Prolonged Goodbyes

The COS conference is over.  It's an odd feeling. After three solid days of talking about leaving it feels like we ought to be getting on a plane tomorrow, but we still have three to four months left in Rwanda.  I'm grateful for the time we have left and a little overwhelmed.  There are so many last-minute things to do in Rwanda, so many people to say goodbye to, not to mention all the paperwork we have to do.

Time to begin making the most of it.

PCVs Jeff Monsma, Jed Augustine and Julie Greene

The bus ride back from the COS conference

PCVs Brittany Russel and Hope Lewis in Kibuye

Don't Look At Me

In my last post I mentioned looking.  Only briefly, but it’s in there with the things we know we’re going to remember from service (and perhaps the things we’d like to forget but can’t): stares.

The staring. Blank looks. The stares.

We get stared at.  It’s a fact of Peace Corps life. We’re foreign, we stick out, and it isn’t considered impolite here to stop and enjoy a spectacle.  The interesting thing – the problem – is that there are lots of different kinds of looking, and they aren’t all harmless.

This all has made me think about a narrative writing workshop I attended a few weeks ago in Kigali. One of the PCVs from my training class co-hosted the workshop with her mom, a professor of gender studies and English lit.  The goal was to develop strategies for teaching Rwandan students how to write, not just coherent sentences, but full-blown stories, poems and monologues.  We modeled a number of activities we discussed. We wrote poems and stories together.  We also wrote monologues about our lives as PCVs and performed them for the group. Mine was about looking.

I considered posting my monologue here but never went through with it.  I was worried that it was too personal for a blog since it sort of has to do with sexuality.  But now, weeks after the fact, I realize I really do need to post it.  For one thing, the other volunteers who’ve heard it have told me to put it on my blog.  For another, I think that it speaks to a really common feeling amongst PCVs.  So here’s my monologue.  It’s called “Don’t Look At Me.”

I miss feeling attractive.  Of all the things I miss about being about being home in America, it’s probably the thing I miss the most.  I miss putting on a nice outfit and a little makeup and going out and having people look at me.


Not that people don’t look at me here.  When I pass by a group of young men in the street they almost always look.  But it’s a different kind of looking. It’s an aggressive kind of looking, a rude and invasive looking. Mouths open, eyelids lowered, almost like hungry animals. It makes me feel less like a person and more like a warthog amidst a pack of hyenas. Sometimes – most of the time – I don’t think they even see me. They see that I’m a girl and they want me to know that they could take what they wanted from me if they really wanted it, and that’s all. There’s no appreciation in those looks.


In my village, I don’t wear nice outfits. I don’t even wear mascara. I wear long skirts, clothes that hide my body. When I’m out in public I try to keep my face cold and blank, walking with purpose, as uninviting as possible. Part of it is propriety; in Rwanda, “good girls” don’t decorate themselves and I want to respect that. But I also don’t want to be attractive here. I don’t want to do anything to encourage those blank, hungry looks or the threat behind them – that like a warthog to a carnivore, I’m meat for the taking.


I miss the looks I used to get in America.  Sometimes – most of the time – those looks were appreciative.  They were also more tentative, waiting for an explicit invitation. I am not meat and I am not for the taking. I wish people here understood that.

Woo!  That was heavy.  A few more days left of reflection.  I’ll continue to post updates.

Back in Kibuye

Once again we find ourselves in Kibuye.  It’s our COS Conference, i.e. Close of Service Conference, i.e. getting together in a big group one last time and trying to process everything that’s happened over the last 21 months.  We still have four months of service left but that feels like barely enough time to do everything we need to do – to wrap up our projects, say goodbye to our neighbors and each other, and gracefully leave Rwanda.

The general feeling is different now than at past conferences.   There used to be a massive sense of release when we all got together, but now the mood is more subdued.  Instead of looking for inspiration, we’re reminiscing.  In sessions we’re being asked to reflect on service and it feels a bit like moving out of an apartment, sorting things into boxes. We’re trying to put words our experiences, cataloguing and labeling the things we’ve done so that we can make sense of it all later.  It’s harder to do than I thought it would be.

In the conference room, nine large pieces of poster paper have been taped to the walls.  Each one has a heading like “something I will never forget,” “something I’d like to forget,” “the biggest challenge I overcame,” ”what I liked best,” etc.  Slowly, we’ve been filling them with words and phrases, fragments of experiences that range from comical to macabre.  Some are predictable and comprehensible, some written in language that only we can understand.  Twegs. Losing my ihange. Muzungu angst. Radio. The walk to Mucaca. Bella. Power struggles. Clouds through my window. Yambis. Children. Smells. Betrayal. Friendship. Stares. The staring. Blank looks. Stares.

We had a session today on re-entry.  Our PT sat down with us and helped us brainstorm things that might be challenging about returning home.  One major point of discussion was how to help our friends and family relate to our experiences here.  What are we going to say?  How do we answer when, in the wake of all we’ve been through, we’re confronted with questions like, “So, how was Peace Corps?”

This all has really made me appreciate you guys, the people who read my blog.  Maybe you haven’t directly experienced the smells, sights, anxieties and joys of living in Rwanda, but you’ve been here with me in a way and that’s no small thing.

This is going to be a heavy week.  More updates to follow.

Oh Beautiful

July 4th is Liberation Day in Rwanda.  When I tell people that it’s also American Independence Day they think I’m pulling their leg. “But America was not colonized!” they say.  America was colonized, but things went a little differently there than they did in Rwanda.  I’ve found it’s hard to talk about American independence in a postcolonial country without incriminating the Founding Fathers. It definitely puts a new spin on the history I learned in elementary school.

But history aside, Rwandan Liberation Day/American Independence Day caused me to think a lot about my own country and what it means to be an American.  I’ve always been American, but the fact of being American wasn’t all that important until I came here.  In my village I’m the sole representative of my country and its culture, and often its government and entertainment industry as well. I’m constantly being asked questions about the United States and Americans that I know I’m not singularly qualified to answer.  Do American pop stars worship Satan?  Why do Americans like dogs so much?  Do Americans think homosexuality is evil? Why is United States so rich?

With all this pressure represent my country, I’ve realized something important.  I’m incredibly lucky to be American.  I’ve been told all my life that the United States is a great country, but what does that mean without a point of comparison?  Now, for the first time in my life, I can love my country on my own terms. And I do love my country. The United States has its share of problems, but it’s still a place of abundance, opportunity and relative freedom.  I love my country, not for its flag, not for its spacious skies or amber waves of grain, but for the things it’s given me.  I’m grateful for my education, for my ability to serve as a Peace Corps volunteer, for my right to speak out against my government if it fails me. The American healthcare system might leave a lot to be desired, but at least the facilities are there.  Nationwide marriage equality might be a ways off, but at least it’s up for discussion.  Quality education might not be affordable for every American, but the United States is still home to the best schools in the world.  For these and dozens of other reasons, I’m glad to be American.

I also love Rwanda.  Despite its problems and its own messy history, Rwanda is a wonderful country.  There is a kindness to Rwanda that isn’t easily found in the United States.  It’s a country that’s bursting at the seams with hope for the future.  Rwanda is a country that’s seen the worst of things and refuses to go back.  It’s also a fascinating and breathtakingly beautiful country.  I feel fortunate to have spent a small part of my life in Rwanda and I don’t doubt that this country will be in my heart forever.  But when people ask me if I want to relocate here permanently (a question people on buses seem to love asking me) I always say no.  Rwanda is nice, but the United States is my home.  And you know what, I’m not ashamed to admit that I’d rather live someplace where women can go out to at night without being called prostitutes, where basic education really is free and where self-expression is a federally protected right. 

I celebrated this fourth of July with my site mate, Meredith.  We went to a restaurant, ordered an entire roast chicken (which, as it turns out, was the most expensive thing on the menu) and spent the afternoon eating and playing cards.  Inside the restaurant, Paul Kagame’s televised address to the nation blared over ancient speakers.  He suggested several times that while Rwanda has had 50 years of political independence, it has not truly been a free country.  The ghosts the past, including its colonial legacy, have returned to haunt it again and again.  Kagame named many of the achievements of the past five decades, but urged his countrymen not to forget the work still ahead of them.  It made me think of my own country and Barack Obama saying how Americans have a lot of work left to do – so much not only to achieve, but to maintain.

The world, Rwanda, the United States – all are changing rapidly, and sometimes those changes seem more like turmoil than progress.  But amidst that turmoil, I’m still enormously privileged to be an American.  

This Time, A Bunch of Bananas

Some of you may remember Goreti, the woman who helped me bargain for a pineapple in my early months at site.  Last Sunday I fulfilled a long-standing promise to visit her.  It wasn’t my first time to stop in at her little house by the main road, but it was one of far too few visits, perhaps four or five over the last year.  Rather than accosting me for neglecting her, something everyone else in Gihara is fond of doing, she smiled when she opened the door and drew me into a warm embrace, planting a big kiss on my cheek as she did so.  I’d wanted to bring her a pineapple as a little inside joke but I couldn’t find one in Gihara, so I settled for a bunch of bananas.  She accepted them happily before ushering me inside.

She’d cooked cassava bread and vegetables in peanut sauce.  I normally hate cassava bread, but nothing about Goreti is typical, not even her cooking.  She’s tall and slender with a strikingly angular face, deep-set eyes and a uncomplaining tiredness about her.  Things have been going well for her lately.  The cow she and her husband bought earlier this year gave birth recently, which means they have both a calf and a milk cow.  She send me home with a pumpkin from her garden, a liter of homemade drinking yogurt and abundant blessings and well-wishes.  When I told her she was too generous, she told me not to worry.  “We give to each other,” she said, “because that’s what two friends must do.”

Things have been busy lately.  Between ELT-JCS, planning our GLOW camp, attending meetings for the GAD committee and our regional group and dealing with all the changes at school, I haven’t had much time to spend time with people at my site.  Usually once I’m home I just collapse into bed and spend the rest of the evening reading a book - unless I have papers to grade.  I visited Goreti because she met me in the road last week and asked me to find the time. I’m so glad I did.

What really matters in life are the people.  It’s nice to be reminded of that.

Getting Real

As a rule, Peace Corps volunteers are cautioned to keep their negative feelings to themselves. This is especially true where the internet is concerned.  “Journal on bad days, blog on good days,” they tell you at staging and again in pre-service training and probably again at in-service training.  Well, I’m not having a bad day.  I just got over a bout of stomach flu and I feel fantastic.  Thus legitimated, I am going to complain a little bit.  Hopefully this will be as edifying for all of you as it is cathartic for me.

DISCLAIMER: This post is not a cry for help, nor a call for praise, nor anything else of the kind. I’m not trying to elicit any particular reaction from anyone whatsoever.  My goal here, as with my all my posts, is simply to share and inform.

Let me begin by stating the obvious.

Peace Corps is hard.

Everyone knows this.  The fact that it’s hard is what entices some people to join as much as it deters others from even applying.  I realized I was signing up for something difficult when I accepted my invitation to Rwanda.  But Peace Corps service isn’t difficult for any of the reasons one would expect.  Within Peace Corps the idea that “it isn’t about the amenities” is another enormous cliché, but it might not be as obvious to folks who aren’t serving.  Allow me to elaborate.

Peace Corps isn’t hard because there’s no hot running water or because your toilet is a hole in the ground.  It isn’t hard because the power goes out all the time, if there is power.  It isn’t hard because you constantly have either diarrhea or constipation, or because you have to go all the way to the Peace Corps office in Kigali to restock your Pepto-Bismol.  It isn’t hard because of the mosquitoes.  It isn’t hard because of fungal infections.  It isn’t hard because it rains every time you hang your laundry out or because your roof leaks.  It isn’t hard because there are rats living in the ceiling or gravel mixed in with the rice. It’s true that all of these things are typical to the Peace Corps experience in Rwanda and lots of other countries too.  It’s also true that none of these things are pleasant and that oftentimes they’re the final straw for volunteers who already want to go home.  But they aren’t what make it hard.

Peace Corps is hard because no one listens to you.  It’s hard because your biggest assets as a volunteer, so you’re told, are your knowledge and skills, but all anyone wants from you is money.  It’s hard because when you do get support for an idea, you spend half your time and energy trying to entice people to help you implement it.

Peace Corps is hard because nothing ever goes the way you expect it to.  It always rains the day you wanted to take your class outside.  There’s always a national holiday or a staff meeting or an umuganda when you least expect it.  People don’t show up, or they show up three hours late.  Or an hour early, depending which you were least prepared for.

Peace Corps is hard because people never leave you alone.  People always want to greet you, to visit you, to ask you for money, to ask you for food, to invite themselves in for tea, to invite you over for tea, to throw things at you, to insult you, to laugh at you, to flirt with you, or, most commonly, to just stand and stare at you.  This is true wherever you are, no matter what you’re doing.  You could be walking to the market or waiting for the bus.  You could be sitting in a restaurant.  You could be sprinting down the road because you’re late for work.  You could be using a latrine with a door that doesn’t quite lock.  Whatever the case may be, people will take every possible opportunity to harass you.

Peace Corps is hard because your neighbors regularly mock you for the one thing you can’t stand being mocked for, whatever that may be.  Your height, your weight, your skin, your hair, your voluptuousness or flat-chestedness (as the case may be), your athleticism or lack of athleticism, your way of walking, your way of speaking, your native language (or a native language that is assigned to you based on your appearance), your age, your religion, your ethnicity, your gender, any physical blemishes or abnormalities.  Nothing is off-limits, and whatever bothers you the most will be the favored object of scrutiny.

Being a Peace Corps education volunteer is hard because you’re emotionally invested in the well-being of your students but you can only do so much for them.  It’s hard because you have to penalize them for showing up late even though you know they just walked ten kilometers uphill in the rain in broken plastic sandals and no coat having not eaten breakfast.  It’s hard because they come to school with fevers and coughs and stomach aches and headaches and you can’t give them water or medicine.  It’s hard because, despite the law against it, students still get beaten by other teachers and there’s little you can do to stop it from happening.  It’s hard when a girl stops showing up because she’s pregnant or when a boy comes to class drunk at seven in the morning.  It’s really, really hard when you find out that one of your students has HIV.

Peace Corps is hard because no one ever tells you “Good job.” For that matter, no one ever reprimands you for giving up or flaking out.

Peace Corps is hard because no one understands.  Your neighbors don’t understand what it’s like to be a foreigner in a remote village because they’ve never left the remote village. Your coworkers at site think you have it easy since they all know you’re eventually going to back to America, The Land of Plenty.  Peace Corps administration doesn’t understand because they’ve never done what you’re doing, or if they have, they did it decades ago in a different country with a significantly different culture and climate.  Your family and friends back home don’t understand, and (let’s be honest) they probably dismiss you as crazy for joining Peace Corps in the first place.  Other volunteers don’t understand because they’re not you and they’re not at your site.  Even when they do understand, they have their own problems to deal with.

So if Peace Corps is so hard, why do it?  Well, like I said in my last post, there are the little things that keep you going day-to-day.  Whether it’s fireflies or a cute baby or a few words of encouragement from a nice coworker, there’s always some little bright spot to be found in even the darkest of days.  But more broadly, Peace Corps service is worth it precisely because it is hard.  In a context where everything is a challenge, the tiniest achievements are enormous victories.  Too, where there are multitudinous problems, there are endless opportunities to make a positive difference.  Sometimes just being the sole American in a homogenous community is a huge contribution because you and you alone are providing people the opportunity to meet someone from the outside.  When you’re in Peace Corps you’re important and special and you know it, even when people are treating you like dirt.

When I was a trainee, I was told that the hardest part of Peace Corps service is the first three months at site and that it’s all downhill from there.  Maybe it’s just standard practice to tell that to trainees or maybe some people actually feel that way, but I disagree.  Peace Corps service doesn’t get easier.  In the first months at site everything is overwhelming, but it’s also new and exciting.  Once volunteers enter their second year, malaise can start to set in.  Or in some cases, volunteers take on too much at the beginning of the second year and begin to burn out.

That didn’t happen to me, but I did take on a lot of new things fully expecting to continue doing everything I had been doing before.  I’m also a lot harder on myself now when I react poorly to a challenging situation or when I fail to be culturally sensitive.  And the things that used to calm me down, like walking in the coffee fields or talking to my neighbors, have lost some of their magic as they’ve become more commonplace.  I continue to show up, to chip away at projects and to do my best to be a friendly, positive representation of America, but sometimes my enthusiasm fails me and I start to wonder if I really am a “good” volunteer.

Deep down, though, I know that just being here is cause to be proud.  Why?  Because it’s hard.  As an RPCV Zaire once wisely said, if it weren’t hard, it wouldn’t be Peace Corps.

The Little Things

I have a new headmaster!  His name is Sylvan.  I don’t know much about him yet, but so far I have a positive impression.  He’s a young college graduate and he speaks excellent English.  He was a science teacher for several years before he got his degree.  He likes to say that he’s a teacher first and a headmaster second.  It makes an encouraging first impression.

We had a small going-away party for Evariste/welcoming party for Sylvan at school on Wednesday.  Drinks were provided, and our school’s meager kitchen managed to provide a meal of brochettes and grilled plantains for everyone. It was impressive considering I’ve never seen anything come out of that kitchen other than fried balls of dough and small quantities weak, milky tea. The outgoing and the incoming headmasters made long speeches about teamwork, responsibility, motivation, the usual.  The dean of studies then stood up and made his own speech along similar lines.  Finally the floor was opened for teachers to say a few words.  Most teachers took it as an opportunity to voice complaints about the students or their salaries, turning the gathering from a party into an ordinary staff meeting.  By the time we disbanded, it was well after nightfall.

As I made my way slowly home in the dark, I kept slipping on muddy patches of road and stubbing my toes on rocks. I was tired and I felt a little dejected, having sat through hours of complaints at what was supposed to be a celebration.  But then I noticed for the first time that the fields around my school were full of fireflies.  It had been a long day and I was exhausted, but as I looked out over the glittering, blinking expanse, the frustrations of the day dissipated.  I know my COS date now - November 14th- and knowing that date has changed things for me somewhat.  I find myself dreaming of home a lot more often.  When something bothers me, rather than thinking “I’ll resolve this eventually,” I find myself thinking, “Only six more months!” The things that bring me back and keep me here, in body as well as mind and spirit, are those little moments of beauty.  Like noticing the cassava fields are glittering with fireflies.

So much depends upon the little things.