Holiday in Uganda

I just returned from a two-week, much needed vacation in Uganda to visit some friends. The break was wonderful and I came back to Rwanda feeling very refreshed. 

Some children I met at the top of a waterfall

I left on a Thursday and flew from Kigali to Entebbe, Uganda. My best friend, Alissa, and her husband, Jacob, were staying in Entebbe with their church group for about 45 hours before moving on to do some mission work in Southern Sudan. Alissa and Jacob invited me to come visit them and generously payed for my ticket. 

I arrived Thursday evening and stayed with them in a hotel. Seeing such old and good friends was just what I needed. The week before my morale was starting to get a bit low. Two more of our boys were sent to prison for stealing and I was pretty upset, but seeing Alissa and Jacob really helped renew my hope. 

I arrived late at night, so our real time together started the next morning. We got to eat a lot of good food and sightsee a bit before coming back to the hotel. Alissa, Jacob, and I walked around after everyone went back to the hotel and ended up finding a small village of huts pretty close to where we were staying. We walked around and talked to some of the women who lived there and then began singing and playing games with a few children. Before we knew it, about 30 kids ran up and began playing too. Alissa and I taught them the Hokey Pokey and the Itsy Bitsy Spider and whatever other silly songs or games we could think to teach them. I was amazed watching Alissa interact with the kids. It was her first full day in Africa and she was able to connect so easily and lovingly with them.

In Rwanda, I do this type of thing almost every day, but this time was different. It meant so much to me to be playing with these kids alongside the girl that has been my best friend since I was 14 years old. I guess I realized how isolated life here can be at times. 

Due to the amount of e-mails, Facebook messages, and snail mail I receive, it would be impossible to forget how loved I am; still, God blesses me with so many amazing experiences and opportunities during my day-to-day life here and after experiencing one with Alissa and Jacob I realized that I wish I could share these experiences with all of my close friends and family. Why can’t everyone move to Rwanda with me? Wishful thinking… 

One of the caves I climbed to in Sipi

I loved my time with Alissa and Jacob and I’m so glad I got to see them. I remember when Alissa and I were 14 and our biggest topic of conversation was about our Latin homework and which boys at school we thought were the cutest (obviously Alissa had a giant crush on that Jacob Flores guy in the grade behind us). It was so funny to be in Africa all together. Life passes so quickly. I still remember the first time Alissa and I met and actually I remember the first time Alissa and Jacob met. It seems like time was on fast forward because now Alissa and I are college graduates, Jacob graduates this year, I was the maid-of-honor in their wedding this summer, and suddenly the three of us are missionaries in Africa. I don’t think that at 14 years old any of us thought we would be standing together in a village in Africa playing with children. Life amazes me. 

After Alissa and Jacob left for Sudan, I met up with some friends living in Jinja. Matthew and Damian were at the mission orientation with me and Kyle this summer. They are teachers in Uganda with Holy Cross and are Notre Dame grads. Kyle was already with them when I arrived and I soon got to meet their roommates who are just amazing and hysterically funny. It was so nice to relax and spend time with other English speakers. Actually the best part for me was that two of their roommates were women. Of course I love all my boys and Kyle and the priests, but nothing beats girl talk.

One of the girls, Whitney, and I had some mutual friends and spent a lot of time discussing a wide range of topics. I loved her. She took me to a few of her classes and I got to see how another missionary interacts with her kids. She has been in Uganda for a year and a half and is finishing up her time here, so I was really inspired with her work and knowledge and kept taking mental notes to use with my boys. 

Kyle and I decided to visit Sipi Falls, a place known for waterfalls and beautiful landscapes. We rode for a few hours on some very cramped buses but finally arrived. Sipi was absolutely breathtaking. We stayed in a cabin and spent our days hiking and exploring. The mountain trails were really steep and actually more dangerous than I realized. We hired a tour guide, Ronney, to help us hike to all of the waterfalls. Although the scenery was beautiful, I’m not a huge fan of heights and there weren’t really any safety precautions used. I was terrified for most of the climb and Ronney had to help me a lot. I also fell and scraped up my knee and hand (surprise, surprise). However, as soon as we reached the first waterfall, I knew the climb was worth it. 

                                                                                                     Evidence:

We then climbed further up to some caves and then further (the most terrifying part of the climb) up to the second waterfall. We followed the river a ways and found a pool of water. It was freezing but Kyle and I both swam with some local children. Kyle and the kids somehow convinced me to jump over a ledge into the water. Kyle recorded my attempts. I tried 4 times to jump and chickened out each time before finally forcing myself to do it. I’m glad I conquered a few fears while in Sipi. It’s probably the most beautiful place on earth to conquer a fear. 

I also woke up early both mornings and climbed the mountain behind our cabin to watch the sun rise. It was just perfect. The whole place is so beautiful it seems like a honeymoon destination, so I tried to spend quite a bit of time in prayer so I could utilize the beauty to let the Lord romance me. I felt like Sipi was more of a retreat than an adventure, which was just what I needed. 

Kyle and I returned to our friends’ house in Jinja just in time for a riot. We were out visiting a priest when it started so we just stayed away until it finished. The people had lost electricity three weeks before and the electricity company was refusing to fix the problem, so the people began to riot. A police officer was sent to the hospital, but fortunately the riot wasn't too bad and the electricity company came to fix the problem that same day. 

My new little friend Sam helping me
climb down part of the mountain

After that, Kyle and I just enjoyed being with Matt and Damian and their roommates for the rest of our break. I think we probably overstayed our welcome (two weeks in an already full house!), but the time was wonderful for us and by the time we left, I felt ready to go back to work in Rwanda. By the end I was really missing our boys.

We rode a bus for about 13 hours and arrived in Rwanda Wednesday. Our boys were so excited to see us and almost immediately I was told about new problems but I feel so revitalized now I’m ready to tackle anything. 

For those interested: the newest problem is quite dramatic and maybe a bit funny (although the boys don’t see it that way). Some of the boys found a puppy and before I left I asked the head priest if they could keep it. He gave permission and the boys were very excited to care for their pet. I never actually got to see the dog before I left, so one of my first orders of business when I got back was to see the puppy my boys had been so excited about just two weeks before. Turns out the boys are all very upset because they believe their dog has been kidnapped and they are worried someone ate it. Oh la la. I’m now in the process of helping them recover their possibly stolen pet or punish anyone who ate it (as per their request). Sometimes the kids just like to eat weird things. The Rwandese people don’t eat dogs or snakes, but some of the boys found out that in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) people do and I caught them killing snakes because they wanted to try it. Have I said before that at 22 years old I often feel like the mother of 150 teenage boys? C’est la vie! 

Two Months and Counting

Well, today marks the anniversary of my second month in Rwanda. Rwanda now just feels like home and the days go by just like they do when I am in America, so I didn’t realize it was my second month until I saw the date as I went to post this. In some ways I feel like I have been here much longer and in others I feel like I just arrived. 

Our kids had exams this week and I’m grading for both my classes and Lionel’s since he left Monday. It was really hard for me to see him leave but it was also exciting to see him wrap up his ministry and prepare to go home. It made me think a lot about how much I will grow and change during this year and what I will be like as I pack up to leave. That being said, I am really coming into my own here in Rwanda and I’m not looking forward to leaving any time soon. I feel very settled into my new life. It’s only been two months but I already feel like a different person.

Grading has been monotonous and long (I’ve already spent at least 15 hours grading and I’m still not finished) but sometimes the kids’ answers make me laugh. In my computer class, I talked to the kids about computer viruses and how those can be brought into the computer through flask disks, CDs, DVDs, etc. For my exam, one of the questions was: “Name 3 or more things that can cause viruses.” Here was a student’s response: “HIV, AIDS, syphilis, gonorrhea.” I gave him half credit. 

As much as I laughed at first, the response made me grimly aware of just how different life is here. This student can’t even spell his own name (many of the children cannot spell their names correctly) but he can spell syphilis. And HIV and AIDS are constant fears. Rwanda actually has a pretty low HIV rate for Africa (although it is double, almost triple that of the United States) but during the genocide, HIV was used as a weapon against women so many of my boys lost their mothers or sisters to AIDS. 

On a happier note, my relationship with my boys has grown so much and I truly love each and every one of them and now I believe they truly love me. They are always coming to visit me and if something difficult is going on in their lives, they confide in me. They all call me Mary Elise or “Sista.” The marriage proposals from the boys have died down and now they treat me more like a big sister or sometimes even a mother, which is a really strange. I’m only 22 years old, but at times I feel like the mother of 150 teenagers! I spend a lot of time with them and they always have questions for me about faith or hard situations and sometimes even girls! It’s always funny when a boy tells me about the woman he loves more than life itself, because she’s usually one of my female students. I never know which of my girls are the heartbreakers, and I’m often surprised. 

Some of my older boys are getting close in age to marriage for Rwandans, so they ask me a lot of questions about marriage and picking a good wife. Although I always tell them they absolutely have to finish their education before even considering marriage, I also encourage them to spend time in prayer before the Blessed Sacrament for guidance in picking their wives. I tell them that they have to prepare themselves to be holy husbands before they can find good wives. 

There is a big problem with domestic violence in Rwanda and with men leaving their wives and children, so it’s interesting to be with so many young men at the time in their lives when they are beginning to consider marriage. I hope that I catch them at the perfect time to guide them to be faithful and respectful husbands and fathers. Because I’m a woman they respect and even love, they take my advice very seriously and are always asking more and more questions. 

They also have many questions about God and faith. Some of the boys have some really bizarre or very sad ideas about God, so I always try to take the opportunity to set them straight. One boy confided in me that he knows that Jesus was a Mzungu American who had a lot of money! I almost passed out. When I told him that Jesus was from the Middle East therefor not white and by choice was certainly not rich, the child’s mouth dropped open. 

Just yesterday, another boy told me he wanted to get married or find a girlfriend. We had the standard “finish your education and prepare to be a loving husband first” discussion when he confided that he actually didn’t want to get married right now, but he just wanted someone that would love him. Then he told me that nobody loves him like I do and he asked what he will do in a year when I leave. Ugh. It was so hard to hear. I was glad to hear that he knew I loved him but it was heartbreaking to realize he believes I am the only person who does. It was even harder to realize that the few moments of time I give him a day are the only moments he feels loved that day, especially because I scold him pretty frequently. We talked for a long time about how God always has and always will love him, but the concept was difficult for him to comprehend. 

These ideas are a very common problem. The boys come to us after so much damage has already been done. Much of our time is spent trying to repair that damage these precious boys have experienced throughout their lives. What they have seen can definitely effect their faith. Some of the boys cling to Christ and bring him all of their sorrows. Actually, we have a lot of boys who end up becoming priests. However, others have a hard time picturing a loving God (or even loving people) and fall into depression. As Salesians, we have to be so patient and understanding with them. 

Some of the older boys having a good time in the classroom

Wednesday night I gave my first “Goodnight.” This is a Salesian tradition where every night one of us talks to the children about a spiritual or moral thought before they go to sleep. It stems back to when Don Bosco first started giving street children a place to stay. They would go to sleep and in the mornings, everything would be stolen and the children would be gone. Finally, Don’s mother decided to leave the boys with a holy thought before they drifted off to sleep. Her method worked and Salesians have been doing this ever since. 

I was so nervous to give my first Goodnight in front of all my boys, but it turned out really well. One of my good friends (also a Salesian Lay Missioner) sent me an e-mail and I used the contents from that. I pulled 5,000 francs (about $8) out of my pocket and asked the boys who wanted it. They all started screaming and going crazy. Then I wrinkled up the money and threw it on the floor. I again asked who wanted it and, of course, the boys still wanted the money. Then I stepped on it and the boys still wanted it. I asked them why they still wanted the money and one answered because he could buy a lot of things with it. Then I told them that this was true. Just because the bill had been crinkled and stepped on did not take away it’s value. All of their faces dropped and they got really quiet. 

As I looked into the faces of my boys who have been so wrinkled and so stepped on by the world, I started to cry. I just told them how much they are worth and how much God loves them. Rwandans are very uncomfortable around emotions, so I thought the boys would react badly when I cried, but they were not ashamed. Some were getting teary-eyed themselves and not one boy turned away. 

One of the Foyer boys lost his left eye at some point in his life and I noticed that he in particular was very emotional and so attentive. I could see the story clicking in his head. We then just talked a little more about God’s plan for our lives and about how to become saints. It was a really beautiful moment and I know I will always treasure this memory with my kids. They are becoming so much a part of me. 

Life with them is moving quickly and my days are very busy. I’ll use Thursday as an example. 

Thursday morning I had to give my last exam of the week and after the exam I was walking to lunch. On my walk, I saw a little boy who looked sad, so I sat down next to him and asked what was wrong. He said his stomach hurt and so I was trying to figure out if his stomach hurt from malnutrition or because he was sick. As I asked him to stand up (so that I could see if his belly was extended, meaning he was malnourished) he began vomiting. His vomit got on me and one other boy and I was just praying he wasn’t HIV positive. He continued to vomit for the next 15 minutes. Just then, school got out and so a group of kids gathered around to watch the spectacle. It was a total disaster. 

This child isn’t one of our students but had come to pick up his little brother who is one of the students. I had to go find his 5 year old brother and then found two of the older boys to help me. The sick one could not possibly walk home on his own and so me and the two older ones had to carry both of the little boys to their home up in the mountains. It was unreal. We were walking up hill in mud while we were covered in vomit, holding either an 8 year old or a 5 year old. At that moment, I felt like a missionary. I was also so proud of my older boys for volunteering to help. They had just finished their last exam of the week and were exhausted, but still carried and were so sweet to the little ones. 

After we got back home, I ate a late lunch and started heading back to my house. One of the pigs had just given birth and so some of my students who work with the animals made me come and see the sweet little piglets. After this, I was exhausted and smelled like sweat, vomit, and pigs and was really anxious to take a shower. 

I had plans with the Italian N.G.O. workers and so I had to shower quickly and then we went to the market. I had bought some material and needed to get measured for a dress. 

Many people have asked about the African dress I was wearing in recent pictures, so I should say that I bought the material at the market. The market is actually really cool. Before I lived here, when I pictured Africa, I was picturing this market. It’s really noisy and crowded and people are yelling and it smells terrible and you have to haggle for everything you buy. I love it. There are tons of fresh vegetables and beautiful fabrics and lots of little handcrafts that locals have made. It’s where all the Rwandans shop so I’m often the only Mzunugu there. 

Whenever I want to buy an African dress, I go to the market and look through tons of fabric until I see one I like. I haggle for the price in French and then sketch what I want the dress to look like and have a seamstress make it. I actually really love wearing African dresses. The material is beautiful and bright and my kids really appreciate when I wear them. They always yell, “Ohhh! Teacha! You look smart!” and give me a thumbs up. How can I not prefer African clothing with that kind of response? 

After getting measured for the dress, the Italians dropped me off at a hotel that will cut Mzungu hair and I had about 6 or 7 inches chopped off. My hair was just too long and was attracting a lot of attention. It was also difficult to take care of and was very hot and heavy. The new hair cut is fine, but I really miss my long hair. It goes to just above my shoulders so it’s the shortest I think I’ve ever had it.

The evidence

After I got back from the haircut, I became painfully aware that I only live with men. Not one of the priests noticed and after I told them, they insisted I must have only gotten a little bit off. Then they jokingly suggested I shave my head. Ugh. I told them it was a good thing they were priests and didn’t have wives or daughters, which made them laugh but I think they agreed. 

After that, I went to see all my boys at the Foyer before they went to sleep. Not one out of the 150 boys that I spend all my time with said anything about the haircut. I was attempting to fix the center’s broken digital camera and they had millions of questions about the camera but I don’t think they even noticed my hair… Men. 

At least I always have someone to chase away the lizards for me. The boys find it hysterical that I’m terrified of the lizards so they enjoy shooing them away to protect me. They also think it’s funny that I think all the “little meats” are cute (aka: the calfs, the piglets, the chicks, the bunnies). Whenever one of our farm animals gives birth, the boys get really excited to show me the baby animals because they know I find the babies so adorable, which is hysterically funny to them. What I see as a baby animal, they see as a meal one day in the not too distant future. So when I’m cooing over a little piglet, they are picturing me cooing over bacon…. I’m learning so much about the male psyche thanks to Rwanda. 

I think I’m learning a lot of things thanks to Rwanda. Truly, I love it here.  Hopefully I’ll be writing soon about my trip to Kibeho. You are in my prayers, please keep me in yours. 

The Teacha, Docta, and Heartbreaka

I know I have been promising to write more about my day to day activities. I am so far behind in explaining everything that has happened! I think I just need to try to do a few short updates this week to catch you up. We’ll see if that happens... Life has just been so busy.

Maybe I should give you the timeline for a typical day in the life of this Mzungu. I typically wake up around 5:40 a.m., go to daily Mass, eat breakfast, then teach classes until 1:15 p.m. I then eat a late lunch, have a French lesson, and then try to go to adoration (doesn’t always happen). After this, I usually stop by the infirmary (I’ll explain this later) and then go home for a brief rest. At 3 p.m. I try to go play sports with my boys. They have been giving me volleyball lessons, but they are so rough that my whole body has been sore! Since people are learning that they can find me at volleyball at this time, I am usually approached by someone with a medical problem and have to leave my volleyball game early to go back to the infirmary with the patient. After the daily medical emergency, I go home (usually around 5:30) for another break until dinner at 7:15. After dinner, I come home, check e-mails, pray my rosary then sleep. 

A view of my classroom and a couple of my students

My days have really been getting busy in the last two weeks. I had a lot more free time when I first arrived. The semester ends soon and I’ve heard rumors from the other missionaries that I will have much more free time after school ends. 

I’ve been meaning to tell you about my classes. Teaching has definitely been challenging. Some of my classes understand almost no English and my French isn’t quite sufficient to fill the gap. I actually have a few deaf boys so I have been learning sign language so that I can teach them. Luckily, my mother is a speech therapist, so I already knew a little from her and I can spell words very quickly. Whenever I don’t know the sign, I have to spell the word in French, which can be pretty interesting. 

I think the language barriers definitely have something to do with my boys having a hard time behaving in class, but I think most of the behavior problems stem from their backgrounds. Most of our boys at the center were street children and the majority are orphans. Even more sadly, some of our boys were child soldiers. The headmaster wanted to point out the former child soldiers, but I asked him not to. I think sometimes it’s better not to know. 

Anyway, the majority of my kids spent formative years of their lives without care and love. There are no laws on the streets and fewer for child soldiers. Just because they were moved into the Foyer and are now in a stable environment doesn’t erase the years of trauma. 

As a teacher, I have to understand that if I leave anything at all sitting out, it will be stolen (even totally useless things). Kyle and I have to be very careful not to give the kids an opportunity to steal, but if something is stolen, it’s not surprising. I don’t think the boys steal out of malice. They have been focused on their own survival for so long that for some of the kids things like stealing just come naturally. 

Classes are tough at times. I have about 4 classes that are pretty well behaved, but I have 3 that keep me on my toes. The boys in those three classes are all sweet kids but have a very difficult time not causing a ruckus. It’s funny because I spend a lot of time with all of these boys outside of classes and always have a blast with them; however, teaching them is an entirely different situation.

One of my favorite boys is nicknamed Hammer. He is 15 years old and a sweet kid (excluding the fact that he tries to pickpocket Kyle daily). He usually comes on my front porch to play Uno or Egyptian War with me a few times a week. I’ve heard from Kyle and Lionel that Hammer is quite smitten with me. He works for Kyle in the fields after school and at the end of work will always ask Kyle if he can come visit our house. Kyle will say, “Are you coming to visit me or do you just want to see Mary Elise?” and Hammer will blush. He is always asking Kyle to find me and bring me outside so he can talk to me, to Kyle’s annoyance. I never know about these times until afterwards because Kyle always refuses. He gets too annoyed. Lionel told me Hammer has asked him to bring me outside a few times before too. 

Anyway, in class the other day, Hammer led a group of boys in foolishness that escalated to the point of absurdity. To stop the situation, I made all the boys turn off their computers and take out notes. I made them write notes for 45 minutes until the class was over. I’m never actually mad at the kids, but sometimes I have to be pretty stern since that is the teaching style they are used to. While I was making them write notes I kept trying not to laugh. They looked like puppies who just got in trouble. It was really pathetic but very cute. 

Laying down the law for my
clearly terrified students

I kept Hammer and four other boys after class to talk to them specifically about their inappropriate behavior. I felt so sorry for Hammer. He looked so ashamed. Not only did he get in trouble with his teacher, but he was so embarrassed that his crush was upset with him. I could almost feel his teen angst. As sorry as I feel for him, hopefully this will discourage his feelings. 

In addition to teaching, I also spend a good part of my day gently turning down potential suitors. As the only woman on site and a Mzungu, I’ve become very popular with the boys. In Rwanda, most women get married at 20, so at 22 with no husband and no boyfriend, I’m bordering on old maid status. Several boys have volunteered to rescue me from possible spinsterhood. 

Some of my Rwandan marriage proposals have been more notable than others. One boy went so far as presenting me with a plastic ring. As he asked for my hand, he reassured me that he didn’t really love me, but I was a Mzungu and he wanted a white wife. What a charmer! 

I think my favorite proposal happened the day I got my visa. Kyle and I went to downtown Kigali and took one of our boys, John. After getting the Visas, we decided to take John for ice cream. We hadn’t had ice cream in a month and were really craving an American sweet. John had never tried ice cream and was really excited. 

As we were sitting outside eating our ice cream cones (which definitely tasted nothing like American ice cream), some Rwandan men started speaking to us. They kept asking Kyle and John all sorts of questions about me even though I was sitting right there. Finally Kyle told them to just talk to me so they asked where I was from. Before I could answer, they let me know that because I’m brown (Their words- this Rwandan sun is really beating my sunscreen) I couldn’t possibly be American like Kyle. (As a side note: I think many Rwandans have never considered the idea that not all Americans are white). Since they already made up their minds that I wasn’t American, I asked them what country I was from and they informed me that I was Indian. I told them I wasn’t American or Indian, but Rwandan. For some reason, they didn’t believe me, so I told them that John was my brother. The guys started laughing loudly and John took the opportunity to earn some money. He called out, “Yes! We have the same mother and father! So, who wants to buy my sister!?” Total chaos ensued and we had to leave immediately. 

John later informed me that he thought he could have gotten 10 cows and maybe a moto for me. I had never considered how many cows I’m worth, but the average Rwandan man gives two cows for his wife, so I was fairly pleased with my value. 

I want to say so much more about my boys, but this post is already getting long and I’ve been meaning to write about my new responsibilities. 

About two weeks ago, I was asked to take over the infirmary. I have no real medical training other than first aid, but unfortunately I’m the most qualified (mostly just because I know that bacteria and germs are bad and it’s important to wash hands). 

When I was first shown the infirmary, I was pretty upset. There was no soap in the entire building and when I asked the reason I was told that the boys might steal it. (Great excuse to have no soap in the building where we keep the sick…). I also found bloody medical scissors and equipment sitting out on tables and bloody gauze in open trash cans. Most of the medications expired in 2007. It was really disheartening. 

I didn’t accept the position right away, but asked for some time to pray and think. Running the infirmary is such a big responsibility and I’m not a nurse, but after talking to a good friend who is a nurse and talking to a fellow missionary in the region, I felt convicted to take the job. I knew that if I didn’t do this, nobody would. The infirmary had not been used in months. 

Spending an afternoon with two of my boys
(Hammer is on the left)

I made an agreement with myself that I wouldn’t do anything that was too advanced for me because I don’t ever want to feel responsible for hurting someone. If someone can’t be treated by me, then at least I’m now in the position to ask the priests to take the person to the hospital.
However, since I’ve opened the infirmary, there have been many rumors circulating that I’m a doctor or a nurse. For every person I treat, I let them know that this isn’t true. Still, I’m now able to help situations that have just frustrated me in the past. In my last post I wrote about the diseases of the street children and how helpless I felt with not being able to do anything. Well this week, a 7-year-old street boy came in with pink eye. Two weeks ago I would have been so distressed but couldn’t have helped. This week, I examined him in the infirmary and then was able to use an at-home remedy. I mixed warm honey water and put some in his eye. I just saw him again yesterday and his eye is 100% better. 

It’s really beautiful to be able to help in small ways, although I’m frequently just praying I’m doing the right things and constantly consulting with the notes my nurse friend e-mailed me. 

Well it’s getting late. I’ll have to write a few short updates later this week to try to catch up on everything else that has been happening. I am taking the day off tomorrow to go to the site of Our Lady of Kibeho. I’m really excited. This has been a dream of mine since before I even considered coming to Rwanda. You’ll be in my prayers! 

No Happy Ending, But Lots of Hope

One of the children who
comes to our site.

I started writing this post a couple of weeks ago, but I’ve been going back and forth about if I should post it. I struggled with publishing because it involves some of the more unfortunate realities of life here and also involves my personal pain. Finally my journalism major got the best of me and I just felt obligated to everyone who has supported my mission trip and all those offering prayers for me to not censor some of the sadder truths about life here. So here goes: 

As much beauty as I have seen, I have also seen so much pain. There is so much poverty. I especially have a hard time seeing all the street children. Some of the children fending for themselves cannot be over 6 years old. I have witnessed the damage done by the streets to my own boys before they were rescued and moved to the Foyer and it makes me so sad to stand back and see new children striving to make the streets their home. 

There is a skin disease that most of the street children have contracted. Many of them are covered in sores and flies always cover these children. It makes me sick because I’m constantly thinking, “This one covered in flies. That’s Jesus. This one with the open sores. That’s Jesus.”

One day about a week ago, two street children came to the oratory. One was 5 and the other was 8. I wish I knew their names, but they didn’t understand when I asked. I actually didn’t know that they were boys at first. The street kids will just take any clothing given to them and they were both wearing girl’s clothing. Their parents are dead and they live with their mother’s brother who refuses to care for them, other than giving them a place to sleep at night. 

They were both covered in sores and one of them had a really badly infected fingernail. It was so infected that it was rotting off. Looking at this poor child and his finger made me so angry. I took the two boys inside the priests’ house and one of the priests said I could bathe them. The boys didn’t speak English or French, so I found a Rwandan woman to just tell them they were getting a bath. 

I should probably say that these street children are so vulnerable to the horrible intentions of some bad adults. One of the priests that works with street girls told me that many times men will agree to give them food but the girls are forced to sleep with the men in return. They have to chose between starvation or rape. It’s heartbreaking. 

Section of the city

The 8 year old got so scared when I took him into the bathroom. The 5 year old was excited for a shower, so I really felt that something had happened to the 8 year old. I didn’t know what to do, so I just started singing them praise and worship songs in English. They finally realized they were safe and got ready to take their showers. We have really strict rules about child safety, so I left the bathroom door open and had the Rwandan woman with me. I started the shower for them but let them take their own showers; however, I washed both of their heads in the sink. The disease that the street children has sits in the hair. It looks like white powder in the hair but when it spreads to the skin makes sores. I wanted to make sure that got washed out of their hair. 

The 8 year old had an extended belly from being malnourished. I’m sure that his immune system was down from lack of nutrition, which didn’t help with his infected finger. I held his hand over the sink and really tried to wash the finger. It didn’t do much good. The child needed antibiotics, not just soap. The floor of the shower was solid brown when they were finished bathing themselves. 

I was asking the priests what we could do about the finger. They said there wasn’t much we could do. It was getting late and we didn’t have any medicines that would help. Finally, one of the priests told the little boy to come back the next day and they would try to figure out something to do with the finger. I never found out what happened, but street children don’t really live by rules or times, so it’s not likely the child came back. 

The hardest part for me was that after they were finished showering, I didn’t have any clean clothes to give them so they had to put back on their dirty, torn up clothing. I felt sick putting such disgusting clothing back on these children. Then I had to take them back outside and they left to go back to their uncle’s house. As soon as they walked outside, they were swarmed by just as many flies as before the shower. As they walked off together, I thought I was going to throw up. 

Smiling for the camera,
despite their many hardships. 

  I felt so guilty for not being able to do more. I wanted to grab these kids and give them brand new clothes, and take the 8 year old to the doctor, and find them parents who loved them. One of the priests talked to me afterward. He said as kindly as possible that there are hundreds of street kids right in front of of our eyes but we can’t help them all. Our responsibility is to the boys in the Foyer. After all, they are almost all orphans, they were street children, and some were even child soldiers. We have as many boys as we can afford to care for right now. If we stretched our resources too thin, we wouldn’t really be able to help anyone. 

It was really hard to hear. I kept wondering where to draw the line. When do you stop helping someone in order to help someone else? How do you choose who to care for and who to leave on the streets? 

Until that moment, I never would have considered my boys lucky, but they were rescued. That moment was when I understood just how blessed they are. Now, they have a home. They have adults to love and take care of them. They are given food and an education. Our boys were taken off the streets. I just wish all of these children could be. The ones who aren’t as lucky are totally defenseless. 

I felt really sick and outraged, so I wrote my dad a message telling him everything I was feeling. After talking to my dad, I’m starting to make peace with the situation. He told me the story about the boy throwing starfish back into the ocean. I’m sure you’re heard it. Even though the beach was covered in starfish and the boy couldn’t possibly throw them all back, he made a huge difference for the ones he did throw. Then my father reminded me that Jesus told us the poor would always be with us, but that they have a very special place at the Lord’s table. 

It still hurts, but I know I can’t help all of these kids and I can’t even fix all the problems for the ones I can help. It’s difficult to see so much suffering and to not save the day. But as my father reminded me, I’m not the savior of these children- Jesus Christ is. These kids belong to God, not me and I can only help in the little way he allows. So there is no happy ending to this story, but I have peace and I have hope. I know God will provide. 

“For the needy shall not always be forgotten, and the hope of the poor shall not perish forever.” - Psalm 9: 18

Ducks and Cowboys

Well, I’ve been in Rwanda for almost a month now. One down, 11 or 12 (or more) to go. I’m not totally sure when I will be coming home but around a year and some change. 
     There is so much to say, so I think I’m just going to have to make a few different posts on different topics. Check back soon for updates. 

Proof of how tough I am

  I’ll just start by saying that I’m finally getting used to my new home! I’m a little homesick, but I really want to thank all my friends and family for your encouragement and love. I am truly enjoying all the e-mails and messages. You guys are so good to me and I know your prayers are working. God is really sending me graces to get through the harder parts. 

  I’m mostly all healed from the injuries I describe in the last post; however I have a pretty large scar from the Moto burn. At first I was a little bummed, but after thinking about it I have a brighter perspective. Whenever I'm back in the states and people ask how I got the scar I can say, “Oh this? I got it while riding a motorcycle... in Africa. I got a concussion the same day.” If asked for details, I can just say “What happens in Africa stays in Africa.” I already feel more rugged. 

  In addition to my body healing, my legal status is now cleared up. I finally got my visa Thursday; unfortunately, Kyle did not. We are going to have to go back to immigration again this week (this will be our 5th trip, I believe). I'm so relieved to have the visa and it is actually pretty neat. It has “missionary” stamped right on it. I feel just a little more official now that I have it. 

  My French is also still increasing although not as quickly as it was at first. It’s now progressed far enough that I am always frustrated. Before now, I knew I couldn’t speak French so I wasn’t bothered by things I couldn’t say. In fact, anything I could say was a major accomplishment. Now that I can say much more, whenever I can’t say something (which is often) I get a little frustrated. 

  I actually said something pretty embarrassing at dinner the other day. I can’t remember what the priest said, but it was something like “Why are you smiling?” (all the priests speak French so this entire conversation was in French) and I wanted to say because I was very happy. Unfortunately that isn’t what I told him. I said “Parce que je suis tres joli” (Because I am very pretty). He looked a little confused but then accepted my answer and we moved on with the conversation. Luckily, a different priest said, “I think she means ‘Je suis tres contente.’(I am very happy). Doh.

     I was talking to one of the cooks today and he is trying to learn English. He knows about as much English as I know French so we agreed to meet up after lunch and practice. We had our first dual lesson last week and it went pretty well. 

     Teaching Rwandans English can be pretty funny. Typically, Rwandans can hear absolutely no difference between L's and R's which leads to some funny moments. One of my students always signs her name "Lacher," even though her name is Rachel. Still, that doesn't stop the kids from making fun of my slightly-teeny-bit-Texan accent. The German N.G.O. workers tease me about my southern accent too! I just didn't realize that people who learned English has a second or third language had the right to make fun of a native speaker's pronunciations, but in this case it happens. 

  I think my biggest personal accomplishment of this month is getting more used to the altitude. I have just been constantly tired because of less oxygen from the altitude. I have already used my inhaler more this month than I have in the last 5 years (You didn’t know I had an inhaler? That’s because I never had to use it). Luckily, I’m starting to get a lot more energy. 

     Now that my body is feeling more acclimated, I’ve been going to play sports with the boys every day. Part of Salesian spirituality is called the Oratory. It’s where we play sports with the kids for several hours after school in order to 1. Keep them out of trouble; 2. Foster self-esteem and good morals. 

  I should clarify that when I say “play sports with the boys” I mean hang out while they play. These kids are amazing athletes! The older boys always try to get me to play basketball, volleyball, or soccer with them, but we both know they are kidding. They even smirk as they say it, the punks. 

  I usually just chat or cheer on the sidelines; however, I saw some 5 year olds playing “futball” last week and decided to go play with individuals whose skills I assumed were around my level. I was wrong. Even the five year olds were too advanced for me. I had no choice but to begin karate chopping them (without actually hitting them obviously). They loved it and we karate chopped for a couple hours until it was getting dark. 

  Another evening for Oratory, I began teaching some kids a hand slapping game. I started with three kids and the next thing I knew there were 20 kids fighting to join the circle to play. It was getting out of hand so I started doing the Hokey Pokey. The kids went nuts! They loved it. I never really liked that game even as a child, but these kids acted like it was the best game they had ever played. We then played “Duck, Duck, DUCK” for a while. I was trying to teach them “Duck, Duck, Goose,” but they couldn’t remember “goose” so they just screamed “DUCK” whenever they wanted someone to chase them. They also could not understand the concept of running once around the circle before sitting down in a seat so sometimes the two ducks would run around the circle for awhile before one leaped into the circle, often landing on other children. Next time we play, the kids may need mouth guards and shoulder pads. 

  Other than playing with the kids at the oratory, I teach every day. I’m finally getting adjusted to the earlier days. Mass is at 6:10 a.m. and classes start at 7:45. It’s hard because if I want to talk to any of my American friends then I have to stay up way past my bedtime for them to be off work or school. I’ll write about my classes in an upcoming post, but this one is already getting long and I want to get to the cowboy.

  My mornings usually have a strange start. Want to know why? I'll give you a clue.... 

Cows....

     The cows from our site get to graze on my driveway at about 7:30 every morning and I literally have to push past them to go to classes. In the spirit of solidarity, I like to imagine it’s the same thing New Yorkers have to do (except with other people).

  The cows are always getting loose, which brings me to who I've been wanting to talk about… Steven the Cowboy.

  Steven is our youngest boy. When I first arrived, I kept hearing all about The Cowboy. I was sort of picturing this 19 year old kid with a cowboy hat and boots. In reality, Steven is 7 years old, but he is the ring leader of a group of boys who are a bit older than him. His best friend is this sweetheart named Edmond. Steven is always bringing Edmond into his troublemaking. Whenever I see their little gang, I am sort of reminded of the Lost Boys from Peter Pan. Steven always orders them around and they listen to and obey him. 

The Man of the Hour

  This child has such a personality. All the boys who live in the Foyer are required to work so they learn responsibility. The rule is sort of “Don’t work, don’t eat.” Obviously, this does not apply to 7 years olds, but Steven marched himself up to the head priest and demanded a job, but not just any job. Steven wanted to be in charge of the cows! The head priest eventually agreed and has been regretting that decision ever since. 

  Steven regularly loses the cows. About once a week the cows will wander into my classroom or I will see them on the soccer fields. Whenever I see the cows wandering around unsupervised, I don’t need to ask who is supposed to be watching them. I know. 

  I don't really understand why Steven has gotten to keep his position for so long. When someone has a really short attention span, people joke that they have the attention span of a SEVEN year old. So why would you ever give one custody of 20 cows several times a week? It’s a terrible decision, but no one ever seems to learn. Still, it makes for great stories. 

  The other day I walked past the cows’ stables. Some of the boys were cleaning it out. Since they were ankle deep in cow dung, they were all wearing these thick rubber boots that went up to their knees, except... (you guessed it!). Steven was wearing flip flops. His feet and legs were covered with cow crap! I thought about making him put on boots, but I realized it would be a futile effort. He would have still found a way to get dirty, even with boots. 

  I think he just enjoys being covered in gross things. I found him in the sewer ditches with Edmond and another boy this morning on my way to Mass. I tried to get them to come to Mass with me and we walked together for awhile but when Steven saw the church, he and the other boy took off running. Edmond came inside but lost interest about 20 minutes in and ran out before I could catch him. 

  I have so many stories about Steven and his little gang and they always make me laugh. I’ll have to post more later. 

     For now, I need to wrap up, but I do want to thank everyone for reading. I never expected to have so many views and have been surprised at some of the people who have messaged to tell me they are keeping up with the blog. Actually several unexpected people wrote to me over this past week to tell me to hurry and put up a new post, so this is for you. Sorry it's been taking a while in between, life is busy here as I'm sure you can imagine. Still, it's great to hear your prayers and excitement for me. Please keep up the emails and messages. I miss you all. 

"Good Mornings" and Not So Good Times

Although It’s only been two weeks since I updated, so much has happened. Many people like to count their blessings. For entertainment purposes, I’ll share with you a list of the minor catastrophes I have survived since arriving in Rwanda three weeks ago…

Since arriving: 1. All of my luggage was lost; 2. The toilet in my room (which was broken before I came) has yet to be fixed, despite my requests for a plumber; 3. Therefore, I must use a toilet without a seat; 4. I got a very nasty case of bed bugs; 5. I found a lizard living in my shower (I named him Leonard the Lizard); 6. My house keys were lost my first day of teaching and all of the locks on my house had to be replaced; 7. I fell and skinned my left knee and leg; 8. I’ve had to repeatedly deal with the unwanted (and occasionally creepy) affections of one of the teachers; 9. I drank the water (enough said); 10. I fell and scraped my right knee and leg; 11. My first time riding a Moto (a motorcycle taxi), my leg brushed past the exhaust pipe and I got a huge burn; 12. Later that day, I was hit in the head with a soccer ball and got my first concussion; 13. That same night I stepped in an ant hill; 14. I found my pet lizard, Leonard, dead in my shower the next morning.

I hope that everyone finds it extremely impressive that I only cried twice throughout all of this (both after the head injury, I might add). But still, God has been blessing me through everything. I keep offering up the little sufferings and praying others receive graces from them. Despite all the little miseries, Rwanda has already impacted me so deeply. 

Chris and Mitchell, the two missionaries my partner and I are replacing, trained us throughout our first week, but left last Monday. As we watched their jeep drive away, a sort of cold panic set in. I think that was the moment when Kyle and I realized that we are actually missionaries in Africa. I believe a phrase along the lines of “Oh shoot” was used. 

Some of my boys. That's my
classroom behind us. 

I began teaching classes that same day. I teach all the computer classes and Kyle is the farmer. It’s a lot of work, but my students are amazing. The kids come from very difficult situations and are among the poorest children in Kigali. Many of them are orphans and some were street children before the priests took them in. The boys range in age from 7 to 23; however most are between 14 and 19. 

Many of the boys lost their families in the genocide. One of my students was just a toddler when he witnessed the murder of his mother, father, two brothers, and three sisters. At the age of 4, he began fending for himself. Sadly, this is a very common story and just a fact of life for many of the boys. 

Probably the most common reason the boys live here is that their fathers were murdered in the genocide but their mothers survived. After the genocide, many of the mothers remarried and their new husbands refused to take in children from a previous marriage, so the kids were left on the streets of Kigali. 

Most of their lives, my boys have been in survival mode. Because of this, there are a lot of behavioral problems and a bit of stealing. On my first day of teaching, I lost my keys after a class. I searched all over our site for hours. When I told the head priest, he had all the locks to my house changed that very hour. It turns out that the kids will sometimes steal keys and then sell them to people looking to break into houses. Ten years ago, an Italian volunteer was murdered by a burglar who had let himself in with a set of stolen keys. It was extremely stressful; however, there was a good ending to the story. A few days later, one of my boys gave me my keys back! After I asked him a few questions, I felt certain that he really did find them. While I now understand how real the possibility of theft is here, that child’s honesty reminded me not to jump to conclusions just because the boys are capable of stealing.

The behavior problems are hard to deal with, but I’m always aware that the kids have really rough lives. One of my students began hysterically crying in class one day. She told me her stomach was hurting. Later, another teacher came into my room to explain more details. This student’s family was killed in the genocide and she began living on the streets as a toddler. She was severely malnourished when she was found. The morning of my class, she left the house in a rush and didn’t eat her breakfast. As she sat in my class, she felt a bit hungry and that triggered some really bad memories. Every time this girl feels the smallest bit of hunger, she is reminded of almost starving, which reminds her that she never was hungry before her family died. Skipping breakfast brings back all the painful memories of losing a loving family in the genocide. 

Where I live

There is so much pain, but the children also keep me constantly laughing. One of my favorite things about Rwanda are the greetings. At all hours, children yell out to me “Good morning Mzungu!” Most kids don’t learn English until they are middle school aged, but the kids love to use the English they know. For most of them, that means one phrase: Good morning. And I hear it A LOT. 

In addition to Mzungu and “Malie Ahleese (Mary Elise),” all my students call me “Teacha.” In Africa, there is no such thing as raising your hand and patiently waiting for a response, so throughout all of my classes, I hear a chorus of “Teacha! Teacha! Teacha! My computer is sick!” (All of the computers are extremely old and break constantly. Since the kid’s English is limited, they always describe the computers as sick). 

As time goes on, the Africa sun has been beating my sunscreen, so I’m hearing the term “Mzungu” from my kids less and less. The other day a little boy came up to me and asked what country I’m from. After I told him “America.” He goes, “Ah? Is not clear because your skin has color.” 

I’ve begun playing music in my classroom whenever I have free time so the kids can come in and listen. I have some popular Rwandan artists downloaded on my school computer, so I’ll play their favorite songs. The other day they begged me to show them some American dance moves. I sort of panicked and couldn’t think of any so I showed them disco moves. They loved disco dancing and now I’m too embarrassed to tell them that those moves aren’t current. I also have shown them the grocery cart, the sprinkler, and the chicken wing (all totally ridiculous moves) and the kids LOVE them. 

My French has been improving exponentially. The other day the Canadian volunteer, Lionel, (who is close to fluent) took me to downtown Kigali and we had a conversation with a Rwandan. After he heard Lionel was from Canada, he was surprised because he thought my French was much better! Lionel was not happy and said the guy just wanted a date. Perhaps, but I prefer to think that my French is superior to Lionel’s. 

I think the hardest thing about being in Rwanda is missing home (and all of you!). As the school year started back up, it was hard knowing I was missing out on seeing my friends and household sisters. I miss my family a ton. Sometimes as I’m going to bed I realize that my friends and family in America are still at work or school and the ocean separating us is only too real. I miss you and you are in my thoughts and prayers every day. 

I also really miss American foods like french fries, enchiladas, lo mien, and spaghetti (joke, obviously). We eat the same exact food every day: rice, beans, potatoes, soup, and eggplant. I told the other volunteers today that I’m sick of it and Lionel said to me, “You miss American food already?! But you just had it three weeks ago!” Yep. He said “just had it.” That was an eye-opener. 

My daily bread

So my life in Rwanda has begun, as complicated and complex as my feelings are. It’s hard for me to understand how I can be so heartbroken and heart-filled, so devastated and ecstatic, so miserable and so joyful, all at once. Yet I know that God is with me gently guiding me through the complexities of my emotions while I serve him. My heart is definitely full. 

No matter what time you read this, I hope you have a “Good Morning” (and a good rest of the day).