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