An article

Below is a short article from the US written to college-aged kids about the music project:

You might not have read about it in the American Journal of Medicine, but they’re working on a new HIV/AIDS prevention in Rwanda. This new “drug” may never be endorsed by the FDA, but it sure is a lot more fun to dance to than any other HIV/AIDS medicine on the market.

The guy mixing this vaccine isn’t a chemist, he’s a producer. That is about as far as my cute little analogy can go, but this is something we all should be paying attention to. Right now, halfway across the world from where I am writing, the Kigali Boyz and Miss JoJo are recording a song with a purpose.

These days The Kigali Boyz (KGB as they’re called) and Miss JoJo are two of the biggest Rwandese music acts around. Spend any amount of time with youth in Kigali, the capital city, and you are bound to hear someone reciting words that one of these artists penned. Although the media’s direct effects on public behavior are difficult to measure, we know that when we cannot get a song out of our heads its message is hard to not deal with.

Knowing that, Miss JoJo and KGB, along with the help of few other friends, decided that they’d put something new in Rwanda’s head, a little message about what is happening in their country and the serious public health effects this HIV/AIDS epidemic brings. A message that we all hope will cause people to look at how they are living in a world that is being devastated by AIDS, which also begs the question, “so what choices are you going to make in this new world?” This isn’t a plea for money from the West, or a guilt trip for a rich white business man (although I know Rwanda could use your money, Mr. Rich White Business Man). This is a message from the people of Rwanda for the people of Rwanda, to remind them that HIV/AIDS is literally killing their country, and that if they don’t change how they live, it cannot get better.

Fortunately, getting people to listen to this message should not be difficult for this group of artists. Miss JoJo’s voice is, at the same time, beautiful and accessible, while KGB’s flows carry rhythms that at times even seem to double the background beat. If you never took that music class you planned on taking at your local community college, basically what I’m saying is they’re talented and their music is catchy.

When I say that these artists are stars on Rwanda’s music scene, I mean that. People everywhere know their music, you can’t escape it; it’s constantly on the radio. But the music industry in Rwanda isn’t like it is here in the United States. In fact, it’s not much of an “industry” at all. Superstar artists don’t live in houses that you see on MTV, or drive Bentleys. Most of them work day jobs, laying down tracks because they love making music and people love their music. Without the “industry” of the music industry there really isn’t much money to be made off even the best albums.

That’s what makes this song that KGB and Miss JoJo are putting together all the more impressive. These artists are not removed from the daily hardships of HIV/AIDS because of their fame. If Paris Hilton were to sing about growing up in the projects and about her violent lifestyle we’d all laugh, but when Jay-Z does it we turn it up. That’s exactly what these artists are doing. They’re not coming down from their mansions on the hill for a little public service project; they are a part of the community that is struggling to survive in the face of HIV/AIDS. They are authentic and they are good. What else is there to say?

A Music and Public Health Cocktail: Using Hoi Polloi Heroes to Intervene in Rwanda’s HIV/AIDS Challenge

Saturday 17 March, 2007 (Happy St. Patrick's Day and belated Ides of March) - 11:41 - Dar es Salaam

I would like to share with you information on a project I created and in which I have likewise been investing quite a bit of time. Simply put, the idea is to use Rwanda’s relatively new music industry to change public psyche regarding sexual behaviour and the transmission of HIV/AIDS. But before getting to logistics, allow me to briefly explain the evolution of this project.

The idea first started forming while returning from a weekend in Congo, coming through Gisenyi, RW. Two teenagers greeted me as I was walking along the Lake Kivu shore – turned about face, and walked with me back into town. It was not long into our conversation before the boys, in efforts to impress me, compared themselves to “KGB”, claiming they could rap like their heroes – even that they could rap not just like KGB, but like P Diddy, Snoop-dogg, and the others from the US. Miraculously maintaining my cool-guy status, I simultaneously informed them that being able to rap like KGB (Kigali Boyz) did not mean anything to me, because I had not ever heard of the group. My new friends proceeded to take me to a local internet café, threw in a USB memory stick and shared their favourite songs. This is amazing, I thought – these young minds are seriously influenced by the lyrics and lines of their hip-hop heroes… more so, it appeared, than of their teachers, elders or government officials.

Back in Kigali around the same time I heard a catchy radio-cut of a song in matatus heading to and from Nyamirambo (the non-mzungu Rwandese/African bumping street-neighbourhood) – and soon discovered the beautiful, rhythmic voice belonged to a lady stage-named Miss JoJo. A co-worker at the hospital heard me singing his friend’s lyrics and gave me JoJo’s mobile number. Soon thereafter, while on a short assignment from the Kigali Health Institute to Butare, Miss JoJo and I sat down for dinner and discussed some ideas that had been perculating in my mind.

All this time I had been pouring through national AIDS data in preparation for a research proposal a friend of mine and I were submitting – and the things we found were astonishing. Instinctively we wanted to design research protocols, implement programs, and change public health through scientific means – but it occurred to me that hundreds before have already tried doing this – some successfully, many others not so. While we continue to plug away on the research, we also looked for quicker intervention strategies.

My mind jumped back to the young Gisenyi boys and I realized that the common people create heroes from within their own ranks because they think they cannot relate to the power and politics of their national leaders. So all we had to do was link their heroes with the AIDS message, back the project with government support, and – voila – the minds and matters of millions of “mnyarwandans” (as they are called in Swahili) can be reached, influenced, and changed to bring about healthier living, longer life, and a more productive society.

The night before leaving Rwanda, Gilbert and I sat down for sodas with Miss JoJo and KGB, the top Rwandese female pop-musician and hip-hop group, respectively, in the country. If one or the other released a challenging song, it would be easy for someone to isolate and disregard their statement. But if these former competitors collaborated their talents and released a song together, they’d easily have the ears and minds of Rwandese, causing formerly unpersuaded people to consider what the NGOs and the government have been saying all along to the importance of ‘ABC’ (Abstain, Be faithful, and Condomize, with priorities in that order). Realizing the power they have to influence the masses, the musicians agreed to intervene.

It costs money to do all of this, though – money for studio time, and to pay a sound-engineer to harmonize the inputs, amongst other needs. Normally musicians front the money and make it back once the song is released. However according to KGB there is a law prohibiting them from making money on songs that address HIV/AIDS, so they would not be able to make the money back. Because they are professional musicians and live off their music, they cannot afford to drop 1000 USD in the studio even if it is for a good cause, so we worked a deal. I committed $500 and promised to promote the song in the US if they fronted the rest and went through with the project. They are excited, as this is potentially their big break to be known in the US, and I am excited as this is potentially an powerful intervention in the public psyche within Rwanda. They agreed to work together, run the lyrics by Gilbert to make sure it is the message we want released, and will start rehearsing soon so as not to waste expensive studio time. Within two months they’ll be ready to record. A slight problem, though, is that I took advantage of my appearance. To them, I am a white American male, probably rich, probably connected, and therefore the path to their professional dream. Taking advantage of that misconception and calculating anticipated support from people I thought might be interested in helping Stateside, I bluffed - promising the cash as if it weren't a big deal - got them started, and now have some fundraising to do before they lay down the studio-cut. If you are interested in contributing, I’ll leave information on how to make a donation at the end of the post.

Next, we wanted to get T-shirts, posters and decals with the song title, message and musicians’ names printed in the US to distribute in Rwanda. Because matatu drivers love to put stickers on their vans, making decals of their favourite musicians that simultaneously promote the song’s message is free advertising and a probable way to subliminally affect people’s psyche. Likewise, with the T-shirts – many Africans idolize western culture, particularly that from the US, and cherish clothing imported from the States. So every time they wear these shirts in town they will also promoting sexual behaviour change. We have been in communication with a graphic design artist and a t-shirt printing business in the US who seem to be interested in donating their time and resources at a discount for the project, with specifications/recommendations for the design and color scheme coming from the musicians who know what their fans will find catchy.

That wraps up what has been established so far. Now I’ll explain where this project is heading.

We are hoping to arrange a meeting between Gilbert, Miss JoJo, KGB and national leaders, particularly the head of an AIDS-awareness organization called PACFA Rwanda. We would like to get the project integrated with national support so it can be in large part owned by Rwandans themselves and not solely implemented and sustained from outside sources. If the people see national leaders working side-by-side with their heroes, they will be much more likely to seriously consider the message we are all trying to persuade them to take into account. The musicians also want to invite a world-popular American rapper named Sean Combs (stage named P Diddy) to put his voice on the project – which would add incredible support in the minds of the common people. KGB is hopeful that President Kagame will not only work with them to issue an invitation to Mr. Combs, but will also help get merchandise printed in the US shipped tax-free to Rwanda through the Embassy.

If you are interested in donating to the project, please write a check made out to my mom (Joan Huntley) with "Rwandan Music Intervention" written in the memo (my parents’ home address is: 1501 Westview Drive; Coralville, Iowa 52241; USA). She has agreed to collect the money and will wire it to Africa when we raise the amount in full. Also, if you have ideas to help facilitate the project, please feel free to email me at: benhuntley02@hotmail.com

As always, thanks for reading, and I will catch you on the flip-side.
BJFH

*Correction*

ATTENTION:
After re-reading my previous post, I was horrified by my own analysis. What I wrote was unbalanced and unfairly harsh; I had ideas in my mind that were not accurately translated into words - and unfortunately the translation was unnecessarily negative. If in the last week you happened to log on and read the post, please re-read the edited version as it now stands. And know also that there are a lot of positives happening in Africa now.

Although they are certainly present, not every story is about corruption, mismanagement or despair. And I would point to the Rwandan government as an example of that. With tremendous respect I look at the leadership of Paul Kagame, President, and his incredible ability to balance challenges while maintaining safety, security, and stability within his country. Rwanda is a nation that has its act together and is progressing at a surprising pace - oblivious to most of the world.

Even in Tanzania, its neighboring country, people are surprised to hear that Kigali is a safe town. Tanzanians, as I suspect is the case with the people from every other country, still see Rwanda for its genocidal past and have not given it a fair analysis since. And not only do positive stories come from a governmental level, but also at an individual level there are many tales of success and hard work - many people who fight tirelessly for a bright future.

The people I most closely interacted with in Rwanda were incredible examples of this, working long hours and making great personal sacrifices so their country could move forward. The Western media already paints the continent in its worst, and it is wrong for me to add to that lop-sided depiction. Naturally I fixate and magnify weakness in hopes that doing so, taking a detailed look, will lead to a better solution. Being mindful of this, I will try to also share the strengths I see everyday but have not commented on.

Please accept my deepest apologies for posting before proof-reading, and my sincere request that you try to see Africa in a positive light.

Introspection, Thoughts from Rwanda, More Introspection, and my Mbezi Beach Classroom

Sunday 11 March, 2007 – 20:36 – Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

Leaving Kigali was not an easy move, but now with just a few days under my belt already Dar es Salaam has become a comfortable and familiar place to live. The other week my Iowa City pastor asked when my return home was scheduled – and in all honesty it took a moment to understand what she meant. Obviously she wanted to know when I’d be returning to Iowa City, but she used the word “home” – and I did not feel away from home. Cliché as it may sound, if home is where the heart is, then I am home everywhere I go – because I cannot help but dole out the depths of my soul to the people I am with.

I have been pondering a paradoxical realization of late in regards to the self. This past year put me through many experiences that profoundly impacted me. The paradox is that while on one hand I know exactly who I have become – that is, I am fully cognizant of the effect these powerful experiences have had on me - on the other I have no idea who I am because I no longer completely relate to any one culture. Certainly I am not African; I was born and raised in the United States. And yet I am not American, because I have matured in Africa. And even within this enormous blanket called Africa, I do not belong to any one people group or culture. With Samburu lips I point to objects, and with Rwandese eyebrows I acknowledge people. Even the Swahili I speak is a mixture of dialects form Kenya to Congo, and my English certainly is not the same. And more than these external markings, I have changed internally too; my whole thought process is different. I have learned to walk places with the chi in my stomach rather than with the swiftness in my legs. It is an African way of walking that I never understood until one day I saw the transformation in hindsight. And my concept of inherent rights has totally shifted. Parts of me come from so many places; I am not sure how I will culturally re-enter the United States.

Last night, for example, I went to a bar for goat and coke and struck up a conversation with a Maasai. A short while later we were head to head in one of his tribe’s rhythmic high-jumping contests – jumping and groaning, chanting, shaking our heads and rocking our chins to the same beat. Stuff like that does not strike me as odd anymore – just fun (by the way, they walk around the city just like they do in the bush, wearing traditional clothing with big holes in their ear lobes and an intimidating whooping sticks in their armpits – and also by the way, I beat the Maasai in his own game… but he was slightly inebriated).

Perhaps I should compose a final analysis of Rwanda, but much of what I learned will likely trickle its way to consciousness over the next few weeks, months, years – so I am not in an adequate position to make finalized statements about the country. It did, however, leave me with a major transformation. I used to feel guilty for my privilege, but I do not anymore. In fact, in this sense I find guilt is a useless emotion that does not lead to anything productive beyond the alleviation of our own pain. The line between guilt and compassion is incredibly thin – and yet incredibly deep. I have crossed into that other land. And not only have I crossed, but I have understood the cross – and when examining privilege, where I used to find utter guilt I now see but utmost responsibility.

In his book Compassion, Henri Nouwen describes the title’s only word as finding the most intense area of pain and making one’s home there. From that vantage point we can assist people to mental, emotional and spiritual freedom. That is the responsibility Rwanda put before me, a lesson applicable whether living in East Africa, The United States, or anywhere in between.

This is not easy to bring about, and it is certainly not simple. When Christians talk about spiritual freedom, religion floods the mind – but it should not necessarily do so because by itself it is not a good answer. I am now realizing that the church has had a terrible impact on people around the world because it has not brought spiritual freedom but religious imprisonment, teaching people to believe and not think. It gives them faith, but not the ability to reach faith via understanding – and this is disempowering. When people are told to merely accept faith, then it is not their own but rather their evangelists’. But mental freedom is not attained when people hold fast to what is true without first testing everything. Because faith becomes a rigorous and measurable system of behaviour choices that, if followed to perfection, will lead to freedom (and not simply an expression of intense love for God), people can be twisted into incredible amounts of emotional anxiety; the conformity they strive for is not necessarily who they are or even who they truly want to become. Even if this sort of control moves people in a positive direction, it strangely resembles dangerous brainwashing of awful regimes from the last century – a sort of blind faith in what someone says. So if people are not being taught to think for themselves, how much have we really progressed? This is blind faith is endemic of the world-wide church, and certainly true of the early steps in my own faith journey

In making these observations I am not trying to set myself apart as more righteous by preaching division from the church, because I do not have a corner on the market of wisdom. These are just some observations from a kid who is in the church, not of the church, but certainly not outside the church, so take them all with a grain of salt. Know that they are just as much criticisms of myself as they are of anyone else... and if we don't have the freedom to comment when we see things starting to go awry, then we don't have the freedom to be honest, vulnerable, intimate, and real before each other and thus, as a body, before God.

The church is not a bad institution, though. It means well in assisting people to healing beyond what the world can provide – and I believe Christ has the power to do that, and the only power to do it completely. Many people have experienced depths of emotional pain that I hope to never know, and yet have come out of their valleys through faith and support of the Church. This is certainly true in Rwanda, where, through the church, people have learned freedom - freedom to forgive, freedom from their past, freedom to reconcile, heal, and love. It is also true of many other parts of the world. But in pushing the end result we’ve often forgotten that the path and process to get there is also important. So how do we bring people to spiritual, emotional, and mental health? I don’t know completely, just that it takes time, deerves attention to the individual's needs, and cannot be formulaic.

As a post-note, I would like to insert snippets from an email a friend sent because I think he more closely and concisely says what I was trying to get at:

***

...you are right in your critique of faith being pawned in our churches absent of critical thinking. What kind of love is that for God when we don't search his ways and explore his mysteries? Is it an arranged marriage with Jesus? Or is there a courtship...a time to explore before committing? At least I think that is what you were trying to communicate. It is prevalent in the church everywhere. Did God say, "Love me with all of your heart and strength", but not with your mind? No, with our minds, too.

What I've found is that I believe everyone is strong in some areas and everyone is weak in some areas. And we need to be humble in all areas. Same goes for churches... they all have strengths and weaknesses (blindspots). How can the Church be humble enough to admit this? How can we be humble enough to admit this? God have mercy on us all!

***

My perception of the root of Africa’s problems has also changed through many conversations with native friends who have helped me to see another angle. Previously I saw Africa as a victim of outside exploitation, and all this business about globalization and neo-liberal ideology really irked me. But I no longer think this is the sole cause of this continent’s problems. While Africa is a victim, it is also a culprit to its own suppression because of mismanagement, slow cultural work ethic and a lack of synchronization in movements to overhaul the status quo. Curious that as outsiders we blame ourselves, yet Africans also claim responsibility.

Anyway, enough of this speculation and back to Dar es Salaam. It is incredibly beautiful here, like a vacation, which makes me feel irresponsible after having buried both children and adults who died from needless causes, knowing these sorts of things do not just stop when I am not around to see them but continue to go on. But my objective here is to learn Swahili and not to single-handedly save the world, so I am trying to learn to loosen up. Earlier this evening I befriended a Tanzanian of about the same age, sitting together at the point of the beach where the soft sand stops and the hard sand starts, just beneath the line of driftwood in the flat spot where the tide comes in. It was wonderful, laying there in the setting sun, learning Swahili as he wrote words with his finger in the sand – with occasional waves clearing the slate for more phrases. Not to brag, but from time to time coconuts washed ashore beside our classroom. And it was nice too, because he wanted to learn English – and we both knew just enough of each other’s mother tongues to facilitate learning without one language becoming a crutch and thus dominating the conversation. We are going to meet again tomorrow on the beach at the same time to continue our learning. So I think I’ll continue like this, taking three and a half hours of structured Swahili courses from a tutor in the morning, then using friendship to improve upon and perfect what I learned in the afternoon and early evenings. Although I cannot see the future or where this skill will take me, I am excited to get there, and until then will continue to work hard. Good night!

ps. If you were wondering, I found out this week that I am 29th on an alternate-list for med school at Iowa.

Contact me in Tanzania

Hello all,

If you'd like to reach me in Tanzania, please make use of the following:

Ben Huntley
c/o Dar Es Salaam Independence School
PO Box 32391
Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania

Or send an SMS/text message to:
+255786798337

Sincerely,
BJFH

Pushing Cabbage In Congo

Saturday 3 March, 2007 – 07:40 – Kigali

The last couple of weeks disappeared on me and I’m not sure which direction they went, but all of the sudden these are my final days in Rwanda. On Tuesday Tanzania greets me with the challenge of learning Swahili through a two-month intensive training course, followed by a month-long internship in a remote central-Tanzanian clinic.

The Physics of Medical Imaging class wrapped up nicely, and after that the Kigali Health Institute (KHI) had me on assignment crisscrossing the country to teach and supervise students learning to take blood from patients’ arms. They first sent me to the western city of Kibuye – a quaint town on lake Kivu that overlooks Congo across the water. Gacaca was meeting when my partner and I arrived; prior to 1994 approximately 60,000 Tutsi lived in the area, but 54,000 were killed – hence the community court hearings that still take place. Some of the saddest stories come out of Kibuye, but I wish not to share them, as Rwanda deserves to be known for things apart from Genocide – and we’ve talked enough about the lingering pain.

Being on an assignment for a teaching institution here is much different than what might take place back home. Imagine reaching your destination after a three-hour nauseating ride in an overcrowded van, only to discover there is still another half hour to be traveled on foot out of town, through the woods, along a pristine lake, and passed the fishermen before reaching campus. But what delight it was to be so far removed from the hustle and bustle of Kigali and to make friends with fishermen in their carved-out trees that serve as boats.

The teaching itself was pretty uneventful. We brought needles and what not, and after a short lecture taught the students to take blood from each other. They did well too, most hitting the vein on their first attempt. Only one student passed out in a class of fifty, so I was pretty happy. It did not dawn on me until walking out of the classroom how painfully ironic it was that in trying to help a Rwanda rebuild its health care system I was teaching students to take blood, when taking blood was the very thing that killed their families and crumbled their country.

















With an open Monday and Tuesday a few weeks ago, I made my way through the mountains in the north-western part of the country to the north-shore town of Gisenyi. There I hopped on the back of a motorcycle and crossed the border into Goma, of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Fearing petty theft, I left my credit card in Kigali – but unfortunately did not bring with me as much money as perhaps I ought to have. After paying for a visa and one night in a cheap and sleazy hotel (look closely at the picture... on the night stand next to the bed lay a bible and a pack of condoms for the occupant to choose from!) only 100 Congolese Francs remained in my pocket… about 27 cents. The only affordable activity available was walking, and I dearly wanted to visit the base of Nyirangongo – an active Volcano that spread sheets of lava all over the area five years ago – so I did just that… walked… some 20 kilometers out of town, through villages, to the base of the volcano. About mid-afternoon and in the heat of the day, I passed through a police checkpoint and was whistled off the road. My face must have looked exhausted and delirious, because the policewoman, bless her soul, sat me down in the shade and offered both an avocado and a mango. I cannot even remember the taste, but it was the most enjoyable fruit I’ve ever had. She was a pleasant woman, by contrast to the Congolese army who also pulled me aside earlier in the day, but who were not as friendly.

After resting shortly in the shade of her hospitality, I continued. Some time later I passed a beat up truck with a coffin strapped to the back, and a crowd of people gathered around to walk the body to a nearby cemetery – and for some reason they asked me to take a picture. Perhaps it was an honor to be photographed, with a little dignity restored to a sad set of circumstances, I don’t know – but I took some pictures and they were happy.

At last I reached the Volcano and went to take a picture but a park ranger stopped me, saying a permit was needed to do so if standing within the confines of a national park… so I backed up fifteen meters to an area that wasn’t part of the national park, took the same picture, and headed back – on foot – to Goma, now 20 km away.

It didn’t take long before some guys from the Congolese army jumped out from the forest, berets and all, strapped with AK47s – but they were friendly. We exchanged greetings in Swahili, then they helped me try to flag down a car heading back to town… except after fifteen minutes no cars came, so I continued on foot, eventually catching up to some boys pushing cabbage on a make-shift bicycle. Since we were both going to Goma, and I could not just walk beside them as they worked hard pushing a heavy load, I jumped between them and started pushing as well. It was damn funny for the peasants we passed to see a white boy pushing cabbage through Congo – but the laughter was rewarding as it was directed less at me and more at the comical situation.

Some time later a Lorry (open bed semi truck) came roaring by, carrying produce and people from Lord knows how far away. Seeing an opportunity to get back before dark, I bounced out from between my friends, ran down the truck, and with a leap of faith pulled myself up and joined the peasants. They also found this to be funny – but again it was beautiful laughter. Maximizing my limited Swahili, a few of them almost cried they were laughing so hard – and we just rolled like that, barreling through the countryside back to town. When one of the gentlemen came around to collect money, the peasants all stood up for me – saying the Mzungu was too funny to have to pay. And what a Godsend that was, because I didn’t have much in my pocket and was not looking forward to picking a fight in Congo. In a gesture of friendship, one woman even gave me three hand-lengths of sugar cane for free – and oh my was it good; even were there to be no sugar, the liquid in and of itself was healing to my dehydrated body. Lord, bless her soul too.

Last week a friend and I attended a neighborhood barbeque, and the national TV cameras were there as well. Although some local elders talked for three hours about Gacaca and local politics, the majority of the footage that made airtime was of the mzungu eating at a barbeque and listening intently to a speech he did not understand. Sometimes when they spot a white they can become very excited.

Last week I traveled with a coworker to Rwinkwavu, a rural village that is home to a Partners In Health Clinic. The place was amazing, and their philosophy radical. Imagine a clean facility with internet in the middle of nowhere – and picture every patient being fed warm, nutritious food. Try to understand that by protocol, doctors make home visits if patients don’t show for appointments. But most importantly, picture an environment that breeds some of the ugliest and far-advanced tropical diseases, and yet even the patients and their families exude positivity. It’s like finding a patch of sunflowers in the slums; we did not want to leave. Since then we’ve submitted a preliminary research proposal with hopes of returning to work alongside friends who graduated from medical school him. If they pick up our proposal I’ll share it with you all.

Little Things From Kigali

Saturday 17 Feb, 2007 – 14:24 – Kigali

Of course, I have an entire other life apart from crashing thoughts and genocidal encounters that I have not yet written much about. For instance, I am living with a loving family in a safe neighborhood, with the most adorable children. When I first arrived we had two pets, a dog and a chicken – but then we ate the chicken, so now we just have the dog.

He can be kind of nasty though. I was playing rough with him during my second week in Rwanda and he put a tooth through my palm. Within half an hour my mother was on the phone getting the low-down on Rabies prevalence with Rwanda’s top Veterinarian, the mayor of Kigali. It was nice to be so thoroughly cared for. But the next morning I felt awful and slightly homesick, so I stayed in bed dreaming about how comforting pancakes would be. It had not even been two weeks but already I was dreading millet-porridge for breakfast every morning. I waited for noise in the kitchen to dissipate so I could make my own food without being rude. When I finally crawled out of bed and into the kitchen, there were pancakes waiting for me, covered to keep warm. A mother’s instinct when I feared rabies and wanted to be home – lovely.

The other night I was up late reading through a Medical Imaging textbook, trying to prepare for the following morning’s lecture – and completely stressed out. My six-year-old sister came into the dining room and sweetly asked what I was doing. “I can’t talk now, my friend, I’m trying to prepare for class tomorrow”. Seeing how not-together I seemed to be, she then offered: “Well, usually when I need to prepare for school I just color for a while then go to sleep”. Her innocence was so beautiful, I couldn’t help but
push my book aside, smile, and wish her goodnight as she ran off to bed.

We have five house helpers who live with us as well. Some of my favorite moments are sitting out back with them over a charcoal fire, trying to learn Kinyarwanda while sucking sweet nectar out of fresh sugar cane. And then there are all the times getting from place to place by matatu - cruising through Kigali, the driver blaring Bob Marley, feeling that every little thing will be alright.

Teaching has been a fun challenge too. Although it seems pretty tame compared to all the other stuff going on, I’ve enjoyed thinking on the spot – sometimes shoving the chalkboard aside to draw incident photons and ejected electrons on the walls and floors, representing Bremsstrahlung Radiation and the Photoelectric Effect that makes X-ray generation possible. My students laugh, but the unexpected craziness seems to help solidify the physics in their minds.

Last week was a special one for me – a white coat ceremony. This probably sounds shocking if you know me well, as I’ve vowed never to attend a WCC – the first step in a long, ego-inflating process that often separates doctors from their patients. But I have to wear a lab coat at the hospital, and someone stole the one I was borrowing. In the course of trying to recover the contraband, I spiced the laundry department with laughter and made a great many friends. When I came into the hospital on Valentine’s Day there were dozens of patients and much work to be done – but I bopped into Laundry to say hello, and was then presented with my first white coat – specially tailored to fit my frame. Because I am white, they assumed I was a doctor, not just a lab tech, and thus made it extra long. The dimensions are not quite right, my name is written in pen, threads dangle here and there, and my hands don’t fit in the pockets – but I love it… partly because it is my coat, but mostly because, tattered as it may be, it represents the imperfect world I wish to heal and be healed by.

* Post note – the day after I originally wrote this entry my coat was stolen and I was very upset… but I put word out in the laundry department and when it cycled through again to be washed I got it back!

Hospitals are wonderful places to study cultures. In the United States I’ve seen people explode when their headache is not treated in what they deem to be a timely manner – but in Africa mothers sit patiently, even when the child on their lap has Tuberculosis. After work the other day, my friend Gilbert – who is a doctor because the interhamwe did not kill him – and I were talking about politics in the US. After I explained the tension between Democrats and Republicans, he matter-of-factly observed, “at least no one is going to kill your family for their beliefs”. He is teaching me a lot about being positive and seeing things in perspective. Again, he matter-of-factly commented the other day, “say you don’t have a job – at least you have legs. Someone out there doesn’t have a job or legs, so you are actually quite lucky”. Sometimes I hear things of this nature in the United States, but they always seem overly-virtuous and somewhat artificial because everyone has legs – and those who don’t have access to quality health care. Here though, in Rwanda, having no legs is much more probable, and therefore gratitude is a much more powerful lesson.

If you have chance to tune into Rwandan Television, please watch carefully when the Rwandan Coffee commercial airs – you might recognize the white guy. Filming was fun… and knowing that I’m on a commercial in Rwanda makes me laugh.

It was also a great week because a friend from the US, unprompted, pledged financial support – and so in celebration I ate fresh fruits and vegetables. It was the first time in I don’t know how long that I was satisfied on something other than tea, bread, plantains, potatoes, rice, and ugali (equal parts flour and water, boil off the water). When I finished eating – oh was I happy! – I just sat there and soaked up all the nutrients, kind of like moving from the couch to the living room floor on a lazy Saturday morning so you can lay in the sun rays that flood through the window and march across the floor. Growing up, I always heard about nutrition but it never made sense because I took it for granted. But now I understand how absolutely amazing fresh fruits and vegetables really are.

Gacaca

Saturday 17 Feb, 2007 – 11:36 – Kigali

Rwanda is the most densely populated country in Africa, and its capitol is the smallest city of a million you will ever find. Meet someone once and you are bound to run into them again. Last weekend at Gacaca people greeted me with a great bit of hostility – particularly the woman I sat next to who, for no apparent reason, relentlessly chastised me for jotting notes and drawing sketches. Recognizing quickly that we were not going to get along, I tried to avoid her, but throughout the remainder of the hearing she and her friend glared an uncomfortable, unwelcoming stare – unnerving in its own right, and all the more coming from a foot away. When court adjourned I noticed the killer’s family approaching her, and I turned away. “She’s one of them,” I thought, shuddering, and hoped we’d never meet again.

The following Friday night a doctor friend of mine and I were walking through Nyamirambo – a bustling layman’s neighborhood – when a car pulled up next to us. Friends in the front seat greeted my friend, then introduced themselves to me. With a wink and a smile, I took them off guard in their own language as I always like to do, and everyone laughed. “Rashonje?” they asked. Yeah, we were hungry. So at their invitation, we got into the car – me first, then my friend. After settling into the back seat, I turned to greet the woman next to me. She looked familiar, and I knew I had seen her somewhere before. She spoke first, in a startled voice. “Hi. I know you from Gacaca”. Oh shit. Squeezed into the back of a car – we were cramped just as we’d been in that packed courtroom, and I could neither leave nor hide. Just my luck she was a friend of a friend of a friend – and now we were going out to eat together. Given the choice to pretend nothing happened or address head-on our uncomfortable history, I chose the latter.

Dinner was powerful. As it turned out, both of us wrongfully assumed each other’s identities. Recounting how we came to this realization is not nearly as important as her story – so to save time, suffice it to say that she was Tutsi and present when the man on trial killed her mother and sister – and because I was white and at Gacaca, she assumed I was French – a supporter of both the former genocidal government and the current corrupt judicial system.

In her neighborhood, a community of approximately 500 Tutsi, there were only 17 survivors. The Hutu on trial, an obnoxiously fat man, was a famous killer in the area, directly responsible for murders in at least ten homes - and who knows how many others for which he was an agitator and accomplice. He had previously been sentenced to 27 years in prison, but his family is very rich – and through obvious corruption, his file, stored at the prison, was conveniently erased. When the Tutsi community cried injustice, officials agreed to start the trials over again - from scratch.

Before I arrived at Gacaca, my friend gave her testimony. Her mom was screaming when the Hutus broke into their home, “Mukuobwa, come here – come to mommy”. But she didn’t – she ran and hid nearby. Two minutes later, gun shots that still burn in her ears. Pow Pow. Then silence. After some time, she went back to find her mother’s body stuffed beneath a bed.

The fat man stood and began to speak. “Yeah, I remember your mother,” he feigned a thoughtful, sympathetic voice. And then in a sick and biting tone, continued “she had a distinct face. I remember shoving her beneath the bed. But I did not kill her – I just helped put her there”.

Does that shock you? It sure did me. But try to understand the overwhelming number of convicted murderers (with 300,000 killers, at two trials per day every day it would take 410 years to hear every case), coupled with limited prison space and no death penalty. The judicial system does not have room for mere accomplices – so all he has to do is claim a mere passive participatory status and he is a free man. That gives him freedom to ruthlessly interject pain, admitting, as she stood giving her testimony, that he was indeed there – that he saw the horror in her mother’s eyes as she voraciously grasped for life with one arm and held Mukuobwa’s sister with the other, and that his warm hands knew what her limp body felt like. That’s sick.

After the court dismissed for deliberation, as I said in the introductory paragraph, the killer’s family approached Mukuobwa. That is when I turned away, missing the humiliation and mocking so disgustingly lavished on a vulnerable, hurting young survivor. “Whatever you are saying and doing is only a waste of time because he won’t go back to jail. It was the inyenzi who killed themselves. They were inyenzi, weren’t they?” And I wasn’t watching when the onlookers chuckled in unison each time she spat inyenzi – cockroach – a derogatory Hutu term for Tutsi.

When our conversation came to a pause, my friend quietly added, “For us, genocide is still going on” - a powerful statement coming from a man who effectively escapes pain through Tai Chi and a fortress of other peaceful philosophies. “I really believe survivors are not safe. We will be killed, because genocide is still very much in the minds of people”.

I should pause here to explain this thought. Last week I sat on a balcony with a former UN employee who was here during 1994, and we talked about the genocide until well past sundown. Genocide doesn’t just happen, he pointed out. This thing had been brewing for decades, and its philosophy had been passed down from father to child for generations. This was a very well organized plan – and there are still people who wish to see it completed.

Psychologists say the killing became addictive, and I have yet to find anyone who disagrees. The guilt of murder is so heavy that the only way to lessen the weight of what one did to a single individual is to do it over and over again. That’s why he says present day Hutu hate is really only Hutu guilt manifested – and that the only relief will be to kill everyone who reminds them of their past.

I asked an innocent question that proved to be almost comical to my dinner companions. “Do you think I have seen killers on the street?” Of course. All the time they are being released from prison, making room for others. “You can just catch them on the streets – but they code what they say,” he said. “They call it university. If two were in prison together, then see each other in town after they get out, they might say, ‘Hey – I was with you in university. And they are always being released because the government does not know what to do. It can’t kill them and can’t imprison them. How can there be justice? There cannot be”.

In villages, killers are even judges on the Gacaca panels – and if there are 8 judges in all, quite easily there might be only 1 or 2 Tutsi. This, too, is a difficult position to be in, because Tutsi judges are still killed. In fact, Tutsi survivors in general are killed so frequently, says he, that although he sees it in the newspaper, he doesn’t even bother to read the article because he knows its there and that nobody is doing anything about it.

I asked what the new identity cards look like. He got his out to show me – then Mukuobwa, from across the table, softly said she had an old one, her mother’s, that she pulled from her body that afternoon. And then abruptly, yet quite naturally, we left the restaurant. And it occurred to me that even that moment, leaving the restaurant, was symbolic of life in Rwanda – abrupt, jagged, and yet so accustomed to being abrupt and jagged that it almost seemed fluid.


*Post note from 3 March – last week we went together to hear the verdict. He was guilty on all counts and re-sentenced to 27 years in prison.

Communion/Exhaustion

Monday 2 Feb, 2007 – 09:26 – Kigali

Of late, most days in Kigali have been difficult, and the exceptions are few and far between. This is not a complaint or solicitation for sympathy, but simply a cross section of life that I want to share; for if this is what it’s like for me, you can imagine what it’s like for most Rwandese. Most of the difficulty is fueled from not having much money; spending five dollars per day renders my account bone dry before I get home. So sometimes I skip meals, but then am hungry and subject to depression. The other night I brought biscuits home and set them on a shelf. When I came back five minutes later they were gone. I asked my little brother how that could be and he told me, “Because you cannot own food – it’s to share”.

Being white and in Rwanda can be hard at times too. Last night I told this to my Rwandese friend, but she could not believe it. “Can that be true? No. In years past we were hostile to whites because they represented the non-intervening world, but Rwandans are much more friendly today”. So I told her stories. I told her about the guy two days ago who got off his motorcycle and introduced himself with a question and a biting tone: “Why do you come here and expect everyone to speak your language?” I was crushed, furious, and defensive. With a cold stare, I wanted to look at him and say, “well, you dumb ass, English is actually one of your country’s official languages”, but that would have been terribly foolish. So instead I responded in Kinyarwanda: “Beetay bjaway?” (How are you?) – then quickly added “Cheh cheh kah” (Shut up). It was a foolish and I’m not happy with myself, but I was hungry and frustrated and tired and – yeah, whatever, I cracked.

Yesterday I went to Gacaca (a community court that still hears cases and sentences killers from the 1994 genocide). Although the meetings are open to the public, throughout Gacaca eyes drilled through the back of my head. Afterwards a noticeably disturbed but friendly gentleman approached and greeted me in English. We talked for a while and he explained who everyone was, what was said, and how the court worked. On our side, three men in pink uniforms were getting into the back of an official-looking truck. “Those are the prisoners,” he said plainly. “Two of them are killers and one is a witness to their innocence, but he lies. The one there,” he pointed, “sitting in the middle – he was on trial today. He killed my mother”. At the moment, I am not sure how to hold that interaction.

I finally got home last night and collapsed on my bed - and lay there for probably two hours - exhausted, frustrated, defeated. Wanting more than anything to be understood. I pictured putting a USB adapter at the end of an IV so I could shovel my depleted state into words for you to understand. All sorts of tough questions swarmed through my head. Why am I here? Why did I give up the comforts of home? What am I supposed to do with all I see and experience? Then, without straining, an answer just kind of appeared. I came here to serve and not be served, because that’s what Jesus did, and he is my model. And then I remembered something about being part of the body of Christ, about setting aside the self, and how testing of faith develops perseverance. So I got up and went to the dining room, poured wine into a cup, tore off a piece of bread, and took communion. And at that moment, better than ever before, I understood what it meant to take the body “in remembrance of [him]”. Exhausted but not in despair.

Picture to the left is of the church in Kicukiro (just up from where Shooting Dogs was filmed)

Email to Andrew

Hey Hirsch -

Thanks for taking time to write. I actually have four or five long entries to post but for a number of reasons have not put them up yet. Mostly I like to tell myself this is because I've been busy - but really I know much of it is because things have not been going well - and thus I know the writing is just whining... and how can I whine about life being difficult when I've got an ipod in my pocket, a laptop in my backpack, health insurance, and a plane ticket back to the US? And yet in some respects it has been difficult, and in some respects I have been poor. I have these things because people gave them to me, but for my personal bank account - I'm way strapped. I'll spare the details (and thus the whine), but basically for a while there I was having to skip meals or just eat bread - and I didn't have money for fruits or vegetables - or anything nutricious really. And this became depressing, because I was hungry and tired, and people looked at me like I was wealthy and spoiled - and the shearing between what I felt and how I was perceived hurt. A friend asked how I was really doing, though - and I told him... and after thinking/praying with his wife, they decided to give me $100/month for food... both for me and for others (a contributing factor to my hunger was that street kids needed food more than me - hence I bought them lunch and went without) (don't think i'm righteous - you'd do the same if you were here).

I am actually now at the internet cafe, but the connection is too slow to upload entries. There's lots coming, though - and many pictures.

Something I won't make public (because I don't want people to think I'm full of myself), but which is kind of neat... I went to the Partners In Health clinic with a friend, met Paul Farmer's wife Didi Bertrand - a medical anthropologist - and submitted a research proposal that combines elements of genocide, AIDS, and prison/justice systems. At the moment I've been told to wait, but I might very well get the chance to do research on an untapped topic with Gates/Clinton Foundation money. Sometimes I get too excited and have to chill a bit - take myself less seriously, because at the end of the day I'm just a small dude on a big planet trying to catch a glimpse of a bigger God. So research with PIH or not, I'm not that important, you know?

I've also met with the top Rwandese pop-music artists and think I've convinced them to release a song about HIV/AIDS, love, faithfulness/fidelity, et cetera. Pretty crazy to think I can just change influence them and thus public psyche like that. There are a lot of details to come, but I'll let you know how it works out.

Do you mind if I post this email on the website? It feels better to have explained what I've been doing to you in a manner that isn't overly dramatic, and maybe others would be interested as well (or maybe not... this is all just small dude stuff that only sounds big because it's happening in an area that people are afraid of).

Take care,
Benja