We’re in the East, traipsing through a small path searching
for this woman’s house. We’re not doing normal field visits, where we assess
the woman in training and talk to them before they start new businesses. These
visits are for me to write up success stories, which requires a much more
in-depth interview. It requires me to pry into a history I don’t understand.
Yesterday I was sitting on a woman’s couch in her living
room. She handed me faded framed photos of family that were no longer alive,
and I told her they were beautiful. She explained how she had been raped during
the genocide. She was subsequently infected with HIV, which she then
unknowingly passed onto her husband, and he died six years later. As she spoke,
her voice would slow and pause, quieting to a whisper. At that point she had
adopted 10 orphans, totaling 13 kids, and she didn’t know how they would
survive. The way she stumbles over her words is brutal. Everything bad that
could’ve happened to her happened, and it hurts my soul. But then she became
a member of one of our partner Widows organizations and they taught her how to
bake cakes. From this she opened her own businesses and turned things around.
Most of her children are grown up and have started University. She’s even a
grandma, she said, motioning to two 8x10 photos on the wall behind me. Two
beautiful toddlers. Now she provides counseling and training to other HIV
positive women in the village, and she even had enough money to build a small
rental house outside. I took pictures of her standing proudly beside it, shook
her hand and said thank you, thank you.
When we finally find the woman’s house, she excitedly hugs
me, squeezing me three times. We sit on her couch and I ask her name. Esperanz.
She is shocked when I’m able to guess and spell it correctly, and keeps talking
about how well I speak Kinyarwanda. I tell her that I’m trying as I introduce
myself. First as Kelsey, and then as my given Kinyarwanda name, which is “Mukasine”
(pronounced Moo-kah-see-nay). She bursts out hysterically laughing, “Mukasine”
she questions, and asks if I know what it means. Yeah, it means “good looking
cow” I tell her. She starts crying she’s laughing so hard. It was a joke
thought up by one of my colleagues on a slow day, and somehow it stuck. It is a
real Rwandan name, and it’s much easier to pronounce and remember than Kelsey. At
first I was unsure about my losing my English name to the women we help, but
then I embraced it. Plus it makes them laugh, which I love. And who’s going to
turn down being called a ‘good looking cow’?
Esperanz is still laughing and she keeps saying “Hm,
Mukasine. MukASINE”, nodding in approval. But then I ask what happened during
the genocide and watch every ounce of joy fade from her face. She is quiet,
solemn, and I hate it.
During the genocide, I
lived here. When it started on April 7th, we began grouping
together. We were together for three days, and then decided to split up. Some
of them went to the church, and others went to the school. They thought they
would especially be safe in a house of god, but those who went to the church
were all killed.* I went to the school with my children, but my entire family;
my parents, husband, they all died. In the day we would run from the school and
hide in the bush. We lived that way, in the bush, for a month. On the 15th
of May the RPF came and brought us out. I survived with my one child and four
orphans.
When we came back the
neighborhood was empty. It was a very very hard time, taking care of the 5 kids
by myself. I started thinking how will I survive, how will I cultivate crops
for these kids. One day I was in the field working, and I had a flashback of
the violence of the genocide. I dropped to my knees. But then I left the
field. I didn’t want my kids to know I was weak.
Esperanz doesn’t stumble over her words. They spill out of
her. The way she speaks is captivating and powerful, with large gestures. Every so often she brings
her hands together, folds them in her lap, and bends forward to meet my eyes.
After that I was
elected head of the village for AVEGA, so I gathered the other survivors to
come together to help one another. We formed an association to save, going from
farm to farm. We were 12 widows and would contribute 100 francs
every month. We were able to bring our kids back to school. We also formed a
Widows of Six group where every evening we would go clean where the people were
killed. Their bodies were still there, but many had their fingers or heads or
arms cut off. Every night we would meet and put them back together, in the
right way. Many people thought we would get sick. The district leader even came
and told us to cover our hands or to stop. I said no; these are our parents,
our husbands, our families. We should not cover our hands.
There was a nonprofit
organization that came to give us counseling. They sat under the trees and
explained that we had survived for a purpose. At that time my main purpose of life was to look after my
kids. I thought even if I die tomorrow, I want them to be left in some better
way. As we saw development around us, we realized that we didn’t have to be
alone and always live with the consequences of genocide. We wanted to open our
minds, so we decided to take the training and apply for a loan.
She’s talking so fast and so hard that when I ask her to
pause so I can get a translation, she falls back in her seat laughing at
herself. She continues to talk about what she’s done with the training and the
loan. I ask her how her life has changed, and what she’s done with the profit.
What have I done? Look
above you. I have electricity in my home. I’m able to prepare for my kids after
I’m gone, and give them food when they visit. In that time before, I was
supposed to die tomorrow, but I’m still alive.
As we move on, some of the other group members have gathered
in her living room. We echo hello and Esperanz introduces me as Mukasine,
giggles, and shakes her head up and down as she explains how well I had spelled
in Kiyarwanda. Her compliments are bit generous, but I accept them nonetheless.
The rest of the women in the room are just as impressive; some have bought
land, cows, rebuilt houses. We talk in more detail about the logistics of the
project and how they’ll be applying for their third loan. When I tell Esperanz
she is free to apply to a different microfinance institution with lower
interest, she stands up and dances. The heaviness of the previous conversation
has evaporated, and we’re all dancing.
The time flows by before I realize that we've been sitting on
her couch for hours, but I could've stayed there forever. Whatever it is that
she was, I wanted to soak it up, carry it with me. I promised her that I would
keep practicing my Kinyarwanda and maybe next time I wouldn’t need a
translator. I promised her I would bring copies of the photos I’d taken, and
after hugging everyone we said goodbye.
We waited on the side of the dusty road for a bus that never
came. I hopped on a rusty and gurgling moto, winding through the green hills for the 45
minutes it took to get back to Kigali.
At the end of the day, it becomes ever more clear that the
world I left behind is not one that I fit into anymore. I realize how
impossible it would be to go back. Impossible to move beyond these stories and
not work to stop this from happening again, or help those suffering the
consequences of simply being born in the wrong place. Irregardless of how much
I desperately miss my friends and family, this is my normal now. I want to dig
into this place. I want to settle without the temporality of it all looming
over my head. And so I’ve decided I want to stay in Rwanda. I want my contract
to be extended past June 30th, and if isn’t I’ll look for another
job here. I just hope I can find
one.
*One of the most famous massacres of the Rwandan genocide,
where at least 5,000 were killed. It’s down the road from her house, and is now
a memorial made up of skulls, bones and raggedy clothing that hang from the
church pillars.
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