25 October 2009
Yesterday's visit to the genocide memorial seems like ages ago.
I used to let boys make me feel small.
You wanna know what small feels like?
Go stand in a room full of the
bodies of children, some with
second-hand sweaters still colorfully
intact.
Go breathe in the air
of preserved adults,
murdered 15 years ago
by their neighbors.
Now walk into room
after room
of this story on repeat.
That's what small feels like.
miniscule.
I think yesterday's visit was more than an nausea-inducing experience.
I think yesterday's visit was a reality check in a major way.
What are you meant to feel after something like that?
I found myself struggling to answer this question.
I realize now how silly and ignorant I was, trying to put it into perspective, thinking to myself "what if that was your family in there? what if that was the body of your sister?" I think I felt overwhelmed by a desire to feel. Just to feel SOMETHING. I am generally one of the most empathetic people I know, but yesterday I found myself at a loss for much other than complete confusion and guilt. Even now I can't find the words to describe it, I think maybe because I don't know what "it" is. I felt guilty for wanting to feel something, confused for not knowing what that should be, and now I feel stupid for ever having thought that I could even begin to fathom the unmatchable suffering that this country and that these people cope with every single day.
Gosh damnit. Talk about a slap in the face.
One of the language teachers confided in one of our trainees today telling her that in 1994 his family was meant to go to the place we visited yesterday but for one reason or another had been unable to make the trip. Back in the day, it was being built as a school I believe, but Tutsi families had been told that they could go there to find safety during the genocide. Ultimately it had all been set up as a trap, everyone there was cornered and murdered.
In a conversation with one of our trainees, another language teacher who'd been clearly upset being there yesterday pointed out how the location of the school had been a perfect place to trap the Tutsi families. It was on a hill, insight of everyone, there was nowhere people could run to for safety without being seen. I don't know this particular teacher's story (stories of the genocide are incredibly personal and for many, require a close, intimate relationship before they will share) but what for us Peace Corps trainees yesterday, was a "field trip" to a genocide memorial, was maybe for her, or for some of our teachers a visit to their would-have been deathbed, literally; that could have been their bodies laid out, slowly decomposing on the tables in front of the world, serving as a constant reminder of the results of hate and violence.
And these teachers, every day I am sure just getting out of bed is hard enough for some as they live with survivors guilt or the loss of loved ones, but on days like yesterday, days where we visit an all too recent past, a wound that has hardly had time to scab over, they put on the strongest, most sober faces I have ever seen. They show this incredible strength and maintain composure where others would crumble, and why? To take us trainees to these memorials, to educate us, to help us see a glimpse into the broken hearts of this country, the reasons behind some of the challenges we will face not only in our classrooms but in trying to become a part of a community that may be resistant to such strangers and change.
And then I take a look at myself, my life, my presence in Rwanda.
Yeah, I am not looking forward to the 3 language classes I have tomorrow (5.5 hours or so), or to the awkward visits to my resource family or to being asked for money every single day, but if these teachers, these amazing individuals can get up and do this for us every day, if they can visit places of such pain, in the name of our education, pardon my language, but honestly, who the fuck am I to complain?
Being here is hard, but I don't think I'd want to be anywhere else.
Attitude Check. Reality Check. In a major way.
Walking back from from my resource family's home this afternoon, cool sprinkles of rain kissed my otherwise overheating skin. The mist fell as the sun continued to shine. I searched above for a rainbow but found only cloudy mountains going the extra 10% to meet the sky. It really is a sight, here in the land of 1,000 hills, on days like this, it's hard to say if what you're looking at is a heavy cloud cradled between peaks or if it's actually a mountain dressed in disguise.
On the way I passed a small shop (that sells the same things as any other little store around here: biscuits (their taste resembling chocolate cardboard, but you eat them anyway because just the idea of a cookie resembles home), concentrated juice mix (that helps to cover the orange color of the water and the horrible taste from the water filter, toilet paper - sold by the roll (TP is more of a luxury than an expectation here) ect.) playing American music. Jordan Sparks, "One Step at a Time" just happened to be on the radio. That song, oh man. I don't care how over-played or how cheesy it is, that song helped to get me through the slumps of senior year, and believe me there were some slumps. The upbeat tune put some pep in my step and reminded me to avoid feeling too overwhelmed about things beyond my control. Sometimes I think music has a way of catching us at just the right moment. This was one of those moments. My visit to Cecile's was more successful this time around as her English-speaking neighbor came over and helped to translate so we could actually communicate and make plans, he left me his number so I can call if I get lost trying to find her house later this week, ect.and then damn, what do you know? There's Jordan Sparks reassuring me that I will make it through this, it will all be okay.
One Step at a Time.
ps.
I really don't drink nearly as much water here as I should. If you want or have the resources, please send some kind of powdered drink mix. Also, I really, really need envelopes. I suggest the kind that have the sticker-seal (the lick-seal ones seal themselves in the humidity). I have had to get creative for the envelopes I've sent letters in so far... but I'm running out of ideas and paper.
pps.
Eat, Pray, Love: Chapter 22 <- My new Jordan Sparks "One Step at a Time"
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