Land of a thousand contrasts

It has been pretty easy for me to fall in love with Rwanda. Like, head over heels. Of the 37 trainees in my new class, 14 of us are transfers from Mauritania, and we especially are in constant amazement. The word I've most commonly employed to describe my first impressions has been "absurd" -- it's just unbelievable to me how different two places can be and still we lump them under the giant umbrella of Africa. "Night and day" only scratches the surface.

It's GORGEOUS here. Rwanda is called the "land of a thousand hills," and it's no joke -- they stretch on and on, and every inch seems to be covered in green. Even the national capital, Kigali, boasts lush gardens and is one of the cleanest cities I've ever seen (it helps that plastic bags and street food are both illegal). All the vehicles on the roads are in surprisingly functional and attractive condition, which may not seem like much, but consider that in Mauritania and Senegal you were lucky if you got in a car with even one of the following: a working speedometer, interior side paneling, a handle on every window. I couldn't believe that I hadn't seen a single goat until we got well outside Kigali, and even then they are always tied up. (Note that in Mauritania there are 14 million sheep and goats, with only 3 million people. I think that, literally, one was never more than a stone's throw away.) Oh, and the weather? Forget about it. I've been legitimately chilly more often than not. We've had consistent highs of 75-80 degrees every day, and at night I'm snuggling up under blankets.

As for the culture of Rwanda, it is much less conservative than in Mauritania. Alcohol is far from illegal here (during just our first week in-country, we had a total of three Peace Corps-sponsored events with complimentary adult beverages). When we reached our training site for the first time, the staff members were lined up to welcome us. I feel accustomed now never to extend my hand to a man to shake, but here the men HUGGED us -- I almost didn't know what to do! And many women dress quite fashionably, in fitted jeans and knee-length skirts and bare shoulders, and few cover their heads. It's all very hard to get used to! I actually feel almost inappropriate walking around in my Mauritanian "clown clothes" (as I've nicknamed them for their crazy bright colors), although people on the street do get a kick out of it.

But for all this beauty and infrastructure and impressive development, there is of course always this specter of the 1994 genocide. It hadn't been much in my consciousness for the first day here, I admit. Like I said, it's so easy to fall in love with this place. But on our second day in Rwanda, we visited the national genocide memorial in Kigali. As we assembled in the parking lot before entering, I was next to our bus driver and I happened to notice a thin, slightly jagged scar the length of his forearm. And it hit me so sharply as I realized: that's but a pale reflection of the scars inside. (Since then, I've been aware of scars on many people I meet. And you don't wonder if they fell off a moto, or if they had a cooking mishap; you just know.)

The grounds of the memorial are tranquil and beautiful. A total of 260,000 bodies have been laid to rest here, and more are continually added as remains are found. The museum inside goes first through a detailed history of the country and what led to the genocide. I was surprised to learn that the distinction between so-called ethnic groups had been determined rather haphazardly in the 1930s by the ruling Belgians. On census day, those families with 10 or more cows had "Tutsi" stamped on their identity cards, and the rest were declared "Hutu."

This genocide was disturbingly calculated. Death lists of Tutsis and Hutu moderates were pre-prepared, allowing the attackers to act very efficiently. An estimated 800,000 to 1 million people were killed within the first 100 days (an average of 7 per minute), and more in the months and years that followed. There was a large room filled from floor to ceiling with 4x6 photos of just a fraction of the dead. So many stories cut short: a beaming bride in white, a teacher in his classroom, a whole family in front of their home.

Most heart-wrenching was a room dedicated to all the children and infants killed. Large pictures of wide-eyed, smiling faces were accompanied by plaques sharing some personal details. "Favorite food: fries and mayonnaise. Best friend: her sister. Personality: clever in school." These innocent tidbits painted a happy reverie, which was brutally shattered as the last line for each child gave a blunt and succinct "cause of death": Hacked with machete. Bludgeoned with club. Shot in the head. Set on fire in a church. Grenade thrown into her shower. Stabbed in eyes and head. Smashed against a wall. Children.

And it's all so fresh. Anyone you meet, anyone you pass on the street who is over the age of 15 is a survivor. He lost all his brothers; she lost all her children. As I make casual new acquaintances, I've learned never to ask about anyone's family. The story is often just too painful.

But ever onward, ever onward. The Rwandans on our Peace Corps staff team are wonderful and are so excited to have us here. The people we pass as we walk to language class are kind and patient with our mispronounced greetings. The children are eager to learn and somehow seem far less aggressive here than Mauritania. Surprisingly, most speak passable English already. I tried to practice my nascent Kinyarwanda skills with a child of about 5: "Amakuru?" She answered, perfectly, "I am fine, thank you."

So, it's amazing to be here, and at this time in particular. Murakaza neza mu Rwanda -- welcome to Rwanda.


Peace Corps Rwanda Trainees -- October 9, 2009