Last sleep in Bujumbura

So it is 8:15 pm here and that gives me about an hour and a half if I am lucky before the lights go out to pack, eat supper, and do a few last minute things before departing in the morning. It has been a bit of an adventure arranging for a ride to the airport. I said goodbye to the family I have been staying with—got a bit “misty” thinking about not seeing little Tim again but managed to keep my emotions somewhat in check for now. They went up country for a peace and reconciliation festival. Tomorrow is Saturday which is a national “work day”—that means no one can travel between 7 – 10 am without being hassled by the police unless you have a special permit. The president is usually out planting trees or some such thing and others are expected to do the same. I have been trying to arrange for a taxi ride but it is complicated. I will spare you the details of the arrangements but he did come by today and I have not paid him so I am assured that he will pick me up—hopefully on time as this afternoon he was 45 minutes late which would mean I would probably miss the plane. Ah, African time.
Anyway, having written on my blog that I had not seen any drumming or dancing must have meant I was supposed to see some. Today, visiting a Deaf friend, there were drummers by his place so we watched them dance and drum. They were walking around with the drums on their heads as in the photo when we arrived which I thought was an interesting way to play the drums. Anyone from the Manitoba School for the Deaf drumming group want to try that????
After awhile, my Deaf friend asked if I had bought any dresses yet and when I replied no, he said that I could not leave without one so off we went shopping—his treat. He bought me two outfits—one a very traditional one, complete with a head wrap that I will need my colleagues in Nairobi to show me how to wear, and the second a more casual one piece dress made out of traditional cloth. They are both beautiful and he was incredibly generous. I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to spend some time here in the Deaf Community.
On the way back to my place, he wanted to know if I could quickly stop and meet his mother which we did. Well, you can imagine how this poor woman was excited to have a muzungu visit her at night at her home. She almost cooked me a meal but oh, my, the very thought of her doing so, was overwhelming. After that, we got into a gridlock and were stopped for a brief time in traffic in the pouring rain. We were rear-ended but not too badly since traffic was not really moving at the time. Hopefully, I will have no ill effects from it. At the moment I feel ok but you know I never turn down prayers.
So it is my last sleep here in Bujumbura…..let the next leg of the adventure begin!!
Peace,

Suz

Ephphitha! Be Open!

I had probably one of my best experiences facilitating here today. I had been invited to speak to the interpreters and then the Deaf Community about the code of ethics and role of interpreters. Sadly, with only three interpreters in town, one was working upcountry and the other two had been called to a meeting. That left me without interpreters to train or to interpret for me. I proceeded anyway and did a lot of role playing with the Deaf participants. We had a hoot!! Lots of laughter sprinkled in with the “Aha!” moments. We talked about positioning and I watched as they understood why interpreters need to stand or sit in a particular place. We talked about neutrality and confidentiality. I can be quite an actress at times and today was not quite worth an Oscar but still there were shining moments.
Afterwards I was able to visit a sewing workshop (Atelier de Couture) where Deaf women create and sell clothes (see above photo).

From there we went to the Ecole Ephphatha Pour Les Sourdes (the Deaf School whose name is based on the bible reading where Jesus says “Be opened!” and the Deaf man can hear) which is a primary school in Bujumbura. There is no secondary school in the country. As I toured the facility, I saw that in Grades 1-3 there were large numbers of students but by Grade 6, the numbers decreased. In this residential school, of the 130 students, 107 of them stay at the school full-time, as they live too far to travel every day. Most families cannot afford to pay the school fees for six years. The teachers are all hearing, except for the woman in the Home Ec class (for older students who come back for the one class. The teachers receive no salaries by the state—only through an NGO that donates funds. The director, a hearing woman who has worked there for 18 years, shared with me how difficult it is to feed all the children and how much food is required while there is little aid to purchase food. The children look very happy though as you can see in the photo. They only wear uniforms in the first few grades.
The children greeted me warmly and all tried to use my name sign very quickly, competing with each other to see who could do it best. They were incredibly polite and wanted me to return soon—an impossible task, of course, since I leave on Saturday. The school was started by an African American who set up several schools for the Deaf in Africa before he died in a plane crash.
The school itself is located in what was a stronghold for the rebels during the war. Fabien explained that the whole area was surrounded and great violence had in the location. Hard to believe when you see the school which is like a sanctuary in the city, with lots of green space and flowers. The school does have lots of needs, including mosquito nets that are old and torn, so that the children do not get malaria. Anyone interested in helping out?

Create in me a clean heart.....

Ash Wednesday, a day of fasting and penance, has arrived. The commentary in the missalette today says that today is “an acceptable time to ask ‘Where is my heart?’” After yesterday’s interactions and in preparation of saying good bye to people here in Burundi, I found myself delaying answering that question. I have obviously begun to steel myself rather than integrate the experiences. Today at breakfast, young Tim, started one of his stories with the traditional, “Tu sais….” and I thought about how much I am going to miss him. He has, most certainly, a piece of my heart.
Where is my heart indeed? The commentary also talked about how in Lent we are called to “strengthen our purpose and clarify our vision—to live a new covenant of right relationship with God, the earth and its people.” I remember my missioning service on the Feast of St. Lucy and the prayers for vision and Light, for being able to see Christ here in the people and all Creation. What do I see with the eyes of my heart? How am I changing from the experiences that I am gifted with here? I echo with the psalmist: Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.
This Lent is not so much about giving up something as living out something. One of the prayers of the faithful today is “For victims of war rebuilding out of ashes.” If I were sitting in a pew at St. Ignatius, would I have reacted so strongly to those words? I sometimes think that I am not exactly sure what I am living out here—but that maybe in the next 40 days that something will become clearer to me. Whatever it is I am living out this Lent, it has much more power than giving up chocolate or computer games. If it is my heart and spirit that must be transformed, then this Lent may be one of the most powerful I have ever lived out. My prayers are with you as you enter this Holy Season. May you know God’s grace and mercy in new and profound ways. May your heart and soul be transformed.

Return to the Riot Site

The Immigration officer was glad to see me at the Congolese border again yesterday. I call him Papa Yves because he is the one who made the joke about my name being incorrect—that I should be St. Yvette. I also recall him telling me he was Papa Yves—parents here are named after their first born. He recalled the exact date when I had entered and then departed DRC, accompanied by the Pastor Mkoko to ensure my safe passage back to Burundi. He was none too happy to see me leaving that day, embarrassed, I suspect, by this visitor having a bad image of his country. He could hardly look at me that day. Yesterday though, I peeked into his office and flashed him a smile which he returned. I was willing to give his country another try (keeping in mind that I had as a personal goal, no bullets, no rocket launchers). As I left today, he asked if things had gone well and when I responded affirmatively, he grinned. He hoped that I would return one day, as I explained I was returning to Kenya soon and then on to Canada. Everyone from my first visit remembered me and was so happy to have me return and enjoy my stay. We stayed at the same hotel and I slept well—no rioting. I wondered if it was like a communal “saving face” experience for all of us, myself included.
I gave a grief presentation and received the best feedback from the participants thus far. One elderly widow who had also lost some children and other relatives thanked me profusely for helping her to realize that her experience was normal and told me how she appreciated me even discussing widows. Another man expressed his gratitude for helping me see how the death of each of his parents had affected him differently.
In the midst of it all, I also had to say goodbye to people who I would not see again. One woman who I liked immediately upon meeting, teaches in a literacy and peace program. She gave me a big hug at the end and said clearly in English, (we have been communicating in French), “I love you.” She told me that she believes that women have the power to change poverty by beginning to contribute to society. Literacy helps them to do this. She and her partners have a vision of making 1,500 people in the area, targeting women especially, literate enough to vote in the 2011 election in DRC. I found out tonight that she has been raped at least 3 times in her life unrelated to the war, the first as a young girl. She has such joy and confidence that I have an ever greater respect for her, having now heard that story. She is inspiring.
Another YOUNG man (I am old enough to be his mother) insisted that I marry him—that the age difference did not matter. I really had to try hard to get out of that one gently, but I figured when he asked if I had any younger sisters, that I had not hurt him too badly. Ramona??????????
The Deaf woman and I had several encounters this visit. I had brought her a care package of food as a gift and she told me today that her mother sent her appreciation as well. I wished I had met her mother as I understand that she speaks Swahili, French and English so I could have verified what I had understood since the signs are different. The Deaf woman related the story of how she and her mother fled from Bujumbura during the war in 1993 and settled in DRC. At one point, heavy arms exploded all around them and they needed to flee up in the hills to hide. She prayed to God for safety and for food as she was hungry. God provided. As she came down the hill later, she indicated by gazing with her eyes to either side of her, the numerous bodies strewn around her of the people who had not escaped unscathed. For those of you who understand signed languages, you will fully comprehend when I say that her facial expression almost made me cry, and then she turned to me and simply signed, “Sorry.” She did not have to use many words to express how sorrowful she was to see the aftermath of the attack.
I do feel I have made a difference in the lives of these people somehow, and they certainly have impacted me deeply. As I prepare to leave, I am grateful that I did return to the scene of my trauma and that I had a chance to complete my work in the area. This has been one of the life-changing moments that I will need to integrate into my graced history, as we Ignatian people say. It has been gift, rocket launchers and all.

With Gratitude,

Suzanne

Sunday Activities

I went to a worship service in English on Sunday at Partners Trust International. Upon arrival they were singing “You Never Let Go” a contemporary Christian song that is on the radio in Canada. The refrain begins, “Oh no, You never let go, through the calm and through the storm” but there are also these great lines from the first verse “Your perfect love is casting out fear and even when I’m caught in the middle of the storms of this life I won’t turn back, I know You are near” cushioned by Scripture verses from the psalms before and after. I found great comfort in the words and then we immediately went into “Our God Reigns” which seemed so appropriate. I know that even in the toughest of days here, I do believe in these concepts.
The teaching, on the first few chapters of Mark, was challenging. The preacher asked who would we have been if we had been part of the scene (almost Ignatian in theory) when the family of Jesus came to rescue him? The religious leaders, his family, a member of the crowd, or his disciples? In which group would we have stood, not knowing what we know 2000 years later? I don’t think there was an easy answer for me, although I do continue to turn the question around in my mind. The preacher also gave a beautiful explanation of several points that I had not considered. He asked why Jesus touched the leper if he could heal him. There was no need for him to touch the leper which was considered unclean, and so it was an unexpected act. He wanted to show he was one with the leper and he almost changes places with him—the leper going into the village and Jesus retreating into the desert which was where most outcasts were. I wonder how often we can willingly change places with the poor and marginalized?
After lunch, a group of us went to the Musee Vivant, a tourist attraction here that is a mix of a zoo (primarily crocodiles, snakes, and 2 antelopes) and a reconstruction of a typical Burundian village. The storm clouds looked threatening but we were fortunate to see all the exhibits without a deluge. I am not sure I would place this in the category of fortunate, but our guide decided to feed one of the crocodiles a live guinea pig while we were there. The crocodile was not as fast so it took several attempts before he devoured the little critter, with squeals resounding from his closed mouth for a few minutes before silence and a smug look of satisfaction ensued. One of the men in our group captured it on videotape so for those not brave enough to watch it live, reruns were available.
We stopped briefly for drinks at the lake before one of the group and I went for supper at a lakefront restaurant. Ordering food has been a challenge here but this time, Ian who does speak French and I had a good laugh because the conversation was hilarious. I ordered spinach lasagna and the waiter came back to say there was none but there was meat lasagna which still sounded fine by me so I adjusted my order. However, another waiter came back with a second man and said unfortunately there was no meat lasagna only spinach. Hmmmm…..You can’t always get what you want but sometimes you can??? Towards the end of supper, Ian noticed other guests looking towards the lake. Two hippos were in the water. Before we left, they had actually come ashore and were munching contently on their own evening meal. It was a fabulous day all around (well, maybe not so much for the guinea pig) as my time here in Burundi begins to draw to an end.
Peace,
Suz

A little bit about a little country

I have not written much in detail about Burundi and thought that I should do so a wee bit, if for nothing else, to do a bit of a geography lesson. Bujumbura is the capital city of Burundi and it is situated amongst the hills and on the shores of Lake Tanganyika. There are no traffic lights here, just a few roundabouts and stop signs. The neighbourhood I am in is called Kigobe Nord and it is close to the Parliament building. I have not actually asked but I am guessing that one does not stop in to visit the Parliament the way you would the Golden Boy at home. One of the main streets downtown has a fancy hotel called Hotel Amahoro where I sometimes check email since it is free. Outside the hotel there are many beggars. There is a huge Catholic Cathedral downtown as well that I have been to once. I am not sure I have mentioned that the congregation claps here during the changing of the bread and wine and after the gospel reading. Apparently that is an African tradition—it happens in other countries here as well.
When you leave Bujumbura and head to Gitega (photo), Kimbiba or Burasira where I have been, you say that you are going upcountry. Literally you travel up the hills, along winding roads to get there. It can be a little cooler up there. The first night in Gitega, I slept with a fleece on.
The city is mixed ethnically and religiously. Catholics were the majority of the population at one time, but a variety of evangelical churches exist. Faithfully at 4:30 each morning, prayers waft from the mosque. I am used to it now so sleep through them but the other morning I was awake and heard them again. Muslims did not distinguish themselves as an ethnic group during the 1993 crisis, and remained neutral by not participating in the killings. Perhaps because of this, there has been an increase in people exploring this faith and a rise in numbers of Muslims. The population is made up of Hutus, Tutsis, and Twa, primarily. The Twa are a marginalized group in smaller numbers than the other two. Bujumbura has many Congolese people living here as well. Kirundi and French are the main languages. Before colonization, the Hutus and Tutsis lived harmoniously in the collines, spoke the same language and had the same culture. In more recent years, there have been a number of conflicts that have divided the communities.
Drumming is famous here and I often hear it during the late afternoon though I have not seen it live. Drums are from the days when there were kings in Burundi. I have not seen any live traditional dancing either but have seen both drumming and dancing on television.
Burundi is one of the most densely populated (and I may have read somewhere that it is the most densely populated) country in Africa. It is one of the least urbanized countries in the world. Primarily an agricultural country, coffee, tea, sugar, sorghum, corn, pineapple, and other typical southern crops are grown. Livestock, especially cattle, are a sign of wealth. More than half the population lives below poverty. Half the population walks at least a kilometer to fetch water. Literacy rates are low, especially for girls, in the rural areas. Because of the war and the use of rape as a weapon, AIDS is prevalent, with lots of orphans as an outcome. I read one stat that said that 20% of children die before their 5th birthday. With few animals remaining in Burundi, there is little to entice tourists to come here instead of East Africa.
This landlocked country is beautiful, its people welcoming, and peace is slowly taking hold due in part to efforts like CAPI and its partners. I hope that gives you a bit of a glimpse into this country that has hosted me these past few weeks in a little more “academic” way than I have been sharing.

Am I in Venice???

I had hoped to post a blog yesterday but I had to post it today. Here is why. I needed a phone card but it rained steadily most of the day yesterday and turned our street into a river as you can see from the photo. The boutique that sells the phone cards which I need to have in order to load money onto my Internet account from my mobile phone is on the other side of the street from where I am living. The family I am staying with is in the car with the headlights on at the end of the block in the photo. They had gone into town to the airport to retrieve a colleague from Goma who had just arrived in Bujumbura for a conference. I walked down to meet them and we went out to a great East Indian restaurant that opened two months ago in Bujumbura. LOVED it! I felt like I had had a bit of a vacation or something. The ambiance was peaceful, the company great, the waiters constantly attended to our needs, and the food was awesome. It’s a short blog today as I have a lot of work to do and the electricity was not working earlier today.
Amahoro,
Suz

On the road again.....

I had a lovely sojourn to Kigali last week via a little bus called “Yahoo Express!” The driver was a bit of a yahoo—most aggressive driving yet on these roads. Once or twice I thought there would be an accident because of his ambition to get to the border crossing before the other buses. Road rage is alive and well here too. Both Burundi and Rwanda are gorgeous countries and with the rain just begun, what was already green seems to be even more luscious. I left Bujumbura at 7:30 am and arrived in Kigali around 2:00 pm. Rwanda is called “Land of 1,000 Hills” and makes for spectacular scenery along the way. At the border, the Rwandese immigration officer greeted me and exclaimed, “You’re a saint!” when he saw my name. “Apparently,” I replied, laughing, “but only because of my father.” After he stamped my passport, he said that he was glad to know his country now had a saint in it. Had I mentioned the immigration officer from DRC who told me my name was wrong—that it should be St. Yvette since I was a woman?
In Kigali, I met an American who is doing her master’s in South Africa and was just beginning some research in Rwanda. I enjoyed our supper conversation at the Guest House. Turns out she is friends with an American that I met in Bujumbura and she told me he was in town for training and was staying the next night with us. We had a good time—I have to admit that I needed to chat in English and laugh for a long time. It did almost as much for my soul as the beautiful scenery. I can get so serious here that it is extremely important to continually and consciously seek to find balance.
Friday after interviewing a man about mediation and some other projects Quaker Friends are doing in Kigali, I decided to jump on a public bus and head into town with a woman and her fiancé since I had broken my comb that morning. I went down to the local supermarket—Nakumatt—and got a new one. The adventure, of course, began when I had to make my way back to the Guest House solo (no laughing yet, ML!!). I found the right bus, and suddenly found myself alone but I refused to get off because I was sure it was going further. It was indeed! However, it stopped again and the assistant said something that I thought meant I had to get off. So I did, just as about 50 other people were trying to get on. I lost my spot. I stood there watching the bus pull away and then looked up at the sky, and shook my head. Though it was 1:30 in the afternoon, the sky was black. I knew I did not have much time to stand around, waiting for another bus. I saw a taxi scooter, and decided to jump on it. Loved it!! A little scary here and there since scooters don’t get too much respect but I arrived safe and dry and that is all that counts.
The woman who was getting married the next day had invited me to her dowry exchange which was supposed to be at 9:00 am. My supervisor and I were leaving for DRC at noon. True to the African understanding of time, we waited two hours without even seeing the groom. Too bad!! I did see the bride who was one of many women getting married on Valentine’s Day in Kigali.
The trip to Goma was uneventful. I facilitated another session on grieving to a small group of people who are working with trauma victims. I did not return to the IDP camp but I did talk to the Goma Relief Committee and told them that the St. Ignatius Refugee Committee would like to partner with them in the coming year and try to assist them financially. They were thrilled and thanked us for our compassion. They are doing such good work and even with Nkunda arrested there is still much instability and uncertainty in the area. When asked what Nkunda’s arrest meant, one of the elders, a man with excellent English (he was the first Congolese to study in the USA), retorted with a shrug and a twinkle in his eye, that he was under house arrest. As he talked, the image that came to mind was that of Martha Stewart—not really a very serious punishment. Sounds like a “Let’s make a deal!” scenario.
One of the men who was my interpreter and chauffeur last trip to Goma had, while attempting to change a tire on a vehicle, accidently had his leg run over. He amazingly only suffered a dislocation and some torn ligaments or something. He is in rough shape but it could have been much worse in many ways. Prayers for his recovery are appreciated since health care here leaves something to be desired. He has some other minor injuries but they could end up being severe if doctors do not treat him properly. One concern is that he is in a full leg cast but has a pretty severe wound to his leg which is not being exposed to the air or treated in any fashion.
I did manage to eat something that did not agree with me and took half an Immodium to survive the 3.5 hour bus trip back to Kigali. I am a fan now and will no longer roll my eyes at those silly hot tub commercials touting the abilities of the drug. I was not too sick but it was a wee bit of an adventure. For the most part I have done fairly well with food and water and have remained quite well.
I am back in Bujumbura until Monday when I return to the village where the riot took place. It has been pretty calm there so I hope to have no further incident involving bullets or rocket launchers!!! Jeff, I remember your words of advice to stay out of trouble: trouble = bullets.

Thanks again for all who are following my journey. Lucien, welcome aboard! Glad to see you've joined us. Fr. B, I hear you are back too! Karibu! I am half way through my adventure and will be home in no time! Hard to believe really.

Suz

When is Never Again?

I do not think I wrote about seeing the memorial for those killed at Kibimba back some time ago. Kibimba is on the way to Gitega and in one of my first blogs I talk about the runner and the book that I read prior to leaving called, This Voice in My Heart. I stopped on the way to take some photos. In case you do not remember, the site memorialized the massacre of secondary students, teachers and neighbours who were Tutsis at a school during the Crisis in 1993. Some of the students, Gilbert the author of the book, being one of them, ended up seeking shelter from the Hutus in a petrol station, but to no avail. Most were burned to death. Gilbert barely escaped, by using a femur of a classmate to break a window and outrun those who wanted to kill him. There is also a memorial that says “Plus Jamais Ca!” – Never Again. We hear that so often these days but I wonder when never again will happen. We have had so many incidents of crimes against humanity and we still don’t react as an International Community in a timely or efficient manner. I have been doing a great deal of reading about what happened to the people here, about the number of children recruited as soldiers to kill, and about stories of hope and reconciliation. When I was up in Burasira I started to read Stolen Angels which is about the 130 girls who were stolen by Kony’s rebels in Northern Uganda and forced to be soldiers or “wives”. These are common stories in these parts. I have also met a man named Sebastien who should well be dead but continues to do what he calls “God’s work.” Levy hires armed guards as he goes about the daily work of making peace and healing communities here in Burundi. Mama Helen has accepted hundreds of children of rape who have been abandoned and now live in the DRC at Naomi’s Foundation. For every inch that the darkness tries to claw, I see miles of redemption embraced by people who should have been torn apart by their experience. These are the real agents of peace, agents of hope, and agents of blessing to so many people in dire need.

ps: Am off to Kigali and Goma again. Back on Tuesday. Not sure that I will post until then. Happy Valentine's Day one and all!

Burundian Wild Life

I have not seen too many wild animals here. I asked Zachee the other day if he remembers wildlife in his youth. He said yes, but that there were many hunters and now there is nothing here. I also have heard stories that during the Crisis, many of the animals were also killed, including the last Burundian elephant by the rebels. When I was at the seminary in Burasira, I saw the monkey named Sampson that they keep on a leash. Until Sunday, I had really not seen anything in the wild and then Zachee suggested that we go to the river to see the hippos. It was a national park with the opportunity to drive through the forest with a guide and armed guard (complete with automatic weapon) and to get out at the river to see these huge beasts. They make a rather frightening sound which might explain why poor Tim was not too keen on going to see them and maybe why he did not sleep too well that night. I tried singing “If you love a hippotamus….” to him but could not soothe him. I was in awe of these creatures and do look forward to hopefully going on a safari when I am in Nairobi. I had almost decided that I would not but now I think I could do with a healthy dose of God’s magnificent creation before returning home. This experience of working here has shifted something about what I thought I might do here as a tourist. I have less desire to do some of the things that I thought I might do and more of an intention to experience the non-touristy side of this continent. Not to worry, Kathy, if you are reading this, my intent is definitely to see your elephants in Nairobi—I am quite excited about that daytrip!

Visit with Burundian Deaf Community

Friday I had the opportunity to meet with the Deaf Community here in Bujumbura. The photo shows some of the group I met with. On the far left is Fabien; he is the leader of the Burundian National Association of the Deaf. On the far right is Lucky who is hearing and studied in South Africa. He introduced me to the BNAD members. To my left and right two down, are the interpreters who have asked me to return later this month and talk a little about the Code of Ethics that I follow to help them develop their own. Right now they do not follow anything. They just try their best but have no training. They would love to have an interpreter come for three months and give them some intensive training. Know anyone who might want to do that?
I had an engaging conversation with the members of the BNAD. I talked about the drumming and robotics program at MSD. I also mentioned the exchange program with Japan and they would love to have one with us too. I told them that Deaf children in Canada can be educated for free until they are 21 years old at secondary school. I talked about how Canada has Deaf lawyers, teachers, principals, politicians, and other professionals. They were so impressed. I talked about the Networking Days that the COT team holds and how we bring together Deaf and Hard of hearing students from the province along with school staff and parents. They LOVED that idea. Here there are two schools: one in Buju and one in Gitega. I wish I had known earlier this week when I was in Gitega as I would have loved to have visited.
I went out for lunch with Fabien and Lucky after my morning with the community. I felt brave enough to ask Fabien about what happened to the Deaf people during “the Crisis” as it is often called—the killing of Tutsis and Hutus in 1993/4. I was pretty certain that I would not offend him if culturally I could ask such a direct question. I was right. I was also right about what I thought his answer would be. When people came to the place where the Deaf people were, they did not identify one another when asked who was Hutu and who was Tutsi. They were Deaf first and chose to stay together and not turn each other in. While other friends and neighbours were killing each other, this minority group did not. Maybe the Deaf Community could teach the rest of Burundians how to live in peace?

Agent of blessing and entertaining angels unaware

I was trying to find the entrance to the grand seminary pictured here so that I could go to the church and pray a bit but the old man who guarded the place and only spoke Kirundi was not letting this muzungu near the gate. He finally called out to a young woman who was nearby and who suggested that yes, he could let me in. At the same time a younger man appeared with a woman and he took charge of the situation. Karibu! I was definitely welcome to see the church and he, and his attractive companion, led me through the grounds. When I said I wanted to pray, he was delightfully surprised and left me to the task. I bumped into the couple on my way out and he took my hand and said something in French I did not understand and led me back into the grounds and into a room which turned out to be the dining hall and visitor room. I was joining them for lunch apparently. After awhile, others joined us and what seemed like a bit of a flirtatious or affectionate exchange with several of the men gathered who wanted to practice their English, we shared a lovely meal. I think one of the nuns saw a prize to be snatched up and she did not let go of my hand when I greeted her and I had to wrestle my way out of her grip somewhat diplomatically. I think, Mary Lou, you should have more concerns about her than a man keeping me here in Africa!

At one point, early on, the man who I had first encountered said to me in French that he liked to welcome strangers to which I had responded that one never knew when they might be entertaining angels when they welcomed strangers. He looked surprised by my answer and declared, “Christ lives in you.” “And you,” I responded. He seemed to be such an agent of blessing for me, as did several of the people I met that day.
You can imagine my great surprise when the next day, four of the friendliest men turned out to be the priests at the mass. Now my clue should have been when one told me he was the professor of liturgy but what do I know really? Anyway, I am still learning all the cultural roles and affection here means something different for the most part. I sure appreciated having the opportunity to attend daily mass and even adoration. A choir of 109 seminarians of different orders sang morning prayers each day. Daily mass was concelebrated by up to six priests at times. We struggle to attract men to the priesthood but that did not seem to be the case. One priest I met briefly, came to talk to me when he found out I was involved with the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius, a 400-year old tradition of prayer. In a note he later left me, he said “I am frankly grateful (that you) shared your noble experience of God…Jesus is your best traveling companion.” Something in these simple words touched me deeply and summed up what the men from this seminary were for me—angels unaware. I had been in withdrawal from my morning prayer routine since my February miselette is still in Nairobi and the St. Ignatius website does not appear to be updated while Fr. B is in the hospital. I have now taken to doing morning and evening prayer from the January misselette, since morning prayer was a lovely start with these men. I came across this phrase during evening prayer in the intercessions: “For the grace to be agents of blessing, we pray…” and that has become my prayer now—that I may continue to be an agent of blessing, of peace, of hope and that I may be ready to entertain angels and be entertained by them.

How come you are still talking? Or What did I just say?

I have not spoken anything of my experience of what it is like being an interpreter and having to depend on interpreters to get my information. The photo is of participants from one of the grief sessions I gave in DR Congo.

Today I have been working on the newsletter. I have about 13 possible articles that I can pull together at the moment, ranging from the Declaration being presented to Quakers on the dire situation in the Goma Relief Efforts, to weapons collection in Gitega (30+ automatic weapons, 1000+ grenades, etc. from local people turning in their weapons stash since the war ended), to election monitoring in Burundi next year, to the local work being done with HIV/AIDS and peace. Some of the material being gathered is in the second language of the person I am interviewing which makes me struggle with the accuracy of the reporting. Sometimes, I have sat through a presentation with an interpreter where I went from Point One to Point Six and wondered what happened to the other five points. It has been a bit of a challenge—one that I thought I knew well from my work as an interpreter—but now realize that I have only mildly understood what it is like to be dependent on an interpreter for EVERYTHING. I have watched as others broke out in gales of great laughter and the interpretation I received was not in the least bit funny. I have felt terribly left out of prayers that do not get interpreted for the most part, especially the final prayer of the workshop that I recently facilitated. In fact, I later learned that the interpreter had asked for an evaluation of my session and had not translated a single word but gave me the summary later. I sit occasionally at meals, struggling to understand, but not wanting to ask again what is going on. I sit through entire services in Kirundi and have no idea what has transpired so I start making it up in my head. Ok, that was the Our Father, no, this is it now, or maybe now…or ugh! It is a humbling, growing edge experience and I have thought more than once, that Deaf children in public schools should be given some kind of award for surviving each school day. In fact, Deaf people, in general, have even more of my admiration and respect for not lambasting some of us more often. I struggle trying to find a balance between stopping everything so I can be included more, or letting it slide so that people don’t have to slow down for every little detail. On the flip side, when I am presenting, I sometimes have to wonder what on earth the interpreter just said in Kirundi and should he still be talking since I only said five words?? Other times I have been thrilled that the process is going so smoothly. I am developing a fondness for consecutive interpreting. I am unsure how this will impact my work as a consultant but I am sure it will. In fact, it may turn out to be one of the most valuable lessons I learn.

"You made us wash our hands."

I have been up in Burasira (photo is of view) for the weekend visiting Jodi, an MCC volunteer, and soaking up the opportunity to attend daily mass at the grand seminary there and taking some time to read and relax. I really felt as if I had entered a bird sanctuary on my first walk. A number of brightly coloured birds flitted around me, chirping cheerfully, as if to invite me to slow down and find some joy here. The pace of this internship has been constant as I have struggled with integrating the images of poverty and the cultural adjustments, learning the basic elements of four new languages (French, Kiswahili, Kirundi, and Kinyarwanda), and trying to find some balance as an introvert who has easily met over 100 people, many who expect me to remember their names. I cut myself a lot of slack so don’t worry!! I am not too hard on myself in this regard.
I was able to reflect a little more on the workshop that I gave for the Mi-Parec Staff and having checked out one of the comments that was made during the evaluation feel more comfortable with how things went. One participant told me that I had made them wash their hands. I knew the comment was related to a hand washing ceremony that is done in Burundi after a death but I was not totally clear on the context so I asked today when I returned. Because the graves are dug by some of those in attendance, it is necessary to wash one’s hands afterwards. It also symbolizes the end of the life, perhaps initiating the beginning of closure. The staff seemed quite happy to see me and welcomed me back. In fact, three had come up to Burasira to fetch me so that I would not have to take public transport back down the winding dirt road, filled with crate-sized potholes. After checking in, I found that one woman was fine but that the other had had dreams about her mother and was deeply missing her but I still stand by my assessment that this type of thing is a step forward on the grief journey.
The discussion moved on to what I thought about Burundi. Bridget married a Burundian at the end of last year so the question came up as to whether I might also want to marry one. I laughingly said yes and made an instant friendship with my three travel mates. When I asked about their marital status, all were married with children. One woman responded with yes, and four. I asked in French if she meant four husbands or four children. After a startled pause, great gales of laughter arose, followed by a “high five” like gesture of hand slapping and holding. I had done well in making my joke. Of course, my response about a Burundian husband got me in trouble when one of my travel mates brought her brother to meet me today. Trouble is, he looked 20 years old. I love Africans who think I am 23 and cannot believe I am over 40. Of course, part of their disbelief is that I have already surpassed the mean age of survival here—most people don’t live much beyond 40. Hence the grieving process is carried out often and while people are still quite young. I have given thanks for each year of my life for quite some time now, but now I do feel privileged that I am “middle-aged” and not near the end of my life.
A lot of hand washing goes on here by people who do not get to live long. This weekend after Sunday mass several people stopped in to see Jodi with a variety of ailments though it was my antibacterial ointment we used for a burn, a scrape and a cut toe. I held a baby in my arms whose mother had already lost three infants due to disease and this one looked like he had the same unidentified malady. We sent her off with some money to a nearby hospital. I am not sure that I will know the end of that story but I sure hope it has a happier one as most people simply cannot afford healthcare and so do not seek it. Perhaps having been given the means, a solution was found. One can only hope.