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
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)