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.