Kerry and I are teaching “General Papers” to “Senior 6” which is equivalent to seniors in an American High School. General Papers is a new course in the past couple of years, and is to teach student how to critically think for the national exam. It’s almost like a Theory of Knowledge (IB) class, or teaches to the new essay portion of the SATs. The topics can range from politics to science, religion to AIDS, local Rwandan issues to world events. It’s a fun class to teach. This is the first year it has been in English and that the National Exam will only be offered in English. Obviously, for students who have only studied in French until this point, it is a bit daunting.
To get to know our students better, Kerry and I did a very American thing. We passed out small pieces of paper and asked each student to write their name, interests and career aspirations on them. Many of the interests listed echoed the fact that these students are some of the best in the country ,attending one of the best schools for science; Physics, Chemistry, and Maths were all listed. The jobs also followed this, with many students wanting to be engineers, medical doctors, politicians or nurses.
These are no doubt wonderful aspirations, and how many American students would list school subjects as their interests? How many are that grateful for and devoted to their studies? These classes all have 45 students and are kept in order by their own discipline, respect for teachers, and desire to learn. It’s pretty incredible.
There were some answers that were more inspiring than others, and made me stop and reflect as I entered them into my spreadsheet, a common interest was “Pray God” or “Singing songs of Praise.” Below I copied some other excerpts as nearly as I could:
“Interest: I like to pray God through his son Jesus Christ and to love each other”
“Being someone that every will be proud of, especially my mom”
“Career Aspiration *being one day an important person in government
*being a peace maker”
As I final thought, in each class at least one student listed “soldier” as their career aspiration.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Eco-System of My Bedroom
I am tempted to say “rooms” because I have a sitting area and a bedroom, which are separate. But as neither is very large, it may give the wrong impression, so I will stick to room.
I am sure that the first thing any American would notice is my lovely mosquito net, which makes me feel claustrophobic at night and a princess in the morning. So here’s hoping I get used to it. And, spending one night away from him without it and receiving 9 bites for my troubles, I know it’s worth it.
So mosquitoes are my first foes. Followed by ants. Tiny ants decided to invade my bedroom for no apparent reason. But as they were making themselves quite at home on my bedside table, I used bug spray first and some ant-killer that I’m sure would be illegal in the use. The floor is discolored where the chemicals landed, but the ants are gone. Victory! And the last creatures on this level is fruit flies, or gnats, or some small flying insect. I don’t know why, but twice now they are appeared on the glass between the two open, screenless windows by my bed. Clearly they are stupid. But also gross, because there have been about 50 on each occasion, and they just bounce against the glass above my bed. The ant-killer spray and a cleaning cloth to get rid of them has helped. Hopefully they are gone for a while.
So as one who is waging war on the bugs, I have adopted the motto “my enemies enemy is my friend.” Spiders are now welcome creatures in my room. As are lizards, but that’s probably less of a surprised. I also would probably encourage any bird, or even a bat, that flew in for an evening snack, if the promised not to drop too much behind.
I have to be very grateful for my first experience with creepy crawlies in Texas, and although the cockroaches were victorious, I at least am well prepared to deal with more insects than should really ever venture into the house.
I am sure that the first thing any American would notice is my lovely mosquito net, which makes me feel claustrophobic at night and a princess in the morning. So here’s hoping I get used to it. And, spending one night away from him without it and receiving 9 bites for my troubles, I know it’s worth it.
So mosquitoes are my first foes. Followed by ants. Tiny ants decided to invade my bedroom for no apparent reason. But as they were making themselves quite at home on my bedside table, I used bug spray first and some ant-killer that I’m sure would be illegal in the use. The floor is discolored where the chemicals landed, but the ants are gone. Victory! And the last creatures on this level is fruit flies, or gnats, or some small flying insect. I don’t know why, but twice now they are appeared on the glass between the two open, screenless windows by my bed. Clearly they are stupid. But also gross, because there have been about 50 on each occasion, and they just bounce against the glass above my bed. The ant-killer spray and a cleaning cloth to get rid of them has helped. Hopefully they are gone for a while.
So as one who is waging war on the bugs, I have adopted the motto “my enemies enemy is my friend.” Spiders are now welcome creatures in my room. As are lizards, but that’s probably less of a surprised. I also would probably encourage any bird, or even a bat, that flew in for an evening snack, if the promised not to drop too much behind.
I have to be very grateful for my first experience with creepy crawlies in Texas, and although the cockroaches were victorious, I at least am well prepared to deal with more insects than should really ever venture into the house.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
T.I.A.
This Is Africa.
Africa Time is becoming a phrase I hear frequently. And in the past few days I have been realizing what that actually means.
On Friday, Kerry and I had to be at school at 8.50, so as the bus didn't come right away, we took motos from the orphanage where we stayed Thursday night to the bus stop center of Guitarama. Kerry asked someone which bus was going to Byimana (where the school is). The man gestured to a bus near the front of the clump so we joined the few people in it and waited. This was 8.15. 15 minutes and 5 buses leaving in the direction we wanted to go later- we verified that we wanted to leave now. And were told yes this bus is leaving. 5 more minutes and we got on another bus.
This second bus was slow in starting an like all local buses stopped frequently. At 8.45 the by pulled into a gas station. Everyone getting in had many packages. And the man who collects the money saw a friend and got out to chat- while the bus waited! Until Kerry forcefully said 'let's go!!' in kinyarwanda. We were ten minutes late to class.
It's hard to be a model of 'western efficiency' when you're relaying on local transportation.
Today, Danice and I decided to go to mass in kibuye. Which is a town on lake kivu. (as a side note, kibuye also had a large massacre in their church. The chose to create a memorial next to the church and still use the old buIlding as a place of worship. It's a bit weird praying somewhere that 10,000 people were brutally killed)
We were told mass was at 10.30 or 7.30. So, now being experienced with how late mass in Rwanda (and especially in Kinyarwanda) goes we decided on 7.30 so as to not miss our 2.00pm bus home. We got to the churh at 7.40, wondering if we were late but we were actually the first people in the church. At 8.05 mass actually started. It ended at 9.40. So not too bad.
One final thing to share- it was announced in Kinyarwanda, French, and English that today's collection was for the people in Haiti.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Africa Time is becoming a phrase I hear frequently. And in the past few days I have been realizing what that actually means.
On Friday, Kerry and I had to be at school at 8.50, so as the bus didn't come right away, we took motos from the orphanage where we stayed Thursday night to the bus stop center of Guitarama. Kerry asked someone which bus was going to Byimana (where the school is). The man gestured to a bus near the front of the clump so we joined the few people in it and waited. This was 8.15. 15 minutes and 5 buses leaving in the direction we wanted to go later- we verified that we wanted to leave now. And were told yes this bus is leaving. 5 more minutes and we got on another bus.
This second bus was slow in starting an like all local buses stopped frequently. At 8.45 the by pulled into a gas station. Everyone getting in had many packages. And the man who collects the money saw a friend and got out to chat- while the bus waited! Until Kerry forcefully said 'let's go!!' in kinyarwanda. We were ten minutes late to class.
It's hard to be a model of 'western efficiency' when you're relaying on local transportation.
Today, Danice and I decided to go to mass in kibuye. Which is a town on lake kivu. (as a side note, kibuye also had a large massacre in their church. The chose to create a memorial next to the church and still use the old buIlding as a place of worship. It's a bit weird praying somewhere that 10,000 people were brutally killed)
We were told mass was at 10.30 or 7.30. So, now being experienced with how late mass in Rwanda (and especially in Kinyarwanda) goes we decided on 7.30 so as to not miss our 2.00pm bus home. We got to the churh at 7.40, wondering if we were late but we were actually the first people in the church. At 8.05 mass actually started. It ended at 9.40. So not too bad.
One final thing to share- it was announced in Kinyarwanda, French, and English that today's collection was for the people in Haiti.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Pied Piper
I have decided that bein a celebrity would not be enjoyable. Ever where you go, people talking about you. Pointing at you. Talking to you and expecting an answer. Even when you are clearly reading. Or eating. Or in a conversation. Children running after you...
Well that part isn't so bad. All of a sudden a hand grabs yours or a child is hugging your legs.
We walk down a dirt road to one of the schools. And children just come out of the woodwork. Ten of them ran up to Kerry and I and walked us to the bus stop. Their parents don't stop them and some of these children are barely speaking kinyarwanda let alone English or French but they are adorable. And 90% of the time an advantage to my new found celebrity...
Well that part isn't so bad. All of a sudden a hand grabs yours or a child is hugging your legs.
We walk down a dirt road to one of the schools. And children just come out of the woodwork. Ten of them ran up to Kerry and I and walked us to the bus stop. Their parents don't stop them and some of these children are barely speaking kinyarwanda let alone English or French but they are adorable. And 90% of the time an advantage to my new found celebrity...
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Water
Yesterday we had a bit of an adventure. We (Jess and I) met Kate at one of the schools we will be working at, and observed some classes. They were great and not the adventure. The adventure was coming home. It takes about an hour+ in the car to drive between this school and Kigali, but because buses are buses it's about a 3-4 hour commute. This was complicated by the fact that the school is at a part way stop, so the bus only has to stop when they have space to fill.
We ended up being picked up by a parent who had just enrolled his child. The man was very nice, but interesting from a political point. He works in the Supreme Court. But he's another story.
The point of this was that I noticed many people carrying yellow plastic jugs. Very large jugs. Like 5 year old children appeared to be carrying something bigger than themselves. I kept wondering to myself what they were for. Deciding it was most likely water, since we too take our giant bottles to be refilled.
Near town is when I realized my mistake. Yes the bottles the children and women and men were carrying was for water. But it was closer to the water containers I had seen at the Doctors Without Borders "Refuge Camp in the City" - 5 gallons of water for a family, or something like that. And they weren't taking them to a store to be refilled, but to the drainage ditch/stream on the side of the road.
Poverty doesn't always strike you as poverty. Until you realize that you are so spoiled, here I am, only drinking filtered and bottled water. And there are my neighbors, drinking whatever water they can find.
Clean Water. It really does change the world.
We ended up being picked up by a parent who had just enrolled his child. The man was very nice, but interesting from a political point. He works in the Supreme Court. But he's another story.
The point of this was that I noticed many people carrying yellow plastic jugs. Very large jugs. Like 5 year old children appeared to be carrying something bigger than themselves. I kept wondering to myself what they were for. Deciding it was most likely water, since we too take our giant bottles to be refilled.
Near town is when I realized my mistake. Yes the bottles the children and women and men were carrying was for water. But it was closer to the water containers I had seen at the Doctors Without Borders "Refuge Camp in the City" - 5 gallons of water for a family, or something like that. And they weren't taking them to a store to be refilled, but to the drainage ditch/stream on the side of the road.
Poverty doesn't always strike you as poverty. Until you realize that you are so spoiled, here I am, only drinking filtered and bottled water. And there are my neighbors, drinking whatever water they can find.
Clean Water. It really does change the world.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Probably not a bedtime story...
If you google images of Nyamata, you may see pictures of the little town, with dusty roads, red earth and a vibrantly blue sky. You may see pictures of the school where I will be working. But you will definitely see a picture of rows of skulls. Human skulls, just to clarify.
During the 1994 genocide, 10,000 Tutsis hid in the Catholic Church. And the Interahamwe(Hutu militia) used a grenade to open the iron doors. Then they proceeded to torture, rape and brutally kill the 10,000 people who had taken refuge there. Tragically, this was not the only church that that happened in. In fact, the radio encouraged Tutsis to seek safety there, because it made it easier for the killers to find them. What makes Nyamata unique is that they left the church as a memorial.
You walk through the door that has a hole in it, into a church. It’s so clearly a church, like most other Catholic Churches built in the late 1960s. It reminded me of the Church my parents attend in New Cumberland. And the pews are filled with the clothes the victims were wearing? Can you imagine the clothing and belongings of 10,000 people piled up? Such vibrant colors too! Just faded, with time, and dirt, and blood. Blood. The alter is stained red.
There is a crypt inside, with a single coffin. And there are bones it the neat rows that the pictures on the internet depicted. Outside more people are buried- coffins shared and more crypts, but I could only walk down the stairs of those, not into. In total 41,000 people are buried there. I’m not even entirely sure what that many people looks like…
I wanted to go to this particular memorial, because that story and so many like it affected me the most when I did my research. And I needed to see. But I was not prepared. How could I be? It was a place that was Hell. And it remembers.
I kept thinking, how could this happen? How could it have been stopped? I wanted to think “Never Again.” But I know that it is happening now, as I write this, about 4 hours away in the Congo. And I want to know how to stop it. I want “Never Again” to be the promise it wasn’t after WWII, and after Serbia, and after Rwanda; that it should be for DRC and Darfur and every other country where people know Hell.
Let me end positively, while I was in the crypt in the church I heard a group of school children sing their ABCs... and it made me smile Because there is joy so close to such a place now.
During the 1994 genocide, 10,000 Tutsis hid in the Catholic Church. And the Interahamwe(Hutu militia) used a grenade to open the iron doors. Then they proceeded to torture, rape and brutally kill the 10,000 people who had taken refuge there. Tragically, this was not the only church that that happened in. In fact, the radio encouraged Tutsis to seek safety there, because it made it easier for the killers to find them. What makes Nyamata unique is that they left the church as a memorial.
You walk through the door that has a hole in it, into a church. It’s so clearly a church, like most other Catholic Churches built in the late 1960s. It reminded me of the Church my parents attend in New Cumberland. And the pews are filled with the clothes the victims were wearing? Can you imagine the clothing and belongings of 10,000 people piled up? Such vibrant colors too! Just faded, with time, and dirt, and blood. Blood. The alter is stained red.
There is a crypt inside, with a single coffin. And there are bones it the neat rows that the pictures on the internet depicted. Outside more people are buried- coffins shared and more crypts, but I could only walk down the stairs of those, not into. In total 41,000 people are buried there. I’m not even entirely sure what that many people looks like…
I wanted to go to this particular memorial, because that story and so many like it affected me the most when I did my research. And I needed to see. But I was not prepared. How could I be? It was a place that was Hell. And it remembers.
I kept thinking, how could this happen? How could it have been stopped? I wanted to think “Never Again.” But I know that it is happening now, as I write this, about 4 hours away in the Congo. And I want to know how to stop it. I want “Never Again” to be the promise it wasn’t after WWII, and after Serbia, and after Rwanda; that it should be for DRC and Darfur and every other country where people know Hell.
Let me end positively, while I was in the crypt in the church I heard a group of school children sing their ABCs... and it made me smile Because there is joy so close to such a place now.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
St Michael's
This morning my housemate jess and I attended mass at the cathedral. She and Kerry discovered last week that the kinyarwandan mass is at 11 and is 3 hours so we aimed for the 9 am English mass.
We arrived just at 9 and the first thing I noticed is what a simple church it is. A beautiful church but not exactly what I would expect in a cathedral.
Then I noticed the choir and the were beautiful. It was a joy to hear them, Which may be why every prayer was sung... Even the response to the petitions.
For those familiar with catholic mass- it was like a special occasion with incense and holy water sprinkling. But as my soul is rejoicing being here I didn't really mind. The readers announced the the reading, chapter and verses which was new to me.
The homily was also beautiful. Or rather the four omilies that were the homily were all very nice. The priest was very sincere Although a little long winded.
2 hours later I was wondering if we would finish in time for the 11am mass and we didn't. We were ten minutes over.
The best part was the same. Knowing my family would be sitting in their churhes in 7 hours, hearing what I heard and thinking of me made me feel like I'm not completely separated from them.
and if they are still snowed in then it's still the same.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
We arrived just at 9 and the first thing I noticed is what a simple church it is. A beautiful church but not exactly what I would expect in a cathedral.
Then I noticed the choir and the were beautiful. It was a joy to hear them, Which may be why every prayer was sung... Even the response to the petitions.
For those familiar with catholic mass- it was like a special occasion with incense and holy water sprinkling. But as my soul is rejoicing being here I didn't really mind. The readers announced the the reading, chapter and verses which was new to me.
The homily was also beautiful. Or rather the four omilies that were the homily were all very nice. The priest was very sincere Although a little long winded.
2 hours later I was wondering if we would finish in time for the 11am mass and we didn't. We were ten minutes over.
The best part was the same. Knowing my family would be sitting in their churhes in 7 hours, hearing what I heard and thinking of me made me feel like I'm not completely separated from them.
and if they are still snowed in then it's still the same.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Motos
Last night was my first moto ride. Motos are probably the most common way to get around Kigali, and most African cities. They are basically sturdier Vespas. In Rwanda it is required by law that passengers wear a helmet. So one is suplied. I may be asking for special shampoo before too long...
My first go was alright. We were following my roommate's moto and when a bus cut between us my driver ran a very red light to catch back up.
The ride home was less relaxing The helmet I was handed, after I asked for it, had a shattered visor and soon into the drive I began to understand why. Fortunately I arrived home in one piece. I am tired of drivers ripping off the muzungus though with inflated prices. I must work on negotiating skills.
Hope everyone is staying warm and safe
My first go was alright. We were following my roommate's moto and when a bus cut between us my driver ran a very red light to catch back up.
The ride home was less relaxing The helmet I was handed, after I asked for it, had a shattered visor and soon into the drive I began to understand why. Fortunately I arrived home in one piece. I am tired of drivers ripping off the muzungus though with inflated prices. I must work on negotiating skills.
Hope everyone is staying warm and safe
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Kinyarwandan, Lesson One:
Taught by Roland and another Gardener.
Although the lesson was on my way to the kitchen to find Jess, and rather unexpected, let me assure you, I did not go in completely ignorant. I know Muzungu means “White Person,” because that’s what the children yell as we walk back. It has a bit of a prettier ring to it than the Harlem equivalent of “snowflake.” Also I know Kich-u-kero, which is the neighborhood I live in. (my roommates will laugh at that one).
So the lesson started with me smiling and saying “Good Morning” but one gardener only speaks Kinyarwanda, although he may speak French come to think of it. Roland speaks some English, I think more than he is comfortable using. But he is very soft spoken, probably in the same way I am when speaking French or Spanish or, now, Kinyarwanda. So we started with the basics, Goodmorning. Hello. And Goodafternoon. I would write them out but as I barely have the pronunciation in the right direction, I have no idea how to spell them.
We then moved on to more complicated words, explained to me with some excellent charade gestures. The first was woman. And the gesture made me blush. Fortunately man was a beard. Grandfather was a stooped over man. Child was shown as short. I also learned, I am Happy. Which I am. So hopefully soon I can repeat these words to you.
and I leave you with this final quote that I found online today:
"Imana yirirwa ahandi igataha mu Rwanda."
"God spends the day elsewhere, but sleeps in Rwanda."
Although the lesson was on my way to the kitchen to find Jess, and rather unexpected, let me assure you, I did not go in completely ignorant. I know Muzungu means “White Person,” because that’s what the children yell as we walk back. It has a bit of a prettier ring to it than the Harlem equivalent of “snowflake.” Also I know Kich-u-kero, which is the neighborhood I live in. (my roommates will laugh at that one).
So the lesson started with me smiling and saying “Good Morning” but one gardener only speaks Kinyarwanda, although he may speak French come to think of it. Roland speaks some English, I think more than he is comfortable using. But he is very soft spoken, probably in the same way I am when speaking French or Spanish or, now, Kinyarwanda. So we started with the basics, Goodmorning. Hello. And Goodafternoon. I would write them out but as I barely have the pronunciation in the right direction, I have no idea how to spell them.
We then moved on to more complicated words, explained to me with some excellent charade gestures. The first was woman. And the gesture made me blush. Fortunately man was a beard. Grandfather was a stooped over man. Child was shown as short. I also learned, I am Happy. Which I am. So hopefully soon I can repeat these words to you.
and I leave you with this final quote that I found online today:
"Imana yirirwa ahandi igataha mu Rwanda."
"God spends the day elsewhere, but sleeps in Rwanda."
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