February 11, 2011
Today was one of those days that should have had a movie director come in every few hours and announce “scene,” slam the clapperboard (the thing that is used to announce “cut” in between scenes of a movie in production… yes, I looked this up) and then frantically run away again. It was hectic, long, tiring, emotional and wonderful, all at once. I think Ebert and Roeper would have given the day excellent reviews.
First, I began at the school at 7:30 for a double chemistry class. Apparently, none of them had done their homework assignment (which is strange for these students; they are so diligent about their work) and their teacher, Eugene, was not happy (obliviously). So, he gave them the first part of the class to complete the assignment, and he told me if they had any questions I could answer them. Well, as it turns out, these kids didn’t do their homework not because they were feeling rebellious, or even forgetful, but because they simply had no idea what to do. I put the question on the board so maybe the entire class could do it together, but they just stared at me, faces blank, waiting for some guidance. They had never learned the topics the homework covered, so of course they couldn’t do it. I explained this to Eugene, so he tried quickly summarizing isotopes, atomic mass and average mass, and, shock of all shocks, every student in the room remained unsure of how to approach this new material. At this point, Eugene asked me if I could explain. Well, I took the chalk and drew an atom. They all could tell me about its protons and neutrons, where the electrons were and how the number of protons and electrons is the same to create a charge of zero on the atom. Then I asked what isotopes were; they were able to explain it somewhat, so I went over the definition I knew (that isotopes are a form of a given element that has more neutrons, but the actual element remains the same because its proton amount does not change). Since they could also tell me that neutrons have considerable mass in an atom, they knew that isotopes have different atomic masses than the initial element due to these additional neutrons. So, this was a considerable start. Then, we approached the problems again: given three isotopes of magnesium, each with a different percent abundance in nature, what is the average atomic mass of magnesium’s isotopes? Once they (with some help) figured out the math and how to take an average of atomic mass given isotope abundance, they got the answer and were ecstatic (both to have figured it out and to finally be finished with the problem, I think).
Chemistry ended around 9:15, and by 10:45, we were all waiting at the front gate of the village to walk to Rubona. Rubona is the very small town just outside ASYV (about a 20 minute walk, 30 if you’re carrying avocados, mangos and yards of African fabrics on your back, but we’ll get to that later). Every Tuesday and Friday, Rubona has (like Nahalat Benyamin in Tel Aviv, only their sole similarity is the timing of the markets. It ends there) On the way there, we passed a seemingly endless line of mud huts, in front of each one, children were screaming and pointing “Muzungu!” and then, on cue, the rest of the house (and the street) would come rushing out to see the parade of white people coming down the road. I really did feel like a circus animal, everyone watching me, clapping and yelling. The Rubona primary school was perhaps the most excited to see us. Children in their school uniforms – blue dresses for the girls and khaki shorts and shirts for the boys, all tattered and full of holes – came running out to the street, screaming “Hello, good morning!” “Muzungu! Muzungu!” When we finally made it to Rubona, every vendor turned their heads and stared at us. We started looking at some fabrics and the woman quickly typed into her cell phone “7000” which meant she wanted 7000 francs for it. We had been warned about Muzungu prices; we were going to be way overcharged for everything. I attempted to bargain with her but she would only settle on 5000. I told her no way, and we kept walking. I found some mangos for 100 francs (6 for 100 is her token deal. This is about 17 cents) and then a bowl full (that’s how they measure) of about 10-12 small tomatoes for the same. Avocados, since they are larger, are three for 100 francs, and I got some of those, too. The market sells incredible fruits and veggies, most notably, pineapple. I wasn’t brave enough to buy one and carry it home in my backpack, but we saw the vendors hacking them into pieces with knives and machetes, preparing them to be sold (it’s about 150 RWF, or 25 cents, for a whole pineapple). Other highlights include women selling salt by the handful (seriously... no containers) using old cans to scoop the grains from their cardboard, makeshift tables into a customer's hands. Also, the line of sewing machines where women sit for hours, having customers bring them fabric so they can make the yardage into clothes while everyone watches.
My favorite part of the market, in addition to bargaining for fabric (I ended up with two huge pieces, each must be a few yards, in different patterns, for 6000 francs total) was buying vegetable samosas and goat skewers (called brochettes). First of all, everywhere we went, we had a group of children (and some adults) following us, eyeing us. One of my friends, Rachel, whispered to me, “I’ve never felt so interesting in my life.” She was right, too; never before had anyone made such a spectacle of me. We walked to the back of the market, past the stands (which are pieces of wood nailed together), beyond the rows of sewing machines where women receive fabrics from market goers and make them into shirts, dresses and head wraps while customers wait (I wanted to see if they would make me something, but I highly doubt they take Muzungu measurements) and through the maze of carpets laid out on the dirt, full of piles of beans and nuts. In a little alleyway between the “barbershop” and (yet another) MTN (Rwanda’s cell phone company) store, there is a group of three guys who make spicy vegetable samosas. It’s literally a shack, covered by a piece of metal, and the alley, at its widest point, fits two people standing side by side. Well, we were lined up, waiting for our samosas, when on the opposite side came an entire group of children, and their parents, watching the Muzungus order potato and hot pepper treats. They stared at us and we were friendly until the language barrier became too complicated, so we started watching the guys making our snack. One has a bowl full of peeled potatoes that he mixes and simultaneously chops smaller with a huge knife, the other chops these tiny yellow peppers that are so spicy my eyes started to water, and a third makes the samosas, dropping them in the oil and then serving them to us in pieces of newspaper (yes, really, recycled newspaper). It's 2 samosas for 100 francs, and let me tell you, it was an incredible deal.
We traipsed back through the market, past the pineapple stands and to the street (well, dirt road, but it’s considered a street by Rubona standards). We crossed and went into Rubona’s lone bar, which has a refrigerator (this is a major attraction in Rwanda) and makes the most delicious brochettes (goat skewers). I don’t know if I was simply desperate for meat (something seriously lacking in my recently adopted diet) or if it was actually that good (probably both) but goat skewers and Coke (in a bottle, of course, that you have to return before leaving) has become the lunch of champions. The bar is next to the fabric stores (they aren’t stands, but actual shops) where I asked for a brown bag (plastic shopping bags are illegal in Rwanda) for my fruit and veggies, since they were floating around in my backpack and I was expecting an avocado explosion disaster before returning to the village. They were nice enough to give me one (none of the stands have bags for what you buy… you carry it on your head in a basket, of course), free of charge, I repacked my bag and we started heading back toward the village.
On our way back, we passed a very small mud hut (small in comparison to the ones around it, which is saying something) that had a very strange, handwritten sign above the door. We stopped and Ariella, who is the ASYV volunteer in charge of our group, told us that this where the volunteers buy wine for Shabbat. So, we had to get some. As it turns out, the hut is a very small store run by Rwandan nuns who make their own wine. The wine comes in plastic bottles with a small gold cap, labeled entirely in French and Kinyarwanda. We tried some later on at Kiddush, and it was actually pretty good (if you like pineapple and passion fruit flavored red wine).
We arrived back in the village, exhausted from schlepping back our purchases and very full from our goat and samosa intake, dropped off our things in the guesthouse and then ran up the hill to the school to meet Wilton, the school principal. Wilton told us his story of survival during the genocide. I recorded what he said so I have his exact words, but here is what I remember offhand:
Long before the genocide, Rwanda was taken over by Belgium. Belgian rule produced the identity cards that labeled people “Hutu” and “Tutsi;” Tutsis were considered wealthier, taller and less “African” looking while the Hutus were the middle class, shorter and darker. For a long time, Tutsis were in power, which angered the Hutu majority, but eventually, the tables turned and the Hutus gained power over their Tutsi counterparts. In the years leading up to the genocide, divisions between Hutus and Tutsis became even clearer and violence was on the rise. Wilton’s father was beaten to death in these years, as Wilton watched. His father had two wives, so Wilton was one of eighteen brothers and sisters. When he knew things in Rwanda were getting bad, and his identity card said Tutsi, he joined the RPF, the Rwandan Patriotic Front, and fled to Uganda (via the Congo, Burundi and Tanzania). He was 19 years old. When he finally returned to Rwanda, he found his home and his family in ruins. His mother, sisters and brothers were proclaimed dead and he was urged not to look for them. He sat in the house where he grew up, gun in hand, ready to end his own life, when he saw a snake in the room. He picked up his gun and shot the snake, using his last bullet and jamming the trigger. Instead of killing himself, he had killed the snake. The shot rang out and police came, taking Wilton to jail. After a short time in Rwandan prison, Wilton found two of his sisters. They all now live in Rwanda.
Today, Wilton told us, his wife, who was brutally beaten and now lives with permanent pain, and he himself, will never forgive the genocidaires (those who perpetrated the genocide). If he sees one in the street, he said (as he did during a visit to Uganda), he will follow them, tell the police and try to have them arrested. The problem, he told us, is that there are so many. So many criminals who have never been and may never be brought to justice. Wilton said he never had time to cry, to mourn his loss and properly recover. He simply picked up and carried on, knowing that such a huge part of his life was lost forever. Now still, he says, he doesn’t believe crying will fix anything for him. He now has two sons and works at the village school, helping children, who, like him, grew up with nothing and now face the aftermath of a horrible tragedy. Wilton’s strength, grace and humility, not to mention his knowledge, are incredible. He, like all other survivors, is truly one of the unsung heroes of Rwanda.
Luckily, both because I was exhausted and an emotional mess, it was time for Shabbat. Shower, retrieve challahs from the kitchen, small Kiddush with our new Rwandan nun wine. It was, thankfully, a calm and relaxing denouement to a crazy day. Life is never dull here, whether I’m running around the Rubona market, teaching atomic mass, figuring out the least-messy way to eat a goat skewer, bargaining for African print fabrics, or sitting and listening to an amazing story of survival and renewal, I am always busy, always learning something new, always finding new ways to appreciate the smallest things in my life.
Thank you for reading. Lots of love, mangos (they were delicious, by the way) and a big Shabbat Shalom from Rwanda,
Elana
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