to practice my African chanting at home). 5:30 will be here before I know it!
More about my final days here soon, lots of love,
Elana
Saying goodbye is never easy, especially when it can be said in one of several languages. Today, however, began the long list of goodbyes that, unfortunately, lead to our departure on Monday. This morning I went to teach my final classes in the school – double chemistry. I walked into the classroom and was immediately bombarded with questions, “Teacher, question! Teacher, me! Teacher, please, help me!” Someone then explained to me that they were having an exam today, so they were all very caught up in their final minutes to study. I answered their questions, going around the room to make sure everyone had a chance to ask me at least one, and reminded them that they are all excellent students and should be confident while taking their test. Their teacher, Carissa (a man, who is also called Eugene by some, which is confusing, unless they are two different people and I’m the one who’s confused) had some trouble making copies of the exam, so instead he wrote all of the test questions on the board and had the students copy them down). Once the entire test had been written in chalk and recopied onto notebook paper, I had to leave the room because the kids aren’t allowed to ask me questions during a test. So, I went into the teacher’s lounge where I usually spend my breaks and all of the teacher in there came up to me, telling me how sad they will be when we leave in a few days; Rachel, one of the English teachers who is always wearing at least three inch heels, told me she will be upset not to see my face in school on Monday. I told them all not to worry, that we can keep in touch, so we exchanged email addresses.
At the end of the hour, I went to my usual class, Enrichment Year Class D (I teach chemistry to second year, Senior 4, students) to say goodbye to them. When I walked in, they all started clapping, and we took a class photo, with Aimable, of course. As I stepped into the picture, Emile, who was standing behind me, grabbed my hand and said, “Please, don’t leave. I will be so sad when you go.” Emile usually sits in toward the back of the class, keeps to himself and does extremely well in school. His English is very advanced; more than once, I’ve caught him reading Chekhov in the back corner. We’ve had a few conversations over the past month; he’s very curious about life in America and how it is different from Rwanda (where do you even start when asked that question?) He’s a very intelligent, curious and kindhearted kid, and I’m going to miss him, and the rest of the class, very much. On my way out, Assoumpta stopped me, making sure that I’ll come visit the family over the weekend. I told her a promise is a promise and of course I’ll be there; she said, “Ok, good, because we will miss you. We want to see you. And take more pictures.” They LOVE taking photos, especially being able to see them afterward on digital cameras. I told Assoumpta not to worry, that I’ll be at the house, with my camera, and we can take lots of pictures. As I left, I turned back, and she was smiling, giving me a thumbs-up.
One last time, I trekked back down from the school to the work site. I found the rest of the group cutting up pineapple Ido had bought from a passing bicycle; we got 34 pineapples, so for about 200 francs each, the guy selling them probably went home for the day since his profit from our purchase alone makes for a better business day than most. We all took turns cutting them open, taking off the outside, and saving the tops because tops of pineapples can be planted to grow more fruit, no watering necessary. After opening, coring and chunking 30 of the pineapples into pieces, Ciprier and Eric, the work site managers, gathered all 80 workers (some are building other houses in the village, but we’ve worked with all of them at least once, and they are our English students) and I gave a small speech, in French, on behalf of Social Action Rwanda, and Ciprier translated it into Kinyarwanda. Then, some of the workers wanted to say a few words (in Kinyarwanda, of course) so Ciprier translated into French and I translated to English. It seems like a much more laborious process than it was, but it was crazy hearing all these languages flying around a construction site that smelled of pineapple and cement, all at once. Finally, when the workers and Ido had all finished speaking (Ido joked about none of them taking advantage of our presence to find a Muzungu wife. They found this hysterical, as did we… sort of), the pineapple disappeared in record time (under five minutes, easily). We said goodbye to all of them; many of my and Ilyssa’s English students came up, saying “Teacher, miss you!” and “Thank you, teacher!” I’m going to miss them very much, especially Pelage. Who’s going to hand him bricks? I guess now that the warehouse is essentially done, the point is moot, but not seeing him and the rest of the workers every day for several hours, laughing (usually them laughing at us, but we laugh along anyway) and joking and making the time pass together, is going to be a rough adjustment.
After taking some pictures (including one with Ciprier. He was very excited about this) we washed our hands of pineapple juice and were getting ready to leave for the Rubona market when Ido stopped us. He told us we needed to have a short meeting. Ido began by telling us that the warehouse was built by moving bricks and cement from one place to another, from disorganized piles to neat stacks to the walls that now support a roof and are built on a solid rock foundation. He then said (and this was our surprise) that everyone who comes to the village should know who built it, who moved the bricks and the cement to make it into what it is. So, in front of the warehouse, the path leading to the door, is a cement patch on which we got to write Year Course 2011, put our handprints in the cement (this was a total mess, but lots of fun) and write our initials. There will forever be evidence of the hands that put that building together: our hands. Fourteen sets of hands, all different shapes, sizes and strengths, working together to build something wonderful. What we built doesn’t end with our warehouse; we built relationships, friendships, memories that will never be forgotten. We built a home here, and it’s going to be nearly impossible to leave.
When we had finally finished our handprints and washed off the remaining cement, we walked to the Rubona market. On the way, as usual, we were stopped by children running from their houses and the primary school, screaming, “Good morning, how are you?” It was unusually hot today, so the walk seemed longer than normal, but when we arrived at the market, kids, chasing after us in packs, watching our every move, swarmed us. I went to go look at the printed skirts (they’re in piles on tables made out of tree trunks and spare branches), and I found one! I tried it on over my shorts and the woman told me I could have it for 1000 francs (just under $2). However, it was a little long, so I took it to one of the several women who sit with sewing machines near the fabric stores, and showed her that it was too long. She spoke no English and no French, so lots of miming was involved, but she told me to come back in 15 minutes and it would be done. Well, sure enough, fifteen minutes and 200 francs (34 cents) later, my skirt had been shortened. This is a process that, in America, takes days or weeks and costs way more than 34 cents. I think we have something to learn from the seamstresses of Rubona.
I wandered the market, picking up some fabric (no surprise – it’s cheap and beautiful and packs easily. Triple win) a few mangos to snack on for the next few days, some brochette skewers (last ones for a while) and, for Shabbat, 50 potato and hot pepper samosas for us and the long-term volunteers (Talia and I split the cost of these). We loaded up our brown paper bags (recycled from Nakumatt) and began walking back to the village, stopping along the way for some nun wine. When we got back, I went to braid challah for Shabbat in the kitchen, where Hiram (the head of the kitchen) kept feeding us pineapple and fruit salad. Ido even came to make one with us (he made his challah in the shape of a giant croissant. We were ready to put them in the oven when he realized that there was no egg on top, so he went to go get us an egg and, I have no idea where he found it, a pastry brush). Between the samosas and brochettes, and all the fruit, I felt so full it was borderline nausea.
Later, we went back to pick up the challahs (which turned out delicious) and had kabbalat Shabbat at the guesthouse with all the volunteers. After a short service, we feasted on challah, tomatoes, pineapple (the four remaining after Ido’s morning purchase), bananas and samosas imported to ASYV from the Rubona alleyway samosa guy. After we finished eating, it was time to go to the dining hall for Village Time, the weekly all-village meeting led by clubs and village directors. There is also a weekly village “newscast” done by the ASYV TV club (it really is a cute video). This week, Ilan, the director of the village, after mentioning some world news, talked about saying goodbye to the Young Judaea volunteers. This, for me, made it real. We’re really leaving. In the next two days, we have to pack and leave for Israel. It won’t be easy or fun, but it’s happening, and there is no way around it.
Right after Village Time is always dinner, but Talia planned us a special group dinner – chicken soup! She brought us instant noodles in soup from Israel (she checked through several boxes of food, including one of peanut butter and another of granola bars), which we all had tonight for dinner, just us, at the guesthouse. It was a very nice way to start our last Shabbat together. We finished our group dinner and went back to the dining hall (there was a lot of schlepping involved this evening, but given my samosa and brochette intake, I need all the exercise I can get) for the monthly birthday celebration. Since there are so many kids in the village and some don’t know their birthdays, the last Friday of each month is a village birthday party for anyone born during that month or part of the year. The birthday celebration included cake and roasted nuts (they tasted like peanuts, but weren’t) and performances by several students. At the end, the celebration turned into a dance party on the porch of the dining hall, which is always a blast here because the kids are amazing dancers.
It’s now after 11 and I need to wake up very early tomorrow to run Muchaka Muchaka a final time (and perhaps get it on video… I’m going to need a way to practice my African chanting at home). 5:30 will be here before I know it!
More about my final days here soon, lots of love,
Elana
Gisenyi
February 23-24, 2011
Hello readers! It’s now a few minutes past 7:00 PM in Rwanda and we just arrived back in the village from Gisenyi, which is on Lake Kivu in the northern province, near the gorillas. Before I give you the details of our adventure, let me share with you a sad piece of news I heard on Wednesday morning:
According to a message one of my roommates received, the Sudanese community in Arad has been deported. The gan has been locked for at least the past week and is apparently shut down; the Sudanese families are, according to this message, gone. Before I become outraged and upset, I tried to determine the extent to which this is true, and I found a Jerusalem Post article that claims that the Sudanese are leaving voluntarily and are looking forward to returning to South Sudan. However, other sources, as the article acknowledges, say that the Israeli government is forcing, or even bribing, the Sudanese community to leave. While the article refutes these claims and insists that this is an ongoing process to return the Sudanese to their homeland, the fact remains that one day the gan was open and the Sudanese community was doing relatively well in Arad, and the next, it was closed and they were gone. The abrupt nature of their departure makes voluntary return to South Sudan questionable. Would the entire Sudanese population really all get up and leave at once? Still, we aren’t sure exactly what did or did not happen, and if any Sudanese families are still living in Arad. Hopefully, they are still there and simply figuring out their status in Israel, or if they did return to Sudan, they did so by choice. To read the JPost article, follow this link: http://www.jpost.com/NationalNews/Article.aspx?id=209450. We are awaiting further information on the status of the Sudanese community in Arad, if anyone even knows where they are or what is actually happening.
In happier news, our trip to Gisenyi was wonderful. We left early Wednesday morning and drove north for several hours in our van (white metal rickshaw, really). Along the way, we stopped for lunch at a Rwandan restaurant and ate a delicious meal. Before getting to the hotel, we drove along the Rwanda/Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) border. The border is actually a stone wall and a small gate guarded by two Rwandan army officers. Due to the ongoing conflict in the DRC, we didn’t cross this “border” but instead drove on to the hotel. We finally arrived at the hotel, the Paradise, which is an adorable collection of wood and grass-thatched huts (furnished huts) connected by winding stone pathways, situated right on the lakefront. Lake Kivu is the only lake in Rwanda open for swimming. No sooner had we arrived and put our things in our guestrooms did the maître d’ come running outside with life vests, and an even skinnier (if this is even possible) Rwandan followed, running behind him, carrying a boat engine on his shoulder. We threw on bathing suits and got into the small wooden boat beached in front of the hotel. The smaller guy, who we later realized would be our captain, attached the motor to the boat and we went across the lake to the hot springs. There, we met the “mayor” of the hot springs, who is nearly 94 years old and has been there for over 60 years. These hot springs are so hot that if you were to drop a potato in one, it would take about twenty minutes to cook through.
After the hot springs, we piled back into the boat and went toward the middle of the lake where there is a small island, owned by the Paradise. We lounged around, soaked up some sun, and eventually got back in the boat to return to the hotel. It’s quite cool to take a boat to your hotel room, I must say. Dinner was awesome; the lake is home to tilapia (there are no other animals in the lake because of volcanic eruptions on the DRC side that make it impossible for anything but fish to survive in the water. This is part of what makes it okay for swimming) so we all had to order that for dinner (there were other options, but I’ve never had fresher fish in my life). Of course, as we were sitting down at our table, two traditional African dancers came running in, dressed as warriors, spears and shields and all. They were accompanied by drummers who chanted along to the beat set by the bells on the dancers’ ankles. Every few minutes, they would pull one of us up to dance with them; I attempted to pick up some of their moves, and I even requested wearing their ankle bells, but neither really happened (the latter was a definite no). Once we finished our tilapia, we had a small surprise activity. We were all given paper and pens and told to write letters to ourselves that we will receive in six months or a year from now. I don’t know exactly where I’ll be, or what I’ll be doing, but I do know that when I receive it, I will think of Rwanda, of the village and the kids, of my trip to see the gorillas, of Gisenyi and Akagera and Murambi and all the places I’ve visited, of my friends here and all the memories we’ve made. I know I will remember all these things, and I will smile.
I woke up this morning, without an alarm, at 7:00 to the sound of screaming. It was coming from the lake, as I would later find out. The fishermen, in their wooden fishing boats, were rowing out onto the lake to begin their workday. It was an awesome sight, if a bit early, but my body has adjusted to waking up at ungodly hours sans alarm. I can’t decide if this is such a good thing…
After a very nice breakfast (omelettes, crepes, fruit salad, toast and jam, and COFFEE!) I spent some time laying out on the lake front, trying to even out the color difference between my arms (they are very dark, I’m beginning to look less like a Muzungu!) and my legs, which don’t see the sun much since I usually wear pants here (women in Rwanda aren’t supposed to show their legs, so we don’t wear shorts around the village or when we’re out). By 11:00, we left the hotel and went to the Gisenyi outdoor market, where, of course, I found some beautiful African fabrics (I got to bargain in French) and hot sauce that is sold in eyedropper containers because you can only use one drop at a time, it’s that spicy. It’s also yellow-orange, which makes me nervous.
Once we finished shopping at the market, and finally persuaded the posse of school children following us that no, they could not get in the van (there’s barely room for us and our stuff) we drove toward Kigali, stopping along the way for pizza. As we were eating our lunch, it began to pour. Our driver, Bosco, explained to me that because of the mountains in that area, clouds are trapped and therefore it rains very hard every day there. At one point, it even began to hail! Rwandan driving is crazy without awful weather, so I truly am impressed by Bosco’s driving skills in the pouring rain, hail, thunder and lightning. Before returning to the village we stopped, one last time, at Nakumatt for any remaining items we may need for the next few days. I’m pretty sure the people who work there know us now, and are probably expecting us to return next week for more snack foods that don’t require refrigeration. Unfortunately, we won’t be back any time soon.
It’s hard to believe that we only have three full days left in the village. Tomorrow is our final morning at the work site and my final morning at the school, so I need to say goodbye to Aimable and Vincent and all of my students. We are also throwing a party for the workers, complete with pineapple. Afterwards is our last trip into Rubona for samosas, brochette skewers, six mangos for 100 francs and of course, passion fruit wine made by nuns. Over the weekend, I promised my girls I’d visit them, which I will, and at some point, unfortunately, I need to start packing my things, fabrics, hand-woven baskets and all, to return to Israel. I won’t get into how much I’m going to miss Rwanda and all that’s here right now, but be prepared, that post is coming soon.
All the best from a slightly tanner me,
Elana
Hello readers! It’s now a few minutes past 7:00 PM in Rwanda and we just arrived back in the village from Gisenyi, which is on Lake Kivu in the northern province, near the gorillas. Before I give you the details of our adventure, let me share with you a sad piece of news I heard on Wednesday morning:
According to a message one of my roommates received, the Sudanese community in Arad has been deported. The gan has been locked for at least the past week and is apparently shut down; the Sudanese families are, according to this message, gone. Before I become outraged and upset, I tried to determine the extent to which this is true, and I found a Jerusalem Post article that claims that the Sudanese are leaving voluntarily and are looking forward to returning to South Sudan. However, other sources, as the article acknowledges, say that the Israeli government is forcing, or even bribing, the Sudanese community to leave. While the article refutes these claims and insists that this is an ongoing process to return the Sudanese to their homeland, the fact remains that one day the gan was open and the Sudanese community was doing relatively well in Arad, and the next, it was closed and they were gone. The abrupt nature of their departure makes voluntary return to South Sudan questionable. Would the entire Sudanese population really all get up and leave at once? Still, we aren’t sure exactly what did or did not happen, and if any Sudanese families are still living in Arad. Hopefully, they are still there and simply figuring out their status in Israel, or if they did return to Sudan, they did so by choice. To read the JPost article, follow this link: http://www.jpost.com/NationalNews/Article.aspx?id=209450. We are awaiting further information on the status of the Sudanese community in Arad, if anyone even knows where they are or what is actually happening.
In happier news, our trip to Gisenyi was wonderful. We left early Wednesday morning and drove north for several hours in our van (white metal rickshaw, really). Along the way, we stopped for lunch at a Rwandan restaurant and ate a delicious meal. Before getting to the hotel, we drove along the Rwanda/Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) border. The border is actually a stone wall and a small gate guarded by two Rwandan army officers. Due to the ongoing conflict in the DRC, we didn’t cross this “border” but instead drove on to the hotel. We finally arrived at the hotel, the Paradise, which is an adorable collection of wood and grass-thatched huts (furnished huts) connected by winding stone pathways, situated right on the lakefront. Lake Kivu is the only lake in Rwanda open for swimming. No sooner had we arrived and put our things in our guestrooms did the maître d’ come running outside with life vests, and an even skinnier (if this is even possible) Rwandan followed, running behind him, carrying a boat engine on his shoulder. We threw on bathing suits and got into the small wooden boat beached in front of the hotel. The smaller guy, who we later realized would be our captain, attached the motor to the boat and we went across the lake to the hot springs. There, we met the “mayor” of the hot springs, who is nearly 94 years old and has been there for over 60 years. These hot springs are so hot that if you were to drop a potato in one, it would take about twenty minutes to cook through.
After the hot springs, we piled back into the boat and went toward the middle of the lake where there is a small island, owned by the Paradise. We lounged around, soaked up some sun, and eventually got back in the boat to return to the hotel. It’s quite cool to take a boat to your hotel room, I must say. Dinner was awesome; the lake is home to tilapia (there are no other animals in the lake because of volcanic eruptions on the DRC side that make it impossible for anything but fish to survive in the water. This is part of what makes it okay for swimming) so we all had to order that for dinner (there were other options, but I’ve never had fresher fish in my life). Of course, as we were sitting down at our table, two traditional African dancers came running in, dressed as warriors, spears and shields and all. They were accompanied by drummers who chanted along to the beat set by the bells on the dancers’ ankles. Every few minutes, they would pull one of us up to dance with them; I attempted to pick up some of their moves, and I even requested wearing their ankle bells, but neither really happened (the latter was a definite no). Once we finished our tilapia, we had a small surprise activity. We were all given paper and pens and told to write letters to ourselves that we will receive in six months or a year from now. I don’t know exactly where I’ll be, or what I’ll be doing, but I do know that when I receive it, I will think of Rwanda, of the village and the kids, of my trip to see the gorillas, of Gisenyi and Akagera and Murambi and all the places I’ve visited, of my friends here and all the memories we’ve made. I know I will remember all these things, and I will smile.
I woke up this morning, without an alarm, at 7:00 to the sound of screaming. It was coming from the lake, as I would later find out. The fishermen, in their wooden fishing boats, were rowing out onto the lake to begin their workday. It was an awesome sight, if a bit early, but my body has adjusted to waking up at ungodly hours sans alarm. I can’t decide if this is such a good thing…
After a very nice breakfast (omelettes, crepes, fruit salad, toast and jam, and COFFEE!) I spent some time laying out on the lake front, trying to even out the color difference between my arms (they are very dark, I’m beginning to look less like a Muzungu!) and my legs, which don’t see the sun much since I usually wear pants here (women in Rwanda aren’t supposed to show their legs, so we don’t wear shorts around the village or when we’re out). By 11:00, we left the hotel and went to the Gisenyi outdoor market, where, of course, I found some beautiful African fabrics (I got to bargain in French) and hot sauce that is sold in eyedropper containers because you can only use one drop at a time, it’s that spicy. It’s also yellow-orange, which makes me nervous.
Once we finished shopping at the market, and finally persuaded the posse of school children following us that no, they could not get in the van (there’s barely room for us and our stuff) we drove toward Kigali, stopping along the way for pizza. As we were eating our lunch, it began to pour. Our driver, Bosco, explained to me that because of the mountains in that area, clouds are trapped and therefore it rains very hard every day there. At one point, it even began to hail! Rwandan driving is crazy without awful weather, so I truly am impressed by Bosco’s driving skills in the pouring rain, hail, thunder and lightning. Before returning to the village we stopped, one last time, at Nakumatt for any remaining items we may need for the next few days. I’m pretty sure the people who work there know us now, and are probably expecting us to return next week for more snack foods that don’t require refrigeration. Unfortunately, we won’t be back any time soon.
It’s hard to believe that we only have three full days left in the village. Tomorrow is our final morning at the work site and my final morning at the school, so I need to say goodbye to Aimable and Vincent and all of my students. We are also throwing a party for the workers, complete with pineapple. Afterwards is our last trip into Rubona for samosas, brochette skewers, six mangos for 100 francs and of course, passion fruit wine made by nuns. Over the weekend, I promised my girls I’d visit them, which I will, and at some point, unfortunately, I need to start packing my things, fabrics, hand-woven baskets and all, to return to Israel. I won’t get into how much I’m going to miss Rwanda and all that’s here right now, but be prepared, that post is coming soon.
All the best from a slightly tanner me,
Elana
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
In my heart, next to Jesus
February 22, 2011
Hello from Rwanda, readers! The last few days have been mostly uneventful; Shabbat is quiet for us, and then Sunday, the village doesn’t have much going on because the kids go to church and spend the day relaxing. Yesterday was another voting day, so the school and the work site were closed for a “vacation." However, we did have Enrichment Programs, which meant a final cooking class with the Mommas. We made crepes that were, of course, full of sugar and absolutely delicious. Luckily, this week, we were without any major lightning storms, so we were able to cook outside.
Today returned to our normal crazy schedule. I was on kitchen duty this morning, so at 8:00, I reported to the dining hall to start chopping, dicing and peeling to help prepare lunch for about 500 people. I cut up tomatoes, hollowed out cucumbers to be diced, peeled sweet potatoes (this lasted about ten minutes before the kitchen staff realized they could do five potatoes in the time it took me to do one, so instead, they switched me to chopping onions). Then I started taking the stems off some very bizarre-looking vegetables (no one in the kitchen knew what they’re called; I asked) and then we started cutting those in half. At the end of the morning, the staff gave me a short tour of what was cooking in the gigantic metal tubs in a room adjacent to where I was cutting and chopping and generally moving at a third of the pace of everyone around me. Most of the tubs contained rice and “sauce,” which is the term for a mix of mystery vegetables, sometimes beans, water and perhaps, if you’re lucky, a tablespoon of tomato paste (one tablespoon for 500 people doesn’t exactly get you far). As we were finishing up (I was working with my friend Jenna), a delivery from the farm drove up the path to the kitchen: pineapples! Unfortunately, the pineapples didn’t make an appearance at lunch (but a small vegetable salad did!) but they did make the kitchen smell amazing.
At 1:00, it was time for my final hour teaching the construction workers English. Tuesdays are generally, for me, long and exhausting days at the work site, but teaching this hour makes my day that much brighter, watching people who, four weeks ago, didn’t speak a word of English, come over to our meeting spot, greet me with a “Hello, teacher. How are you?” and then proceed to tell me, in full sentences, that they like cement and Jesus, can they please have more bricks and a level, and, my personal favorite, they love teacher. It’s amazing to me how far they’ve come in such a short time; this week, they did “head, shoulders, knees and toes” without my or Ilyssa’s help, and did remarkably well (very little eyes, ears, mouth, nose confusion, relatively speaking). We reviewed everything from clothing to colors, “I like” and “Can I have” to “Thank you” and “Please.” At the end of the hour, after having done “jump right, jump left, front and back” with only a few collisions (there were many more last week), everyone came around, shaking our hands, telling us “thank you, teacher” and that they love to learn English. Hearing this, knowing they have started learning something new and now have mastered new skills, makes me realize that my time here has meant so much not only to the students, but to people who never had the opportunity to be students at a place like ASYV. Knowing this, I have no choice but to smile a little wider.
Immediately following English class and lunch was my final Tikkun Olam at Peter’s house. Today was more mud mixing, bringing piles of it from outside the house to the inside to finish the dividing walls, and, of course, playing with Peter’s children (who love to “help” us throw the mud at the wall). At the end of today’s work, Andrew, our group leader, told us that they will always remember us for our work there, and that the group will be sad to continue working at Peter’s house without us. It’s strange to think that in a week from today, I will be moving into my Jerusalem apartment, unpacking the clothes and shoes and everything that I haven’t seen in weeks, everything I’ve been too busy to miss (although my socks are starting to become permanently brown, despite my attempts at washing them repeatedly). While I’m doing all this, Andrew and the Tikkun Olam group will return to Peter’s house, mix more mud and continue slinging at the walls until they are completely improved. Part of me, a big part of me, wishes I could be there; I wish I could stay and return to Peter’s house, to play with his children and throw mud at the holes in the interior walls, I wish I could stay in the village, with my students and Aimable and everyone who has made this place a home for me. I know that these are just wishes, that all good things must end, but I also know when I do say goodbye in less than week, it will be only temporary; I know I will come back to my home in the Rwandan hills.
After Tikkun Olam, I had a brief (and completely strange and disorganized) meeting to discuss the upcoming Talent Show we (Year Course volunteers) are trying to plan for the village. Well, whether or not it a) happens and b) is any sort of success remains to be seen. I will keep you all updated on this as the saga unfolds.
Tonight was, sadly, my final Family Time with my girls in Family 8. Hannah and I got to run the activities tonight, so we brought them candy (they LOVE sweets because they never get them, so they are a major treat), mango-flavored hard candies and chocolate-covered caramels. As they were unwrapping their dessert, I handed out bracelets I brought from Israel. They were red chamsa bracelets, I explained to them that in Judaism, we wear chamsas (the hand of God) for luck, to ward off evil spirits. They loved them, Momma Hillary included, and put them on immediately. After figuring out the clasps on their bracelets, the girls all passed around our journals, signing them and writing us notes, and made us cards from construction paper and crayons. When one girl, Cecille, handed her card to me, she said, “Elana, you know that you are in my heart. You are in my heart next to Jesus.” Having her tell me I am right next to Jesus in her heart is a big deal; all of the kids are very religious and despite the hardships and atrocities they have faced in their lives, their love for Jesus never falters. So, this was a bold statement.
We listened to some music (Michael Jackson and Beyonce, of course) and subsequently had an impromptu dance party. As the music played, I showed the girls (Cadette, in particular, who has been asking for photos of my family since I got here) pictures of me with my parents and of my family. They commented on how nice I looked (in the pictures, I’m wearing makeup and “real” clothes… this must have shocked them). We took a family photo (they had a great time with this, but Momma Hillary didn’t understand the whole flash thing), and after, Momma gave us a speech, in Kinyarwanda, of course, with translation by Francoise and Cadette, telling us how thankful they are for everything we have done, for everything we have taught them and most of all, for the love we have shared. She reminded us that God will bless us, that we should have a safe journey home, and that we must return to Rwanda. When she was finished, she gave me a huge hug and a kiss on my cheek, and I thanked her for everything she does and will continue to do for her girls, who have become my girls, too. The house mothers, Momma Hillary especially, are amazing women. They lost their families and their children in the genocide and now have a second chance at being mothers to children who really need them. Their strength and love and compassion are unending, and therefore, unbelievable.
The girls didn’t like seeing us walk down their stone path at the end of Family Time. They followed us outside, hugging us and begging us to stay. We promised to come back over the weekend when we have some spare time and they aren’t studying. Souvenir followed me, hanging onto me by my shoulders, saying, “You will always be in my heart. I will never forget you.” Hannah and I walked back to the guesthouse, cards and journals full of well-wishes in hand; behind us, the girls lined up on the walkway, waving and screaming our names. I’ll see them again before we leave, but knowing there won’t be another time we sit in a circle, drink tea and listen to Erica (the family counselor) translate for Momma, pray in Kinyarwanda, French, Hebrew and English all at once, answer questions about why I don’t believe in Jesus, make adorable cards, exchange email addresses, open candy and sing along to MJ, I want to cry with them, and all of a sudden, the promises I made all of them that it will be okay, that it’s no use to cry, seem empty. They don’t know it, but they have taught me just as much, if not more, than I have taught them. I have learned, laughed, cried and shared with them, as they have with me. I always asked my parents for a sister, and now, I have sixteen of them. I have sixteen beautiful, smart, brave Rwandan sisters, and they are in my heart just as I’m in theirs, but unlike them, I don’t hold them next to Jesus. They are on a level all by themselves.
Tomorrow is our volunteer “vacation” to Gisenyi, which is about an hour north of the gorillas. Gisenyi is on Lake Kivu, the only lake safe for Muzungus to swim. We are visiting the hot springs (by boat), soaking up some sun (hopefully) and enjoying some meals that do not involve rice or beans (hurrah!) We arrive back on Thursday night, so I will update all of you on the details of our adventure then (or perhaps Friday… it depends how tired I am).
As always, thank you for reading.
Lots of love,
Elana (the Muzungu sister with soft hair)
Hello from Rwanda, readers! The last few days have been mostly uneventful; Shabbat is quiet for us, and then Sunday, the village doesn’t have much going on because the kids go to church and spend the day relaxing. Yesterday was another voting day, so the school and the work site were closed for a “vacation." However, we did have Enrichment Programs, which meant a final cooking class with the Mommas. We made crepes that were, of course, full of sugar and absolutely delicious. Luckily, this week, we were without any major lightning storms, so we were able to cook outside.
Today returned to our normal crazy schedule. I was on kitchen duty this morning, so at 8:00, I reported to the dining hall to start chopping, dicing and peeling to help prepare lunch for about 500 people. I cut up tomatoes, hollowed out cucumbers to be diced, peeled sweet potatoes (this lasted about ten minutes before the kitchen staff realized they could do five potatoes in the time it took me to do one, so instead, they switched me to chopping onions). Then I started taking the stems off some very bizarre-looking vegetables (no one in the kitchen knew what they’re called; I asked) and then we started cutting those in half. At the end of the morning, the staff gave me a short tour of what was cooking in the gigantic metal tubs in a room adjacent to where I was cutting and chopping and generally moving at a third of the pace of everyone around me. Most of the tubs contained rice and “sauce,” which is the term for a mix of mystery vegetables, sometimes beans, water and perhaps, if you’re lucky, a tablespoon of tomato paste (one tablespoon for 500 people doesn’t exactly get you far). As we were finishing up (I was working with my friend Jenna), a delivery from the farm drove up the path to the kitchen: pineapples! Unfortunately, the pineapples didn’t make an appearance at lunch (but a small vegetable salad did!) but they did make the kitchen smell amazing.
At 1:00, it was time for my final hour teaching the construction workers English. Tuesdays are generally, for me, long and exhausting days at the work site, but teaching this hour makes my day that much brighter, watching people who, four weeks ago, didn’t speak a word of English, come over to our meeting spot, greet me with a “Hello, teacher. How are you?” and then proceed to tell me, in full sentences, that they like cement and Jesus, can they please have more bricks and a level, and, my personal favorite, they love teacher. It’s amazing to me how far they’ve come in such a short time; this week, they did “head, shoulders, knees and toes” without my or Ilyssa’s help, and did remarkably well (very little eyes, ears, mouth, nose confusion, relatively speaking). We reviewed everything from clothing to colors, “I like” and “Can I have” to “Thank you” and “Please.” At the end of the hour, after having done “jump right, jump left, front and back” with only a few collisions (there were many more last week), everyone came around, shaking our hands, telling us “thank you, teacher” and that they love to learn English. Hearing this, knowing they have started learning something new and now have mastered new skills, makes me realize that my time here has meant so much not only to the students, but to people who never had the opportunity to be students at a place like ASYV. Knowing this, I have no choice but to smile a little wider.
Immediately following English class and lunch was my final Tikkun Olam at Peter’s house. Today was more mud mixing, bringing piles of it from outside the house to the inside to finish the dividing walls, and, of course, playing with Peter’s children (who love to “help” us throw the mud at the wall). At the end of today’s work, Andrew, our group leader, told us that they will always remember us for our work there, and that the group will be sad to continue working at Peter’s house without us. It’s strange to think that in a week from today, I will be moving into my Jerusalem apartment, unpacking the clothes and shoes and everything that I haven’t seen in weeks, everything I’ve been too busy to miss (although my socks are starting to become permanently brown, despite my attempts at washing them repeatedly). While I’m doing all this, Andrew and the Tikkun Olam group will return to Peter’s house, mix more mud and continue slinging at the walls until they are completely improved. Part of me, a big part of me, wishes I could be there; I wish I could stay and return to Peter’s house, to play with his children and throw mud at the holes in the interior walls, I wish I could stay in the village, with my students and Aimable and everyone who has made this place a home for me. I know that these are just wishes, that all good things must end, but I also know when I do say goodbye in less than week, it will be only temporary; I know I will come back to my home in the Rwandan hills.
After Tikkun Olam, I had a brief (and completely strange and disorganized) meeting to discuss the upcoming Talent Show we (Year Course volunteers) are trying to plan for the village. Well, whether or not it a) happens and b) is any sort of success remains to be seen. I will keep you all updated on this as the saga unfolds.
Tonight was, sadly, my final Family Time with my girls in Family 8. Hannah and I got to run the activities tonight, so we brought them candy (they LOVE sweets because they never get them, so they are a major treat), mango-flavored hard candies and chocolate-covered caramels. As they were unwrapping their dessert, I handed out bracelets I brought from Israel. They were red chamsa bracelets, I explained to them that in Judaism, we wear chamsas (the hand of God) for luck, to ward off evil spirits. They loved them, Momma Hillary included, and put them on immediately. After figuring out the clasps on their bracelets, the girls all passed around our journals, signing them and writing us notes, and made us cards from construction paper and crayons. When one girl, Cecille, handed her card to me, she said, “Elana, you know that you are in my heart. You are in my heart next to Jesus.” Having her tell me I am right next to Jesus in her heart is a big deal; all of the kids are very religious and despite the hardships and atrocities they have faced in their lives, their love for Jesus never falters. So, this was a bold statement.
We listened to some music (Michael Jackson and Beyonce, of course) and subsequently had an impromptu dance party. As the music played, I showed the girls (Cadette, in particular, who has been asking for photos of my family since I got here) pictures of me with my parents and of my family. They commented on how nice I looked (in the pictures, I’m wearing makeup and “real” clothes… this must have shocked them). We took a family photo (they had a great time with this, but Momma Hillary didn’t understand the whole flash thing), and after, Momma gave us a speech, in Kinyarwanda, of course, with translation by Francoise and Cadette, telling us how thankful they are for everything we have done, for everything we have taught them and most of all, for the love we have shared. She reminded us that God will bless us, that we should have a safe journey home, and that we must return to Rwanda. When she was finished, she gave me a huge hug and a kiss on my cheek, and I thanked her for everything she does and will continue to do for her girls, who have become my girls, too. The house mothers, Momma Hillary especially, are amazing women. They lost their families and their children in the genocide and now have a second chance at being mothers to children who really need them. Their strength and love and compassion are unending, and therefore, unbelievable.
The girls didn’t like seeing us walk down their stone path at the end of Family Time. They followed us outside, hugging us and begging us to stay. We promised to come back over the weekend when we have some spare time and they aren’t studying. Souvenir followed me, hanging onto me by my shoulders, saying, “You will always be in my heart. I will never forget you.” Hannah and I walked back to the guesthouse, cards and journals full of well-wishes in hand; behind us, the girls lined up on the walkway, waving and screaming our names. I’ll see them again before we leave, but knowing there won’t be another time we sit in a circle, drink tea and listen to Erica (the family counselor) translate for Momma, pray in Kinyarwanda, French, Hebrew and English all at once, answer questions about why I don’t believe in Jesus, make adorable cards, exchange email addresses, open candy and sing along to MJ, I want to cry with them, and all of a sudden, the promises I made all of them that it will be okay, that it’s no use to cry, seem empty. They don’t know it, but they have taught me just as much, if not more, than I have taught them. I have learned, laughed, cried and shared with them, as they have with me. I always asked my parents for a sister, and now, I have sixteen of them. I have sixteen beautiful, smart, brave Rwandan sisters, and they are in my heart just as I’m in theirs, but unlike them, I don’t hold them next to Jesus. They are on a level all by themselves.
Tomorrow is our volunteer “vacation” to Gisenyi, which is about an hour north of the gorillas. Gisenyi is on Lake Kivu, the only lake safe for Muzungus to swim. We are visiting the hot springs (by boat), soaking up some sun (hopefully) and enjoying some meals that do not involve rice or beans (hurrah!) We arrive back on Thursday night, so I will update all of you on the details of our adventure then (or perhaps Friday… it depends how tired I am).
As always, thank you for reading.
Lots of love,
Elana (the Muzungu sister with soft hair)
Saturday, February 19, 2011
All the small things
February 19, 2011
I've been learning to appreciate all the smallest things in life over the past weeks, and they are worth mentioning. Here are some small anecdotes and things that don’t necessitate individual posts, but I think they're important anyway:
1. Stinging Nettles. During the hike to the Umubano gorillas on Friday, one of the things about which we were warned was stinging nettles. Stinging nettles are plants that have small thorns on their stems. If you touch them (or in my case, one swings back and touches you because it was being held back until you crossed its path when naturally, it moves rapidly backward to hit your hand). Coming into contact with stinging nettles is very unpleasant; your skin feels like it’s getting bitten about a hundred times over in the same spot by the most persistent of mosquitoes. Eventually, the red dots and the pain subside, but nonetheless, it was the ONLY downside to the gorilla trek. It also just had to be mentioned.
2. Because I am an idiot, I woke up again at 5:30 this morning to participate in Muchaka Muchaka, the weekly Saturday morning run led by the village athletic coaches and the security guards. The kids run by families, and every family has a meeting point to join their assigned guard and the other families jogging in the same group. My family meets outside their house at 6 to start running a few minutes after. We were running with two other families (the other girls’ family that lives next door to my family and a boys’ family a few houses down). By 6:05, our guard was in the front of our group, chanting and singing in Kinyarwanda (all the kids sang along) to set the pace. One song had a clapping beat, which I was able to participate in, but other than that, I just had to run and try not to get run over. At one point, one of the girls in my house, Francoise, grabbed my hand and Souvenir, another girl in Family 8, grabbed my other hand, and we pulled each other along. After about twenty minutes of this, my whole body started to ache and I wanted to pass out (waking up before 6 AM two days in a row, one to hike up a mountain and the other to go on a run complete with African chanting and singing, was a bad idea). Muchaka Muchaka (which they scream over and over again, “Muchaka muchaka! Brrrrr ahh! Rrrah, rrrah! Muchaka, muchaka!”) was a great time with my girls and an awesome experience.
3. After running this morning (three of us went to Muchaka Muchaka, everyone else slept), we left for a hike to the rice paddies. The walk itself was gorgeous; we went through Rubona and down a huge hill into the rice paddies which are divided in half in a giant valley by a tree-lined dirt road. Unfortunately, my legs were in serious pain given my gorilla hiking and my morning run, but otherwise, it was a really nice walk. On our way back, a little girl was walking alongside me and holding my hand on one side, a jerry can on her other. She kept smiling up at me as we walked along the road back toward Rubona, passing small huts and lone goats tied to trees (this is how they are kept from running away). I kept thinking that things like this would never happen in America (or Israel), but in Rwanda, given its friendly and welcoming culture, having a little girl come up and take my hand isn’t out of the ordinary. We walked along for some time, and then I think she realized she had to fill her jerry can and was straying a bit too far from her necessary path, so she waved goodbye and went along her way. This moment stuck with me, for some reason, and I’ve been thinking about all the children in Rwanda, what their families are like, if they have them, where they come from, what their homes are like, if they go to school. Their childhoods are clearly so different than mine was, and I wonder all the time if they realize just how different we are, yet at the same time, in small ways, how similar.
4. On our way back from the rice paddies, we were very hungry, so we stopped at a samosa shop in Rubona (not the one we go to on Fridays. That one, like most shops and stands in Rubona, is only open on market days which are Tuesdays and Fridays). We literally bought the two guys working at the stand out of samosas; they had none left, no more potato mix and, as far as I could tell, no more paper-thin dough wrappers, to make any more. As a group we probably bought somewhere near 40 samosas. In the space of ten minutes. That’s probably not a normal day of business for these guys.
5. It’s not almost 7 PM, I’m exhausted, and I am considering attending church services tomorrow morning, if I’m awake. On Saturday nights, we all sit around and discuss which church service we want to see the next morning (Catholic, Protestant, etc.) This is especially hysterical because we’re all Jewish. Tomorrow, however, there is a soccer tournament happening in the village, so church may either be delayed or not happen since the teams are coming early in the morning so they can play before it gets too hot in the afternoon. I really wanted to attend services, so this would be a major disappointment (luckily, I can still go next week).
5b. One of my roommates just walked in and said, because she is British, "I have wind." I only just figured out what this means. I really think I should get some sleep.
That’s all for now from here. Weekends are very nice and relaxed in the village because there is no school or construction and we have time to catch up on much-needed sleep after a long week of work.
Thanks for reading, as always. Shavua tov (a good week) from the hills,
Elana
I've been learning to appreciate all the smallest things in life over the past weeks, and they are worth mentioning. Here are some small anecdotes and things that don’t necessitate individual posts, but I think they're important anyway:
1. Stinging Nettles. During the hike to the Umubano gorillas on Friday, one of the things about which we were warned was stinging nettles. Stinging nettles are plants that have small thorns on their stems. If you touch them (or in my case, one swings back and touches you because it was being held back until you crossed its path when naturally, it moves rapidly backward to hit your hand). Coming into contact with stinging nettles is very unpleasant; your skin feels like it’s getting bitten about a hundred times over in the same spot by the most persistent of mosquitoes. Eventually, the red dots and the pain subside, but nonetheless, it was the ONLY downside to the gorilla trek. It also just had to be mentioned.
2. Because I am an idiot, I woke up again at 5:30 this morning to participate in Muchaka Muchaka, the weekly Saturday morning run led by the village athletic coaches and the security guards. The kids run by families, and every family has a meeting point to join their assigned guard and the other families jogging in the same group. My family meets outside their house at 6 to start running a few minutes after. We were running with two other families (the other girls’ family that lives next door to my family and a boys’ family a few houses down). By 6:05, our guard was in the front of our group, chanting and singing in Kinyarwanda (all the kids sang along) to set the pace. One song had a clapping beat, which I was able to participate in, but other than that, I just had to run and try not to get run over. At one point, one of the girls in my house, Francoise, grabbed my hand and Souvenir, another girl in Family 8, grabbed my other hand, and we pulled each other along. After about twenty minutes of this, my whole body started to ache and I wanted to pass out (waking up before 6 AM two days in a row, one to hike up a mountain and the other to go on a run complete with African chanting and singing, was a bad idea). Muchaka Muchaka (which they scream over and over again, “Muchaka muchaka! Brrrrr ahh! Rrrah, rrrah! Muchaka, muchaka!”) was a great time with my girls and an awesome experience.
3. After running this morning (three of us went to Muchaka Muchaka, everyone else slept), we left for a hike to the rice paddies. The walk itself was gorgeous; we went through Rubona and down a huge hill into the rice paddies which are divided in half in a giant valley by a tree-lined dirt road. Unfortunately, my legs were in serious pain given my gorilla hiking and my morning run, but otherwise, it was a really nice walk. On our way back, a little girl was walking alongside me and holding my hand on one side, a jerry can on her other. She kept smiling up at me as we walked along the road back toward Rubona, passing small huts and lone goats tied to trees (this is how they are kept from running away). I kept thinking that things like this would never happen in America (or Israel), but in Rwanda, given its friendly and welcoming culture, having a little girl come up and take my hand isn’t out of the ordinary. We walked along for some time, and then I think she realized she had to fill her jerry can and was straying a bit too far from her necessary path, so she waved goodbye and went along her way. This moment stuck with me, for some reason, and I’ve been thinking about all the children in Rwanda, what their families are like, if they have them, where they come from, what their homes are like, if they go to school. Their childhoods are clearly so different than mine was, and I wonder all the time if they realize just how different we are, yet at the same time, in small ways, how similar.
4. On our way back from the rice paddies, we were very hungry, so we stopped at a samosa shop in Rubona (not the one we go to on Fridays. That one, like most shops and stands in Rubona, is only open on market days which are Tuesdays and Fridays). We literally bought the two guys working at the stand out of samosas; they had none left, no more potato mix and, as far as I could tell, no more paper-thin dough wrappers, to make any more. As a group we probably bought somewhere near 40 samosas. In the space of ten minutes. That’s probably not a normal day of business for these guys.
5. It’s not almost 7 PM, I’m exhausted, and I am considering attending church services tomorrow morning, if I’m awake. On Saturday nights, we all sit around and discuss which church service we want to see the next morning (Catholic, Protestant, etc.) This is especially hysterical because we’re all Jewish. Tomorrow, however, there is a soccer tournament happening in the village, so church may either be delayed or not happen since the teams are coming early in the morning so they can play before it gets too hot in the afternoon. I really wanted to attend services, so this would be a major disappointment (luckily, I can still go next week).
5b. One of my roommates just walked in and said, because she is British, "I have wind." I only just figured out what this means. I really think I should get some sleep.
That’s all for now from here. Weekends are very nice and relaxed in the village because there is no school or construction and we have time to catch up on much-needed sleep after a long week of work.
Thanks for reading, as always. Shavua tov (a good week) from the hills,
Elana
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