Early days at work

Each day I leave home just after seven to walk up my cobblestone road into the rising sun, sometimes shining sharp and clear and sometimes bathing the walkers with soft rays that drift through the morning mist. I cross a busy road to join the commuters crowded at the bus stop, sharing their single-minded aim of jostling their way onto one of the already crowded mini-buses. I have already become adept at elbowing myself a spot and already it is routine.

At the Kigali Memorial Centre, a rocky beginning, a crisis which I did not even know was going on for some days: the director arrested the day before I began work, on corruption charges related to another organization he is involved with (Ibuka, an umbrella association for all the genocide survivor groups). Only slowly did I become informed, initially being told that he was off ‘dealing with problems,’ and only slowly did I become aware of the degree of anxiety and stress his arrest was causing the staff.

When the charges were dropped, the atmosphere became jubilantly electric. Although all the details are still unclear to me, it was obvious that had he been further detained or convicted, I would have been surrounded by a grieving staff. He made a short heartfelt speech thanking all for the messages of support, the visits in jail, for continuing with the work in his absence, and then we ate two cakes and prayed, holding hands in a circle.

Slowly (notice how often I use this word) I take small steps to find my own path. Trying to understand the work culture, the organizational structure, the educational program, my role and responsibilities, and how to make meaningful connections has been a challenge. Trying to adapt to long days with great gaps of time where I have no idea what to do. Grateful when the opportunity came to attend the educational program, and appreciative of Parfaite, one of the facilitators, who spent the day translating. Like most of the staff, she has acquired English as a third language after Kinyarwanda and French.

The thirty secondary school students were dressed in cheap polyester dark blue skirts or pants, light blue shirts and long-sleeved v-neck pullovers with white stripes around the v and the bottom ribbing. A few students, all male, sported bright orange shirts and green sweaters, the different uniform signifying that they were students in a trades training program. One accompanying adult, I presume a teacher, is tall, thin and elegant; she is wearing black pants and jacket over white tailored blouse. Her hair is braided and her heeled shoes click on the floor. Another adult, a sister, is frumpy in a white-rimmed headscarf and school uniform complete with mid calf baggy skirt and white socks. The students single file into the group room, even spaces between them, and sit down in silence while they wait for the session to begin.

I wonder what they are thinking, whether they are curious, apprehensive or hostile to learning about the genocide. I wonder what their stories are, whether they lost family members, whether they have family members in prison, whether they know each other’s stories or whether they are silent. Whether their parents - victims, perpetrators, bystanders, or post genocide returnees - are reconciled or whether, as described in one article I read recently, they are all pretending peace because of the necessity of living side by side in this crowded country.

No clear answers but the workshop resulted in my first moments of being really engaged – my brain filled with thoughts about both the content and the methodology - and I spent the next morning contemplating ways to more effectively reach the program objectives of ‘learning from the past to build the future.’ Some hours whizzed by happily as I scribbled notes and ideas, considering questions of truth and narrative, and making up a grand scenario for the students to work with, completely forgetting that I had promised myself that I would never write another curriculum!

I have kept my promise to visit the ancestors every day and find much solace in doing so. On a warm and overcast day, after a short thunderstorm and rain shower, I took a few photographs so that you can glimpse the gentle beauty that holds the mass graves. And me.

This is the flame that burns in the courtyard during the annual hundred-day commemoration of the genocide.

Everywhere in Kigali are hills, often with marshland in the bottomlands. Looking across the valley, this shantytown rises from the wetlands.

This view looks across to the city centre.

At the end of the day, I walk to another building and collect Wim, a thirty-seven year old Dutch volunteer, who arrived when I did. His nine-month placement involves working with management around organizational development, finances and so on. We walk together to the mini-bus that will take us back to Kisimenti where we both live. Thankfully, as I am much too tired for shoving, getting a seat on the way back is not a problem.