There are some things in life that I know I take for granted.

Like electricity. Or shelter. Or running water. Or access to food. Even hearing and sight. Even my new smart phone.

But until now, I have never really appreciated my ability to use the bathroom.

Yes, I am writing to you about a rather awkward problem – a problem that has escalated to the point of a visit to the emergency room at King Faisal Hospital this afternoon.

You have to admit, it’s kind of funny.

I can’t pee.

(Tmi?)

Last week, I went to a sketchy neighborhood clinic to get tested for malaria. I had slept for almost three days straight and, in addition to extreme fatigue, I had perpetual nausea, muscle pain, and sweating. The doctor took my temperature (he didn’t take my blood pressure, no questions about chronic illness, allergies to medicine, etc) and then said he would test me for malaria.

I’m one of those people that really hates needles and I need a period of mental preparation before I am okay with getting a shot.

So I asked the doctor, “Are you going to give me a shot? Are you going to test for malaria with a shot?”

He completely ignored me.

Then, all of a sudden he grabbed my hand – immediately, I realized the situation and started resisting and pulling back.

“It is fine, it is fine,” he insisted, and then swiftly pricked my finger.

I was indignant. And quite miffed.

The good news: I don’t have malaria.

The bad news: The doctor told me I had a cold.

Why it is bad news: I definitely do not have a cold.

The problem has since gotten worse.

Last week, I had to wait ten minutes. Yesterday, I waited over half an hour. At first, I thought that this was just some weird highly embarrassing temporary issue, but it has gotten ridiculous to the point that I went to the King Faisal Hospital today. (I decided to go to a privately run and recognized hospital as opposed to another sketchy health clinic).

After two hours of waiting in line and sitting in waiting rooms, I finally saw the doctor.

Doctor: “So, what exactly is the problem?”

Me: “I can’t pee.”

Thirty minutes later, I left the hospital. This particular doctor could not draw any conclusions, so I have an appointment with a specialist on Thursday morning.

Maybe I have a parasite? Or one of those amoeba things?

I have no clue. But for all you people out there who use the bathroom and never think twice about it, let me tell you: it is a privilege.

Well, that isn’t exactly what I want you to take away.

But I do hope that you appreciate the many comforts around you and recognize the standard of living that you take for granted.

For instance, what would life be like without reliable internet? Or brown sugar? Or hot water?

Let me tell you.

It has been terribly frustrating to not be able to check my email from home. Each broken gchat conversation and nearly-impossible skype video call has coincided with an increase in homesickness. I miss cookies and brownies and moist chocolate cake and pastries – there is no brown sugar here, so all the pastries are dry and flaky. I also recently discovered that the Rwamagana School of Nursing (where I will be teaching English through the Fulbright in January) does not have hot water. I tried to take a cold shower the other day – just to prep, you know – and I couldn’t do it.

Even as I read this over, I am embarrassed by how pathetic I am.

More and more, I am realizing the things that I take for granted. Even with my privileged standard of living in Kigali, I am still experiencing the disparities between my life here and life in the States.

But it is experiences like these that teach me humility and help me to have a clearer perspective of life without all of its fluffy layers and crutches.

I may be a powerhouse back at home, but I am only just a baby here.

Without control of even the most basic functions (literally), I am slowly learning to crawl without support and hope that soon I will also be able to walk.

Please pray for a smooth and speedy recovery!

(I hope this made you laugh 🙂 )

Yes, that is His Excellency President Paul Kagame of Rwanda.

Yes, that is Reverend Jesse Jackson.

Yes, that is me standing in the left corner grinning like a five-year-old child.

Now, if anything ever happens to me in Rwanda, all I have to do is pull out this picture and say, “See, President Kagame and I are best friends!”

(Just kidding).

(But not really).

Here’s the story of how it all happened.

Saturday, June 11, 11:00 AM – I am at the Hyatt Regency Hotel at 151 East Wacker Drive, downtown Chicago. The woman standing in front of me is scrutinizing my camera and she raises it to take a close-up of my face. Then, she turns my cell phone off and on and glares at me suspiciously when I roll my eyes.

I forgot how crazy the President’s security staff is – especially about technology – and I have a cell phone, camera, and laptop in my bag. The woman empties my entire purse onto the security belt and begins to peruse its contents. She finds my nail clipper and immediately starts waving it angrily at my face.

Really? A nail clipper? You think I am going to attack the President with a nail clipper?

She throws it into a pile of other confiscated objects and then grunts for me to move on. I grab my purse, shove everything back inside, and join B, Arthur, and Allan in the conference room.

There, all of the preparations for the President’s arrival are going through a final check. I notice that the banner has been changed from yesterday and the podium repositioned. Now, the two screens read simply: “RWANDA DAY 2011 – AGACIRO.” B is busy ushering people into one of the smaller meeting rooms, while Allan paces back and forth on the scarlet carpet, and Arthur sets up his video equipment.

“Lydia!” Allan says when he sees me, already stretching out his arms for a hug. “How are you? Did you get your press badge yet?”

Thank goodness for friends like Allan (friends who know people who know people who know people)! Minutes later, I have my press badge and official clearance to take photos and footage of the event.

Smiles.

I should probably give you some context.

This is Rwanda Day 2011 in Chicago – a weekend conference organized by the Rwandan government to bring together thousands of Rwandans across the United States and Canada to celebrate Rwanda’s achievements and Vision 2020, and facilitate “social, communal, and business relationships between the Rwandan Diaspora, friends of Rwanda, and the Rwandan business community.” [According to www.rwandaday.org]

The day before, the conference featured two panels – the first discussed “Connecting Opportunities, Creating Value for Rwandans,” and the second discussed “Investing in Rwanda’s Youth, Creating Solutions for the Future.”

Both panels were well-attended, but today’s event was going to be packed. Even the air felt different – I could taste the buzz and nervous excitement, it was almost as if even the walls and light fixtures were shimmering and whispering, “The President is coming! The President is coming!”

I go back into the conference room and help the staff put Rwandan flags on all of the chairs. Then, I select my seat by the stage and test the camera.

Everything was ready.

The room begins to fill at around 2:00 PM. The event opens with a documentary “Agaciro” created by my very talented friend, Allan. [You can view the documentary on Youtube at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1oBN_qmlQMU]

Then, at 4:00 PM, HE arrives.

Following the cues of all the “real” press people, I rush to the front and start madly snapping pictures.

But then he starts getting closer. And closer.

Conflicted, I decide to put down my camera, and then – YES.

I TOUCH HIS HAND!!!!

Elated that I had just accomplished the feat of a lifetime, I raise my camera  back again and resume snapping pictures, but all the while with a huge grin on my face. I can’t wait to tell my parents: I JUST TOUCHED A PRESIDENT’S HAND.

Kagame ascends the stage amidst rapturous applause, and is immediately greeted with a children’s choir and a traditional dance performance.

Reverend Jesse Jackson introduces the President (with, as it turns out, an impromptu speech). Then, the Man himself takes the podium.

I wish I had a transcript of his speech.

It was so eloquent and given with such heartfelt sincerity. President Kagame expressed so much hope for the country’s future and for the new generation; he also addressed the inevitable dissent and criticism that would be directed toward his presence. As it turns out, there was a protest occurring just outside of Hyatt, led by none other than the (supposed) hero of Hollywood’s Hotel Rwanda, Paul Rusesabagina. But the focus of the President’s speech was on the people, the economic progress, and the country’s plans for the future.

As I listen to the translated proceedings, I walk around the room snapping pictures of the audience, the performances, the stage. And at one point, when I lower my camera to review the photos, I see this:

I look up from my camera and Reverend Jackson is still beckoning for me(?) to go over to the side of the stage. I look behind me, no one else is looking in his direction, then turn around and point at myself. He nods.

I walk over to the side of the stage.

“Hi. I’ve been seeing you running around everywhere taking pictures,” he says, “Who are you here with? Do you have a card?”

Taken aback, I quickly explain that I am just a student (I don’t tell him about how I got my press badge), and briefly narrate my “connection to Rwanda.”

“Listen, the President is coming off the stage in five minutes. Wait here. I want to personally introduce him to you.”

I swear my heart stopped beating. Or else, it started beating so fast I couldn’t process what was happening anymore.

DID JESSE JACKSON REALLY JUST TELL ME HE WAS GOING TO INTRODUCE ME TO PRESIDENT KAGAME???

And five minutes later, it happened.

I shake the President’s hand – for REAL this time – and tell him about my two previous trips and my plans to return to Rwanda in the summer with a project.

With me is Kellogg professor, Michelle Buck, whom I had invited to the conference. Michelle had just flown in from a conference in Boston, and had another flight to Florida that evening, but she made a last minute decision to stop in Chicago just for Rwanda Day. Michelle is planning to teach courses on Rwanda at Kellogg and also looking into the possibility of developing a team to visit Rwanda in the spring.

Several photos later, the President leaves the conference.

Fortunately, only Arthur and PD had to witness my bouncing-squealing-oh-my-gosh-that-did-not-just-happen-excitement.

But isn’t that amazing?

Who would have thought that less than a year after my first trip to Rwanda, I would get to meet the President?

None of this – meeting Kagame, attending the TriBeCa Film Festival, going on a second trip to Rwanda – could have happened without the initial funding from the Provost’s Office through the Immersion Experience Grant [now known as the Undergraduate Engagement Grant]. 

I know months have already passed since June, but I wanted to tell you about all the amazing opportunities that have come my way because of that one initial opportunity.

So – THANK YOU. I can’t wait to see what other opportunities and adventures lie ahead.

Worlds tend to collide in the most interesting ways.

Saturday, May 14, 3:00 AM – I am downtown in the Loop and just about to take the Red line home when I receive a phone call from my friend.

“What? Wait – wait a second, I’m getting off the train. Excuse me. Sorry. Just a sec, it’s really loud.”

I push my way back onto the platform just as the doors close and I watch my train barrel past me. This had better be good.

“Hey. Hey B, you still there? What’s up?”

My friend is calling from Indiana and she invites me to spend the weekend. Apparently, some of her relatives have just flown in from Rwanda – among them, an aunt who was particularly kind and hospitable to me on both my past trips there.

“The train leaves at 8:30 tomorrow morning?” I glance at my watch. 3:05 AM. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there. I’ll let you know when I get on the train. Thanks so much. Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow, B. Bye.”

Five and a half hours later – I get to the station at 8:25 AM and barely make it onto the train just as the doors close and the train starts moving forward. I smile – but the smile is short-lived. The conductor tells me that the train doesn’t stop at South Bend on the weekends. My friend: “What? Are you still on the train? Shit, you have to get off that train!”

One hour later, I am crammed in the back of a small car with three Rwandan boys who do not speak English, and I smile politely at their parents as I balance a skinny vanilla latte on my right knee.

Three awkward carpool hours later, we finally arrive in South Bend, Indiana.

I am so relieved to get out of the car and tell B all about my traveling mishaps. But the moment I step inside the house, I am immediately whisked away to prepare hundreds of party favors; and then someone hands me a Rwandan dress and starts insisting that I change into it. People are running about the house in formal Rwandan garb, speaking in a rapid combination of Kinyarwanda and French.

And B? She is nowhere to be seen.

Then, I am back in a car – and, thank goodness, B is there too! – but we don’t have time to talk, because we need to assemble pictures into frames. We arrive at a church and Rwandan women in flowing robes impatiently usher us into file; they hand B a candle and me a drum.

Music starts playing, and then it dawns on me: I am part of a ceremony.

I follow a procession of Rwandan women single-file into the sanctuary, and set my drum next to B’s candle on a small stand in the center. A priest begins the ceremony with several hymns and Bible readings, followed by communion (which I am not allowed to take because I am not Catholic…). As B translates some of the speeches and prayers for me, I gradually realize the purpose of the ceremony: to commemorate loved ones who passed away during the 1994 genocide.

Even after all the exposure I’ve had to Rwanda’s history and different Rwandan communities, I am still always moved by the sense of strength amidst so much loss. Everyone in the sanctuary has lost somebody – some have even lost their entire families. But still they gather every year to support one another and remember their loved ones.

 The church ceremony concludes with a traditional dance by young Rwandan girls. Then, once again, B and I are whisked away to yet another building and yet another ceremony.

After a small reception, I am given a candle and told to stand behind B and two other girls also bearing candles. One of the coordinators of the events instructs me on how to walk (it’s the wedding procession two-step) and I figure I am simply walking in another procession and placing my candle at the stage. The music starts and the girls in front of me move forward as I mentally practice my steps.

Then, I hear a voice inside say: “And now, young Rwandan girls and boys will come to the stage with candles for a moment of silence.”

Oh boy.

I can feel my cheeks burning as I follow B into the dark auditorium. I see the rows of solemn faces looking up at the stage, and desperately wish that my candle would shine less brightly on my so-obviously-not-Rwandan face.

What are these people going to think when they see me? I wonder. How are they going to react to a random Asian girl on stage – someone who is holding a candle in memory of their loved ones but so clearly has no tie to their experiences, someone who cannot possibly understand their loss?

I reach the stage. 

The music stops and I hold my breath as the room fills with silence.

At first, I keep my eyes closed. I try not to swallow and I focus intently on keeping my candle steady.

But then, I venture a peek.

In the darkness, I see a sea of uplifted faces, faces connected to invisible bodies that sway to the same pulse. Rolling tears and joined hands harmonize with the movement, and in the silence, I hear a sweet, sweet emerging melody. The gentle hum of the community saturates the silence and as it overflows, I feel its embrace. All of the history, all of the pain, all of the loss, all of the tragedy wraps around me – it overwhelms me and I feel my heart collapsing beneath its weight.

But then somewhere in the room, a child laughs.

The community chuckles at the sound, and all of a sudden, I feel a quiet warmth and I hear the ascending notes of hope and comfort and healing. The community reaches for me; it lifts me up to a new tune, a new melody that rises from the depths and kisses the sun-drenched cheeks of its new generation. We are here for you. We love you. We won’t ever let this happen to you. Never again.

The music returns, and the lights return to the auditorium.

As I follow B and the other girls off of the stage, I feel an odd sensation of peace and calm and – disconnect?

The community around me carries a strength and glue I have never experienced. I think of my estrangement from my own Taiwanese roots. What does it take to create a community like this? What are the necessary building blocks, the unifying experiences that bind people together so tightly and so desperately?

And where do I fit in?

That is the question perpetually on my mind these days. I am back in Rwanda once again and I want to make a difference. What are the skills and resources that I bring to the table? What can I contribute? What can I share?

I am so grateful for all the opportunities this community has already given me.

But now, it is time for me to find my place within it and discover what I can give back  in return.

I often tell myself and reassure others that the world is small. I like to talk about colliding worlds, intersecting lives, fused cultures and interests. “Don’t say good bye,” I’ll say to my tearing friends, “Stop crying. Stop that right now. If we really want to see each other again, we can and we will. Okay now seriously, stop it.”

I grew up in a college town where people came in and out of my life faster than the seasons. Every August, Ithaca’s population doubles with the entrance of new Cornell and Ithaca College students; every May, the population shrinks back in half and the bustling college towns become abandoned ghost towns. I learned not to get attached to the people around me because chances were, they would soon leave my life in a matter of three or four years. Saying “good bye” became an annual routine that involved glitter glue, card-stock, calligraphy pens, and photo collages. I coordinated the production and distribution of “farewell and thank you” cards to graduating college seniors and then watched others cry and embrace and tried to weasel a couple tears out of my own eyes to not look out of place. 

When I entered college, I brought with me a potted plant. Bred on Ithacan soil, this two-year-old sapling became the basis for my gradual trust in the fertility of the new Chicagoan soil. I began to cautiously plant other seeds and, for a while, everything seemed to go well – new leaves began to unfurl, buds emerged beneath the foliage. I sat beneath the tree and enjoyed its shade for another two years as I tended the seedlings around it.

My first year of college increased my faith in relationships and in humanity. My second year of college destroyed both.

“My people have committed two sins: They have forsaken me, the spring of living water, and have dug their own cisterns, broken cisterns that cannot hold water.” Jeremiah 2:13

Halfway into college, my tree suddenly withered overnight. And as I grieved and tried to understand its loss, I failed to notice the poison that had begun to spread among the others. Even the most resilient plants fell away and shriveled despite my desperate attempts to nurture them back to life. In the aftermath, I was left with only the two youngest seedlings out of the several dozen. When I returned to examine the remains of my tree, I saw how the mysterious disease had severed its roots long before it died, a disease that was aided by the activity of one ambitious termite. I realized that my complete trust, dependence, and love for the tree had also blinded me to its ailment.

I stopped caring. I sat beneath the dead branches and spent my days grumbling about the scorching sunlight. “The risks aren’t worth the benefits,” I would complain when others asked me why I refused to garden, “Look at what happened to my first investment! Why would I repeat the same mistake?”

Weeds began to sprout up from the soil and I let them grow. I occasionally even tended them and allowed them to choke the two seedlings that continued to flourish despite my negligence. For over a year, I lived among the weeds and embraced their thorns and false ephemeral beauty.

What changed?

I am not sure. When my friends go through similar struggles, I share with them the same mantras that helped me through my loss. “Everything is 20/20 in hindsight.” “Adversity creates opportunity.” “It takes half the length of a relationship to get over one.”

But these were not the statements that ultimately convinced me to stand back up.

For six months, every morning was a battle. Just the process of opening my eyes and recognizing the world induced tears. I needed mandatory rehearsals and midterm exams to force me to get up – and for a while, the runway was my therapy. I found relief in the lines of the clothes and the pounding of the beats. When I walked, the weight of the world momentarily vanished and all that mattered was the stretch of stage before me. During those brief moments, I became nothing more than the fabric on my frame and my existence evaporated with all of its pain.

But after the show, I returned to full consciousness and every moment of it was unbearable.

I remember very little of the spring quarter of my sophomore year. When I search for memories, I find a long hazy stain punctuated by faded images of midnight heart-and-soul, an Urban Outfitters sweater, study sessions in 4N, a stroll through the new ARTIC modern wing, and the lingering taste of pink cotton candy accompanied by the soundtrack of “Kids” by MGMT.

But somewhere, however, in the bleak fog of those months, I discovered my utility.

I realized my hands, my fingers – their capacity to hold, to pick up, to write, to caress, to point, to guide. I saw my ears, my legs, my neck, my face: I saw the functional human body before me and recognized its physical capacities. However barren and burnt my soul may have been, I could not deny the potential utility of my body. The most pivotal realization of my life became this: that even if every second of every day you live is hell, as long as you have the capacity to bring happiness into another person’s life – whether this means sitting down next to a stranger in the dining hall, baking cookies for your neighbors, or making a baby laugh with a silly face – if you can induce a smile, your life is worth living. Life is a perpetual struggle, a journey over rivers, valleys, mountains and deserts. Others may never comprehend your struggles, but you also can never completely know what others are going through. Who knows whether one smile, heartfelt conversation, or helpful hand may transform someone’s day, or even their life?

Life did not become any easier or less miserable, but it did take on a purpose and a drive – the pursuit of utility, a desire to be the best I could be and to make the most of what I had. Instead of focusing on my own suffering, I started to prioritize how I could relieve the pain of others. I pursued utility – I tried to maximize my usefulness to serve the happiness of others, and hoped that, in the process, I would also find happiness.

I began to pull out the weeds and plant new seeds. I took risks because I felt that I no longer had anything to lose. I was no longer afraid of people. I did not fear poverty. I did not fear death.

I love J.K. Rowling’s speech to the Harvard graduating class of 2008, especially when she discussed the benefits of failure:

“[F]ailure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me… I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realised, and I was still alive […] And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.”

From rock bottom, I began to pick up the scattered shards to construct a new and improved Lydia 2.0.

I looked for ways to make myself useful to others – to friends, to the campus, to the local community, to communities abroad. I started designing activities for preschoolers, I taught arts and crafts at a school in the Dominican Republic, I spent long afternoons picking up manure in a Guatemalan field.

At school, I soon became involved in all things Africa-related, and began to focus especially on Rwanda.

Somehow, the country’s devastating history and post-genocide reconstructive efforts struck a chord with me. Here was an entire population that had experienced and endured more than I could ever imagine, and yet in the aftermath of destruction the nation’s unparallelled growth and progress have astonished the world. Here was a story of great loss and extreme pain, but also a story of healing, recovery, and reconciliation. 

Rwanda became my inspiration and my muse for personal growth and self-recovery. And my goal became to witness the country’s progress first-hand and also play a role in contributing to its Vision 20/20.

As you already know, dear Readers, I finally had the opportunity to realize this goal TWICE last year – a BIG THANK YOU to the Provost’s Office! Those trips convinced me that Rwanda was where I belonged.

And now I am back in Rwanda again! (Yes, the blog lives on!). And this time, I am here to stay for at least one or two years.

But you know what?

I miss you.

It’s not really that I’m unhappy here or anything – no, I still love my taxi-moto rides, my daily cups of African tea, the long nights of music and dancing, the sense of purpose and meaning. I am happy here. Truly, I am.

But it’s the small things.

I miss occasionally feeling invisible. I miss walking down Michigan Avenue without having everybody turn to stare and gawk at me because I am a foreigner. I miss House music, Lyric Opera performances and CSO concerts. I miss blueberries and Whole Foods samples. I miss having the security of a return date. I even miss the el.

But most of all, I miss YOU.

I miss all of the people in my life who used to be oh-so-accessible via text, calling, facebook, gchat, skype, email, etc. The internet isn’t bad here, but it still isn’t good enough to have a sustained video chat or even an unbroken gchat conversation.

Graduation passed by smoothly in June, but it was July when the reality of all the good byes started to hit me. I quickly realized that my determined ambivalence toward intimacy and all my efforts to remain aloof and detached had failed and failed miserably.

Yes, I had planted a variety of new seeds – all sorts of flowers and vegetables and fruits that sprouted and flourished and yielded blossoms. But never any trees – no, I refused to plant another tree. That was one risk I would never ever ever take again.

Yet still – somehow, a new tree sprouted among the weeds and grew despite my conviction that it was just another weed. At first, I regarded its growth and emerging buds with great suspicion. However, over time, I learned to trust in the safe shade of its branches and the loyalty of its trunk.

But life moves on. Sometimes if we’re lucky, we understand why things happen, but most of the time, we don’t.

When it came to be time for me to move on, I had trouble leaving the familiarity of my garden. Some of my most beloved plants have stood with me through the worst storms and droughts and still remained as steadfast and loyal as ever. The tree, especially, had taught me to love and trust again. I didn’t want to leave but it gently pushed me away and whispered, “It’s not ‘good bye’, it’s ‘I’ll see you later’.”

Returning to Rwanda for the third time has made me reflect and reevaluate why I am here. I am trying to see the larger picture – the experiences, the people, the setbacks, the failures and successes – that have led me here.

I have spent much of the past two years running away — and twice in the past, Rwanda was my escape. I ran away from Chicago to learn and experience and breathe in a foreign country. But problems have an annoying tendency of catching up to you. The third time around, Rwanda is not nearly as charming or delightful – in fact, the past two weeks have presented more challenges and frustrations than the full duration of my two previous trips here.

But you know what? Perhaps it is here, in the belly of a great fish, that I can once again reach rock bottom and begin to see myself completely and honestly.

Thank you again, as always, for reading.

MURAHO from Kigali, Rwanda. It is good to be back.