Crescent City Spittin’ Her Game

Moving back to New Orleans for springtime festival season was an obvious no-brainer for me. While being home in Philly for the holiday festivities, as well as post-Nicaragua wintery blizzard world of 2010, was a gift in the sense that I got to share immeasurable time with my nieces and my folks, it was my age-old “holding pattern” scenario that I knew I just couldn’t get sucked into again. I’m curious as to whether there’s an age limit to the feeling you get being back at your parent’s place and you just magically revert back to early adolescence. Delicious homemade family dinners every night; 200 channels on the flatscreen tv; fluffy pillows and soft-smelling laundry; dinner and a movie outings with mom and dad. I mean, it’s just so comfortable and lovely and easy. But inevitably, there were the mornings that I woke up wondering, “Um, can I really live here for the next six months until I hear about this fellowship gig?” That familiar family place said yes. This is awesome. Time with my parents. Time with my sister and brother-in-law. Time getting to know my nieces to teach them all my annoying habits and forcing them to watch old Disney VHS tapes. No bills, no responsibilities, nothing to do but hang out, relax, regroup. Sigh.

But, when I came down to New Orleans for a much-anticipated and snow-delayed Mardi Gras, it seemed like a sign from the universe when Tulane offered me this temporary job at the Social Work school—a job that would take me through the end of July, upon which I would then either head back overseas or stay in New Orleans to pursue other work. Fast-forward through crazy transition week of the world: bought a car; found a place to live; went to Baltimore for my final fellowship interview; spent a day in NYC with my folks to see a broadway show; roadtripped to NOLA with my mom….and phew. Here I was. Again.

Now, it goes without saying that in my twisted brain there’s huge risk to being where you’ve already been. You’re battling some serious expectations about a place that is incredibly familiar, but in a completely new context. Things change. People change. The universe shifts. But I was thoroughly convinced that this was it—the right choice for right now. All signs pointing South. I could push aside all those nagging thoughts of temporary vs. permanent yet again. So what if I’m moving down for only four amazing months in a city I love? I can handle the uncertainty and live my life. Stop coasting through at my parent’s place.

Well, there’s this thing about New Orleans, see. For anyone who has lived her for longer than, ohhh, I’d say six months, you know exactly what I’m talking about. That undeniably authentic, spontaneous, gritty energy and culture that everyone raves makes New Orleans the funkiest city in America? Well, it’s true. Damn true…but that same energy can turn on you. This city is one moody bitch. All the sudden you look around at the past few weeks and think, “Shit. Can I really handle anything else right now?” All those seemingly unrelated bad strokes of luck—the car breaking down, you losing your job (and your boyfriend…and your dog), finding out you need to get a root canal, serve on jury duty, owe money for taxes…that’s not the universe, that’s the Crescent City, baby. She’s a living, breathing creature like any of us, and this is why we love her. She can welcome you with her sunshine, crawfish boils, tree-lined parks, brass bands and southern hospitality, and she can just as quickly make you wonder what the hell you’re doing there.

That’s kind of how my first month back has felt. It’s been full of ups and downs that I guess are typical of any transition, but it feels different because it’s familiar. But I lived here before, my head says, “Why the hell is this so hard?” It’s hard because it’s different and familiar. Friends have moved on. Work is not school. Gentilly is not Uptown. New roommates are not old roommates. But I feel confident that just like me, she’ll get through whatever it is she needs to get through, and the city will once again magically embrace me with open arms and things will start feeling at home again. They always do. It’s springtime in New Orleans, for Pete’s sake. And there just ain’t nothin’ better than festival season in New Orleans. Yes, indeedy.

Me Gusta Nicaragua!!

I’m sitting in my parents’ kitchen in my Snugmee (yes, people actually wear these), awaiting this monstrous storm that’s supposed to be hitting the east coast, and figured it was a great time to sit down and blog about Nicaragua. Technically, I should create a new blog dedicated to this amazing little country, documenting all the adventures, amazing people, and overall voyage on a personal level. But in a strange way, I’ve been finding it difficult to write. And I’ve found it equally challenging to field the question, “How was Nicaragua?” in a way that really captures what the journey meant for me, my experience there, and how it feels to be back. I’m sure this blog will become mercilessly long, and I’ll end up dividing it up into a few shorter snippets, but for now, I’m just allowing myself to ramble.

A main objective of this trip south of the border was to create some mental space in order to process all the changes going on in my life…my return from Rwanda, my unemployment, my upcoming decisions about my career and relocating and where I really want and need to be…and in that sense, Nicaragua was the perfect backdrop for that type of personal work. I quickly recognized that in order to cultivate that mental space, I needed to let go of a lot that’s been holding me down—expectations about where I should be in my life, friendships and relationships that just aren’t giving me what I need—simply allocating some affirming energy and effort on me—without the daily distractions, stresses, or influences of the normal routine. And this magical little place in the middle of Central America did just that, and so much more.

Nicaragua is charming in a really honest, genuine, simple sort of way. The people are proud and family-oriented, hardworking and kind, helpful and humorous, affectionate and diverse. Nicaragua is cobblestone streets, papayas the size of small toddlers, riding on the handlebars of a friend’s bike. It’s corner parks and lime trees, brightly painted walls and sunshine, running children, toothy smiles, churches, churches, and more churches. It’s guitar playing and salsa, riding horses down the beach and hand-washing clothes in the lake. It’s ice cream, cowboy hats, hammocks, and fishing boats. In a month’s time, I felt as though I had barely scratched the surface. I travelled along the western side of the country, visiting a deserted beach on the Pacific coast among small fishing villages; a quiet mountain community growing coffee and raising cattle; colonial cities teeming with colorful churches and history; and eventually made my way to the peaceful volcanic island situated in the middle of a very large lake.

I was lucky to not only meet some amazing Nicaraguans, but travelers as well. It seems that all of Canada has migrated south for the Winter Olympics and the 40 below temperatures. Who can blame them? I hadn’t realized how long it had been that I had actually traveled anywhere, simply for the sake of discovering new places and understanding new cultures. It was nice to feel that sense of connection and unity again, visiting with and meeting people who were in Nicaragua for the sole purpose of wanting to see more of the world, better understand who we are as human beings, and the common threads that unite us as people. Truly incredible, fascinating individuals. And a hell of a lot of fun, too.

Overall, I left Nicaragua feeling an unexpected connection to the culture and the people there, feeling revitalized and revived, feeling appreciative that I had allowed myself this time to grow and process and just be. The journey felt timely and important and full of lessons. I learned to accept the discomfort of my loneliness. As much as I am longing for love and companionship and connection, I also don’t ever want to feel like I am convincing someone they want to be with me, or convincing myself I want to be with them. Persuading someone I’m worth the effort or the risk, or that our time together was more than it was meant to. I don’t want that for myself. I deserve more. I just need to have the patience to let the universe unfold in its own way and appreciate the solitude for what it is—time to learn more deeply about myself, figure out what I want and where…and just maybe, eventually, that void of who will be filled by someone at the exact moment it’s intended. I also learned that I may never feel “settled” or satisfied, that there is just way too much of the world to see and understand and discover, too many people to connect with and seek community and connectivity with, too much truth and beauty to stay put in one place for too long. And I feel pretty darn ok with that, too.

Quantum Leap

“Because you never know where life is gonna take you and you can’t change where you been. But today, I have the opportunity to choose.” India Arie

Wow. 2010. What a decade. I guess we don’t realize what a wild ride we’re on until we get off the train. The 2000s have ended, and with that my 20s. I kinda like that parallel. Years filled with graduating college, my first real job, Peace Corps and my first, savory taste of Africa; long-term relationships (and with that, lost loves); grad school; travel, new cities, new friends, new countries; joy, pain, truth and beauty. The decade marked huge life transitions from late adolescence into adulthood—witnessing my siblings find their life partners and sharing in the joy of their wedding days, and now enjoying the beauty and innocence of their children. It was friends finding themselves in new cities, new careers, new relationships, new homes, and through that, progressing to the next stages of those relationships and friendships as adults. It was coming to terms with the lifestyle I’ve chosen, and the challenges that come with always wanting more, seeking, searching. It’s accepting non-conventionality and the possibility that I may never marry or have children of my own. It was a decade of questions and answers and more questions…a decade of growth and disappointment, discovery and presence. It shaped the woman I am today—my strengths, my weaknesses, my dreams, aspirations, and hopes. I learned to be gentle with myself, and invest in the difficult work of examining myself more closely in order to be a better person, a better sister, a better daughter, a better friend. It was a decade of blessings and incredible privilege; ten years characterized by struggle and challenge, goodness and light. It was a gift.

So, on the first day of 2010, as I am packing my bags for my month-long voyage through Nicaragua, I can’t help but feel incredibly lucky for where I am. That my nomadic tendencies are once again allowing me the opportunity to see a new corner of the globe, invest time and energy in myself and be present; welcome the crossroads I have once again found myself facing. So, it feels like a big year in many ways. I’m hoping this trip will allow me to make my next choice in life: whether it’s moving back to a city I love and investing in a life, a community, a job that lasts longer than 24 months, or if the nomad in me will desire a new country, culture, language, world in which to pour my energy. Perhaps it will simply give me space and time to be me.

My hopes for this next decade: Be authentic. Learn. Live with integrity. Live passionately. Accept. Live with tolerance. Live fully. Love completely.

May Experience Turbulence

Coming home has me a bit flustered: confused, unsure, overwhelmed, questioning. Being back in New Orleans last week, I was met with a lot of mixed emotions. My time there felt more difficult than I had anticipated. There were days that I felt completely at home, welcomed and embraced and other days I felt disconnected and distant. It’s hard to accept how much had changed in the six months I was away. Friends have moved; relationships have ended and begun; jobs have been lost. I no longer have a permanent address and my dog has settled in nicely to his new routine with his auntie Jennifer. I had such anticipation of returning to New Orleans and it just wasn’t the same. I wasn’t the same. Possibly it stems from the initial rationalization that I would only be away for three months…I mean, how much could possibly change in three months? It was temporary. It was a jaunt back to a continent I love. It was a pause in time away from the city I had grown to call home. But three months became six, and my life changed, and the lives of my friends and family changed…and suddenly all that felt temporary had hints of permanence.

There were moments of absolute contentment and familiarity: catching up with old friends, seeing my favorite brass band, stopping by the neighborhood coffee shop, eating po'boys and southern breakfasts, reconnecting with the city as I strolled alone through the Marigny and the French Quarter. But as the days passed, I was flustered with not being able to accomplish and see as many people as I wanted. I felt rushed. I realized that moving back was potentially not a sure thing as I had assumed last summer. I am in the final interviewing stages for a job in Burundi. I am midway through the process for an international fellowship…and jobs in NOLA just aren’t knocking down my door. My departure on Tuesday morning was bittersweet in the sense that I had no idea when I’d be back. Mardi Gras flights have been bought, but the Burundi gig could begin as early as mid-January. So, in a weird way, my departure from New Orleans kind of felt like a premature breakup. I’m simply not ready. There’s been no closure. I haven’t even moved out my stuff. I can’t yet close that chapter of my life, but I know myself well enough that if I get offered this job in Burundi, I’ll take it. I’m leaving behind great friends, an intoxicating city, a piece of me. It’s a lot to wrap my head around.

And then there’s Philly—my family; my nieces; my other home. My sister’s girls are now 3 and a half, 21 months, and 3 months. They are such a joy to be around. It’s been such a blessing having time with them to bond and connect and get to know one another. Ella is at that perfectly sweet age where everything she says is just so honest and genuine. She loves her Aunt Aimee. We do all sorts of fun things together. She says things out of the blue like, “Aimee, I love you so much,” or “I don’t want you to go back to Africa,” or “I have so much fun playing with you.” And I have to wonder if I can allow myself to be one of those aunts who only comes home once a year at the hectic holidays—if I can really detach from them and not be part of their lives on a consistent basis. It’s hard. And my parents are getting older, and my brother got married a year ago and will soon have a family of his own. It seems the questions become more complicated and the choices more complex as I get older. I know my tendency is to over-think, overanalyze, and tolerate the mental gymnastics at times of serious transition and choice. But I also need to remember that any choice can be temporary, and that life is simply a series of choices that lead one to the next choice. All I can do is believe in myself and appreciate the privilege I have and the opportunities I’ve been given in my life. Any choice will further my path, my growth, the woman I’m becoming. So, I’m trying to remain present, positive, and allow myself this time to explore who I am and what I want from my life. We’ll see what decisions stem from it in the next few weeks. Stay tuned…

The Long Journey Home

It’s 6:35am and I’m in Brussels, sitting next to a snoozing teen with stinky feet, enjoying a gingerbread latte and lemon poppy seed muffin from yes, you guessed it, Starbucks. Evidently I am that American this morning. It’s one of the many fond memories I have from my two day stopover in Brussels on my way here. What I don’t remember is that said morning treat costs 8 Euros. I failed to remember this because my serendipitous travel partner, the millionaire sugar daddy, was paying for everything. Is that even possible…to spend $14 on a muffin and a cup of coffee? Awkwardly, Europeans were chatting with the woman behind the counter, pointing at the Venti cup, shaking their heads, commenting on how enormous all things American are, including Americans themselves. I smile apologetically and say, “Oui, c’est vrai” as I select my deliciously oversized muffin under the glass display case with my grubby little finger.

The first leg of the trip was significant in the sense that it was uneventful. I am curious as to how it never fails that the people that seem most irritating, rude, or unable to maintain their composure in public (of which I decide on in the terminal waiting to board) always seem to be sitting next to me on the oversized aircraft. Last night, it was two small toddlers. I haven’t concluded what was more off-putting –the children themselves or their mothers. Typically, I find African children to be calm, obedient, and rather self-entertaining. Unfortunately, this was not the case. Child one had two favorite words, “Mine and Hi!”…neither of which I found remotely adorable at 2am. The other child parroted this with “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” or in between fits of whining, crying, and jumping on his seat. The mothers did not appear disturbed by this in the least, which I found puzzling. Even more perplexing was every time one of them cried, the response was “Sorry, sorry, sorry” followed by a lot of coddling. I understand being tired and exhausted and being up way past your bedtime, flying through the air on a strange piece of metal in the sky. What I don’t understand is the inability to acknowledge that there are a few hundred other passengers on your flight. I was not pleased. Quite possibly another sure sign that I’m not ready to reproduce. Luckily, my flight narcolepsy kicked in promptly at the commencement of Ice Age 3, and I was awoken to breakfast within 45 minutes outside of Brussels. Excellent.

Chicago was another story. No need to remind anyone that the Sunday of Thanksgiving is kinda a big travel day. My connection was only an hour and fifteen minutes to begin with and we got in 20 minutes late. Sooo, by the time I went through customs, rechecked my luggage, rode on the tram, and got to my domestic security check point, I was tearing off my clothes, throwing my clogs in the bin, frantically running through the metal detector. This is the point when I wish I was wearing a head cam. Keep in mind that I have a sizeable carry-on bag and a large handmade tote overloaded and surprisingly heavy with Rwandan crafts that I had been cursing since Kigali. So here I am, weaving through the crowded terminal, stopping every ten feet because I can’t run for longer than this. I am gasping and panting for breath; I am beet red; I am sweating profusely despite the fact that it’s wintertime and I’m only wearing a fleece. I get to my gate at 2:17. My flight to NOLA left at 2:15. The woman looks up at me from her computer and calmly says, “You must be Aimee.” Ah, yes. She hands me my next boarding pass to St. Louis. This flight begins boarding at 2:20 and is in the next terminal over. At this point, I am not only cursing my carry-on luggage, but the size of O’Hare airport and begin sprinting back the way I came from. I make it to the St. Louis gate as they are boarding. I sit down between two women and they both ask me with great concern if I am ok, as my heart is thumping out of my chest at this point and I’m basically incapable of breathing. I pass out for the 40 minute flight, rest for the hour or so in St. Louis, and miraculously make it back by early evening…to the home I had craved, ached for, and missed for the six months I was away, with a good friend waiting for me (and my luggage waiting, too =)

The Darkest Star

It’s hard to summarize my last week in Kigali. It was wrought with the typical ups and downs of any departure, transition, change—the space between “getting back to my life” and realizing I’ve actually been living my life. I had some really wonderful moments with my colleagues and new friends; I detached from a lovely man and parted ways without drama or trauma; I soaked up my remaining moto rides, walks through the city, encounters with kindly strangers and children. Thanksgiving was spent poolside with a friend (albeit a rainy poolside at that), drinking one too many overpriced draft beers at Kigali’s swankiest hotel and talking about Africa and life and careers and love. It was harder than I expected to say my goodbyes at the Tulane office, making me realize how close I had become to my colleagues and what a supportive and fun working environment it was. So again, in many senses, it was hard to leave, but much of me is ready to return to my home, to my New Orleans, to visit my family on the East coast and revel in the time with my nieces, my parents, and my sister and her husband. I haven’t had that much time at home in years. It will be a welcomed treat and rest.

I’m not sure what else I can truly say about Kigali, beautiful Rwanda, and the continent that is Africa. I’ve been trying to finish Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux on the plane ride home. It seems many of the excerpts best explain why the continent is so intoxicating, complicated, endearing in its dysfunctional way, so I figured I’d share some of my favorite passages in an effort to pass along some of the imagery and life that is this dark continent. The book raised questions, enhanced history lessons, and challenged preconceived notions. It also perfectly depicted why the continent of Africa continues to fill space in my soul. Hope you enjoy them as much as I did…

“Travelling makes one modest –you see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.”

“The criterion is how you treat the weak. The measure of civilized behavior is compassion.”

“I was the classic traveler, arriving bewildered and alone in a remote place, trying to be hopeful, but thinking, What now?”

“After that, having unburdened himself with this story, having heard nothing from me of my life, he said that he felt he knew me well, and it was as though we had known each other for a long time. I could see that the meant it and was moved by this feeling. I told him what I felt about time exposing the truth-that time did not heal wounds, but that the passing years gave us a vantage point from which to see the reality of things.”

“Some trips mean so much to us that we rehearse them over and over in our heads, not to prepare ourselves but in anticipation, for the delicious foretaste. I had been imagining this return trip down the narrow track to Soche Hill for many years. In Africa for the first time, I got a glimpse of the pattern my life would take—that it would be dominated by writing and solitariness and risk, and already in my early twenties I tasted those ambiguous pleasures. I had learned what many others had discovered before me—that Africa, for all its perils, represented wilderness and possibility. Not only did I have the freedom to write in Africa, I had something new to write about.”

“Not much, because all aid is political. When this country became independent it had very few institutions. It still doesn’t have many. The donors aren’t contributing to development. They maintain the status quo. Politicians love that, because they hate change. They tyrants love aid. Aid helps them stay in power and contributes to underdevelopment. It’s not social or cultural and it certainly isn’t economic. Aid is one of the main reasons for underdevelopment in Africa.”

“I sketched out my theory that some governments in Africa depended on underdevelopment to survive—bad schools, poor communications, a feeble press, and ragged people. The leaders needed poverty to obtain foreign aid, needed an uneducated and passive populace to keep themselves in office for decades. A great education system in an open society would produce rivals, competitors, and an effective opposition to people who wanted only to cling to power.”

“I was passionate about the cause. But I had had an epiphany: though my children would be enriched by the experience of working in Africa, nothing at all would change as a result of their being here.”

“You visit a place and peer at it closely and then move on, making a virtue of disconnection.”

“Humanity is a product of Africa. We are what we are today because we’ve been shaped by our environment—and it was the African environment that hosted almost every major evolutionary change we’ve experienced on our journey towards being human.”

“First contact was a vivid and recurrent event for everyone—bumping into a stranger on the subway, finding yourself with a fellow rider in an elevator, knocking elbows with your seatmate on a plane—at a bus stop, at a checkout counter, on a beach, in a church or a movie theater, wherever we were thrown together and had to deal with it. As a traveler, first contact was the story of my life, and was a motif of my African trip…”

“That had been in the world news, as African disasters always were—earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, massacres, famines, columns of refugees. And these are the lucky ones. Images of inundated fields, people clinging to treetops, and helicopter rescues had appeared on TV for a week before becoming old news. The trouble with such disasters what their unchanging imagery—viewers got bored with them for their having no silver lining and no variation. For a catastrophe to have legs, it needed to be an unfolding story, like a script with plot points, and preferably a happy ending. The ending of the Mozambique floods came with the news of cholera and poisoned water, of thousands of people who had been made homeless, and hundreds who had drowned like rats.”

“Africans praying for a disaster so that they would be noticed seemed to me a sorry consequence of the way charities had concentrated people’s minds on misfortune. But without vivid misfortune Africans were invisible to aid donors.”

“In even the whitest town on the veldt there was a reminder of less fortunate Africa—a ragged man walking on a path, an old man riding a bike, a woman balancing a bulging bale on her head, an amazing bird on a post, African huts, barefoot kids, tin privies, squalor, corn fields.”

“The train was almost heartbreaking for being so pleasant, for offering this view of South Africa, the same misery, the same splendor. But my work was done, my safari finished. This trip was just a dying fall; I was clinging to Africa because I had not wanted it to end.”

“Travel had changed him. You go away for a long time and return a different person—you never come all the way back. Like Rimbaud, you think, I is someone else.”

“The kindest Africans had not changed at all, and even after all these years the best of them are bare-assed.”

Ihahamuka-“without lungs or breathless with fear”

“Everyone from abroad seems to think they have something to teach Rwandans about reconciliation. No one considers that it is the other way around.” Christine Stansell

Since arriving in Kigali five months ago, one of the biggest challenges for me as a foreigner (and a social worker) has been to try to wrap my head around the mental health of this nation, and do my best not to pass judgment or make premature conclusions coming from my Western-educated lens. And like most things, the more I read and the more meetings I attend, I only have more questions. I finished “A Thousand Hills” by Stephen Kinzer a few weeks back, a book following the trajectory of Paul Kagame’s career, Rwanda’s current president. While I didn’t particularly enjoy the writing style of the author (sorry Stephen), it’s a fascinating account of Rwanda’s recent history, and the complex and complicated events that led up to the genocide of 1994, and how the country has since worked to become a leader in East and Central Africa under the Kagame administration. I’m not sure I’d particularly recommend the book to others, but do advise anyone to read many of the books that have been published about Rwanda since 1994 in order to combat some of the ignorance the majority of the Western world still suffers from genocide history.

The ethnic history of Rwanda was strongly influenced by colonization by the Germans and ultimately the Belgians. Prior to this time, Tutsis and Hutus lived together harmoniously, speaking the same language, intermarrying, obeying the same laws, following the same religion and traditions. The distinction between them was not ethnic at all, but based primarily on economic status. In fact, individuals could move between the two groups freely, depending on whether one raised cattle (Tutsi) or farmed the land (Hutu). It was not until the arrival of the Germans in the late 1800’s, and Belgium after WWI that Europeans began classifying Hutu and Tutsis into separate and distinct groups, mirroring Europe’s monarchy by wrongly concluding the ruling class and minority Tutsi as nobility, and the majority Hutus (85%) as their serfs. Further, Belgians found visible distinction among the two groups: believing the taller, lighter-skinned Tutsi were superior to the more “African-looking”, shorter, broad-nosed black Hutus. Further classification was made in 1933 with mandatory identity cards, a legacy that would pave the way for the mass killings of thousands of Rwandans in future years, and pave the way for the racial propaganda that fueled the genocide.

Again, numerous books and essays have been written about this topic, so my feeble attempts at summarizing 100 years of Rwandan history are poor at best, and I apologize for the distastefully abridged version. Further, I won’t attempt to summarize the events of the actual genocide itself. The 100 days of murder, terror turning neighbors against neighbors, media campaigns spreading hate ideology, children witnessing the murder and rape of family members, mass ambushes in local churches, abandonment of the international community (particularly the United States)…it’s all too much to process, digest, and accept. I visited the Gisozi Genocide Memorial museum a few months back, and have not yet been able to write about it, let alone process it. It’s unfathomable, impossible to believe that it occurred.

What’s unique in contemporary Rwanda is this idea of cultural or national identity. During the 30’s, 40’s, and 50’s, Belgium and the Catholic Church strongly shaped social and political life. Loyalties shifted post WWII, and the support of a ruling aristocracy in the Tutsi quickly shifted to sympathy towards the powerless Hutu masses. Anti-Tutsi sentiments were stimulated by this new sense of justice for the majority. Local and regional Hutu officials soon replaced Tutsis, and with the support of Belgium and the Catholic Church, the Hutu Manifesto was drafted, calling on Hutus to rise up against the oppressive Tutsi rule. By 1959, attacks became common and Hutu militants began fighting back in fits of organized violence. Tutsis flooded neighboring countries of Uganda, Congo, Tanzania, Burundi and Kenya, and remained refugees afraid of returning to their homeland until after the war. Because of this, Rwanda’s population of 10 million people has a large Tutsi population that never even saw Rwanda prior to 1994. They were raised in neighboring countries, taught in other languages, yet had a strong determination to return to their home and the land of their ancestors. Paul Kagame was one of these refugees. It is not uncommon to find a Rwandan who speaks French, English, Kinyarwanda, or KiSwahili. Despite this historical displacement, Rwandans have pride in their country, their traditions, and their culture. They were asked to repatriate and assist Rwanda in its growth and new national identity.

Today, fifteen years after the genocide, Rwanda is among the leaders of the region. There is no doubt much of this comes from Kagame’s vision. First impressions of Kigali, as I’ve shared before, are that it’s very “un-African”. It’s incredibly regulated. It’s unbelievably clean. It’s the kind of city where if you drop a sweater on the sidewalk, five people run up to pick it up for you. It’s calm and has a strong sense of civil obedience and structure. Days are very routine and predictable. There are strict laws against corruption; police presence is common; safety and security is exceptional. There are no urban slums. Street sweepers in serial-numbered vests clean the neighborhoods each morning. There are speed bumps, traffic lights, helmets, trash cans. The streets are quiet and empty by 8pm.

In the past five months, I’ve pondered whether Rwandans have always been this calm, reserved, comfortable in this culture of obedience to authority…or if this functional compliance is simply a coping strategy to deal with all they have been through. Regionally, Rwandans have a reputation of being very reserved, often lacking the liveliness and colorful friendliness that is characteristic in other Africans. How much of this reservation is self-protection, a way to build walls in order to feel less insecure, and how much is just the natural tranquility of the Rwandese people? I obviously couldn’t begin to draw conclusions about this. Kagame is both revered and criticized for his authoritarian, strong-handed policies. Most agree that it’s what needs to be done at this time of Rwanda’s history…that there must be some sense of comfort in the limits to expression, deviance, and political freedom. The ethnic hate propaganda that poisoned the nation for decades will be ever-present in people’s minds, particularly older generations, and Kagame’s hope for “One people, one destiny” needs to be closely monitored. National messages remind Rwandans that there is no strength in separation, that reinforcing difference divides us as people. Kagame believes security is the foundation for the growth of the nation, and that only reconciliation can allow this to happen.

So, this goes back to my question about mental health. I’ve been attending meetings recently at USAID, the Ministry of Health, and other organizations. It seems mental health is moving up on the radar screen, which is a wonderful leap. Next year will be the first time the Demographic Health Survey will collect data on depression. So, what is really happening here? How can an event such as the genocide that touched every family in every corner of the nation begin to move forward? One post-genocide policy that’s also been the topic of debate is gacaca, the historical practice of whole populations being involved in the processes of justice and reconciliation. Gacaca allows local communities to hold hearings against genocidaires (leaders and organizers of killings), where both victims and witnesses are encouraged to speak in the community where the crime was committed. There are over 800,000 suspects. It is the grounds for which Kagame hopes people will be able to live together again and find peace. Reconciliation and justice are a difficult balance, yet these community hearings hope to encourage this process. So how does one begin reconciling with someone who has killed your entire family, inviting them back into your community as your neighbor? And to what extent is this reconciliation forced?

My experience has been that the genocide is rarely discussed, or if so, it’s discussed very matter-of-factly. “Yes, I had a brother, but he was killed in the genocide.” “I had eleven children, but seven of them, along with my wife, were murdered in the war in 1994.” It is that direct, that honest, and then the conversation simply moves on. How are individuals encouraged to grieve or mourn after all they have witnessed when the government is pushing for this resolution? Some refer to what is happening right now as a state of “artificial reconciliation”. Rwandans are encouraged not to identify as Hutu or Tutsi, but Rwandan, and move forward in a unified way that facilitates a national identity. But what of all the people that weren’t here during the genocide and returned afterwards? What role do they play in the rebuilding of the nation as opposed to the survivors or perpetrators of the genocide?

I’m also moved by this younger generation of Rwandans, Rwandans that are now beginning to marry and have children, Rwandans that were young adolescents when the genocide occurred, Rwandans that lost their families and parents. Intelligent, strong-willed, functioning adults that are becoming the leaders of this nation. How did they mourn? How did they recover? And how do they have the strength to now put energy into their own families and the future of their country? Is this policy of forced reconciliation working for Rwanda, or is it simply blanketing the wounds of a nation that is not encouraged to mourn, to grieve, to heal? I have no idea. The government is making enormous strides in the region as a leader in IT development, human resource capacity building and education, and other goals mentioned in Kagame’s Vision 2020 (which I also recommend reading). So, I leave Rwanda with only more questions, and a incredible space of admiration in my heart for the resilience and integrity of this country and its people—determined, dedicated, kind, beautiful people. I only hope that the efforts of the current government allow for Rwanda to heal and grow in its own distinct way. It deserves that much.