Yes, I am back at King Faisal Hospital, and I am sitting in a waiting room.

It is 11:40 AM and my appointment with the specialist is at 12:15 PM. I’ve already watched the receptionist hand the nurse my file, and seen him place it in the doctor’s office.

So far, so good.

As I look at all the miserable people around me, especially the crying babies, I sigh and hope that I’ll be out of here by 1.

Thank goodness my parents never wanted me to go to medical school.

I really hate everything about hospitals – the gloomy faces, the shots, the pills, the white coats, the bad handwriting, the smell of disease – but unfortunately, when extreme discomfort starts to inhibit my ability to perform daily functions, I know I have to see a doctor.

I pass the time and try to drown out the crying and sniffling by listening to music (Stereo Love was on the the play-list, of course!), and I chat with everyone who is online – on facebook chat, on gchat, on whatsapp.

12:15 passes. Then 12:30.

That’s when I start noticing something fishy.

 

Every time the doctor’s door opens, someone in the waiting room makes a dash for the door and shuts it before you can even count to three. The woman sitting across from me has also been waiting for an hour and progressively inching closer to the door, chair-by-chair. So far, the two patients who have been in and out of the office were people who arrived after me.

Hmm.

1:00 PM passes.

The door opens. Another patient zooms for it and nearly collides with another, but makes it in first. The door closes.

The woman across from me sighs. But she’s moved closer by yet another chair.

Rather suspicious at this point, I stand up and walk back to the receptionist.

“Hi ma’am. Hello. I’ve been waiting here for an hour and my appointment was at 12:15.”

“Yes,” she says, “The doctor has your file. He will see patients as they come.”

Ah, so is it first come, first serve?

“I know he has my file, but I’ve been waiting here for an hour and people who came after me have already seen the doctor.”

“Please wait.”

She smiles at me, but her voice signals an end to the conversation. I hesitate. But then decide to go back to the waiting room.

1:30 passes. Another patient makes it in before the woman across from me even stands up.

2:00 passes. This time, the woman makes it.

But by this time, I am also really annoyed. I go back to the receptionist.

“Hi ma’am – sorry to bother you again. But I’ve waited more than two hours now and I still haven’t seen the doctor. Is there no order or structure here?”

“The doctor has your file – ”

“I know that. But people who came after me keep going in the door. This is getting ridiculous.”

The receptionist can hear the anxiety in my voice, and she calls the nurse over. He frowns at me as he listens to her explain the situation in kinyarwanda. Then, he heads back toward the doctor’s office, and I follow, hoping that yes, it would finally be my turn.

He goes into the office and comes back out with all of the files. Immediately, the patients in the waiting room start clamoring at him in kinyarwanda and he silently begins to flip through the files and rearrange the order. Finally, after a couple minutes, he signals for the room to be quiet and starts reading out the names.

As each name is read, and each anxious patient sits back more comfortably in his or her seat, my heart begins to sink lower and lower as he reaches the end of the pile.

No, it couldn’t be possible. I’ve already complained to him several times in the past two hours.

But he reaches the last file, and looks at me with a smirk, “Lydia.”

“What?” I burst out, “Now, I’m last? Are you serious?”

He seems stunned at first by my reaction, but then starts laughing at me. Then, all the patients in the room start to laugh.

Unable to handle the situation anymore, I grab all my things and leave the waiting room.

I break down as I make my way back into the lobby and out of the hospital doors.

 

 

Yes, I left King Faisal Hospital in tears.

 

It wasn’t just this incident that finally pushed me over the edge. It was everything – the failed project, the illness, the disappointment, the homesickness – all of a sudden everything just compounded and culminated with this: public humiliation.

It was just too much.

But once again, I have to thank the angels in my life.

Far, far away in a still-dark home in Pennsylvania, someone answered my call and groggily listened to my sobbing and hysterics. And far, far away on the other side of the world in Beijing, another friend called me just as he was about to board a flight and listened to more sobbing and hysterics.

“Call out the big guns,” said my friend in Philly.

So I dialed the number – the same number that got me research clearance to all of Rwanda’s primary schools, the same number that cut through all of the red tape at the Ministry of Education and jeopardized a secretary’s job last summer.

I called my friend in government.

And boy was he furious.

In less than twenty minutes, I had a new appointment at the same hospital. So I went back to King Faisal Hospital, my eyes still red and swollen from crying, and called the contact that my friend gave me.

Almost immediately, a huge man in a military uniform showed up and escorted me to the CEO’s office. There, he went directly to the fridge and offered me drinks and listened as I explained my story.

He shook his head. “That is bad. Very bad. So sorry.”

The door opened and the CEO stepped in. Then, the door opened again, and the Head of Nurses and the doctor I was supposed to have seen also entered.

One by one, they apologized profusely to me and gave me their business cards. They claimed that it had all just been a “miscommunication” and that the nurse and receptionist did not feel comfortable enough with English to explain to me that the doctor sees emergency cases in between appointments, so appointments often get pushed back.

Of course, I knew they were just giving me an excuse. It was very clear that there was no system in place to track appointment times and patient visits.

Still, I was reminded once again about how important connections are in Rwanda. Here, you are only worth so much time and attention as how important and well-connected you are in society.

Because of my friend, I am now on some sort of “VIP list” at King Faisal Hospital, and the CEO continually reminded me to call him directly next time if I feel ill.

As for my medical “condition” – The doctor ultrasounded me three times (I got to see my liver, kidneys, and spleen! – oh, and I also confirmed that I am not pregnant … ) and determined that, very likely due to extreme stress, my organs had started to malfunction. And the doctor decided to prescribe for me – wait for this –

 

Alpha blockers (usually prescribed to men with prostate cancer).

 

Do you ever feel like sometimes life is some sort of twisted comedy where everything falls apart but things become so progressively ridiculous that all you can do is laugh?

After having spent an entire day at the hospital, it felt so good to finally leave and breathe fresh air and eat brochettes and fries with friends at Chez Lando.

Of course, I had no idea during dinner that I would end up spending the next four days in bed with a bad cold/flu (probably due to the extreme stress from the entire ordeal). But at least this made for a good story, huh?

 

Family and friends, just wanted to let you know that I am feeling MUCH better now — and if I ever have the slightest headache or cold, I know who to call!

Thank you so much to my two angels.

And thank you all for the many prayers and all the love and support you’ve given me throughout this journey.

 

PART I

It all started with Mama ZuZu.

Here is a woman whose smile never stops.

Mama ZuZu is thirty-eight years old, unemployed, and a mother of eight. She handles the affairs of her household, regularly attends church, and prepares meals for her children. However, starting two years ago, Mama ZuZu also began to incorporate regular trips to the local hospital in her schedule. At first, she gave from what was left over – the unfinished porridge from her own table went directly to feed the stomachs of hungry hospital patients. Mama ZuZu trusted in the Lord’s provision and gave from her limited means knowing that God would bless her even more abundantly in return. But over time, each visit and each newly adopted patient began to increasingly demonstrate the magnitude and urgency of the need.

 

[Brief tangent]

Two weeks ago, August 26, I attended a forum by the Institute of Research and Dialogue for Peace (IRDP) titled:

The state of peace in Rwanda as perceived by Rwandans:17 years after the genocide against the Tutsi

At this forum, IRDP examined the achievements and challenges Rwanda faces in rebuilding sustainable peace and presented the conclusions and recommendations from its research.

It focused on three important categories: good governance, social cohesion, and economic prosperity. 

 

“A society which does not focus its future on economic strategies which meet the needs of its citizens in such a way that there is justice in the distribution of wealth and entrepreneurship fails in its effort to build sustainable peace.” (IRDP)

 

Since 1994, the Rwandan government has taken significant strides to improve the standard of living for its citizens. Among these initiatives is “Mutuelles de Sante” — universal health insurance coverage implemented by the Ministry of Health to ensure access to quality healthcare for every Rwandan.

Depending on income and financial means, each Rwandan belongs in a category in which he or she contributes between RWF1000 ($2) and RWF7000 ($12) a year, which covers the minimum package of services provided.

IRDP claims that citizens believe “Mutuelles de Sante” is a good policy that contributes to the social welfare. However, the Ministry of Health’s decision to increase annual contributions in July 2011 has faced great backlash considering the low income of the majority of citizens.

From 1995 to 2010, the annual income per capita has increased 192% from 185,6 USD to 541 USD. While the figure is encouraging, it does not reveal the real standard of living of the people. As IRDP says, “The average does not help to measure the inequalities.”

In other words, even though the standard of living may have risen dramatically for some, this does not mean the gap has decreased between the poor and the rich.

As such, poverty continues to inhibit sustainable peace, and IRDP recommends the implementation of mechanisms that “monitor the effectiveness of poverty reduction programmes and their impact on the living conditions of vulnerable populations.”

Initiatives such as “Mutuelles de Sante” guide Rwanda toward peace. But even these initiatives continue to have flaws that contribute to the wide (and growing) disparities in wealth which make it dificult for Rwanda to achieve sustainable peace.

 

ALSO: There is one thing IRDP overlooked with regard to “Mutuelles de Sante”:

Hospitals do not provide food to patients.

Although public hospitals do have private restaurants where patients can purchase food at roughly RWF500 (~$1) per meal, many patients ultimately rely on the care and support of friends and relatives for daily sustenance. However, for the most vulnerable patients who come from outside of Kigali and can barely afford to even pay the RWF1000 per year for health insurance, meals becomes a near impossibility.

As a result, many patients receive medical treatment but then suffer from hunger, which inevitably worsens their condition. Add to this the already overwhelmed and overcrowded public hospitals where much needed space and beds are occupied by patients who cannot pay their medical bills, patients whose conditions are prolonged due to hunger or unavailable medication, and patients who have recovered but cannot even afford the cost of transportation to return home.

This became Mama Zuzu’s mission – to feed the hungry and to care for the vulnerable in Kigali’s public hospitals.

But she could not do it alone.

 

PART II

Bring in Isabelle Kamariza.

Here is a young woman whose heart and generosity have no limits.

Two years ago, Isabelle was attending a law school in Belgium and she was taking the train back home when she saw something.

She saw a man huddled in the corner of the train dressed in shabby clothing, his unwashed hair draped over bony knees hugged to his chest.

But that was not all she saw.

She turned around and looked at the other passengers on the train – women dressed in the latest styles from the most fashionable boutiques, businessmen on their blackberries and iphones, teenagers flirting and teetering on sky-high heels, students like herself with heavy backpacks filled with laptops and books.

She saw people who had been conditioned not to see – not to see the man in the corner, not to see poverty and hunger, not to see human misery even when it was sitting right in front of them.

She saw herself.

 

She saw her own discomfort and guilt and shame. And she felt herself turning away, just like all the others – but then she stopped, and wondered why.

That day launched Isabelle’s first organization – a program that started with a dozen home-made bagged meals and evolved into a widespread mission to feed the homeless and the hungry on Belgium’s streets and subways. Her compassion and generosity instigated a movement among Belgium’s youth to see and address the issues within their own communities.

 

Last year, Isabelle’s parents asked her to come home for a brief vacation. Although she was reluctant to leave her work in Belgium, Isabelle agreed to return to Rwanda.

She met Mama ZuZu (whose real name is Donatila Mukashalangabo) at church. As they were praying together, Isabelle prayed – as she always did – for the “sick, and the poor, and the hungry.”

But mid-prayer, Mama ZuZu interrupted and said: “Do not pray for the sick and the poor and the hungry. Meet them, know them, and pray with them.”

Mama ZuZu took Isabelle to CHUK. There, Isabelle saw patients who were stranded at the hospital because they could not afford to pay their bills. She met the sick and the poor and the hungry, and she prayed with them.

“There were sick people outside, mostly children and women; some of them had spent two weeks outside without treatment and it was raining,” says Isabelle, “I asked myself, how can we people go back and sleep in our comfortable beds on a soft mattress and just chill out, wake up and spend Rwf1000 for a coke when there are all these sick people sleeping in the cold, right in our neighborhoods?”

Using her own resources and connections, Isabelle, then 25, began to raise money and ask for food donations.

“I began begging people to help. I would go to mama and say ‘Please give me 5000 francs and I will do this… please give me milk and I will do this…’and I begun like that,” Isabelle said. Isabelle shared her concerns with the Rotaract Club Rwanda, which contributed Rwf160,000 and released several patients from CHUK hospital in March 2010.

Isabelle never left.

With just one more year remaining of law school in Belgium, Isabelle chose to remain in Rwanda and commit herself full-time to addressing hunger and poverty in Kigali’s public hospitals. Mama ZuZu’s heart coupled with Isabelle’s passion and leadership gave birth to “Solid’Africa” in Fall 2010 – a youth-driven non-profit organization dedicated to serving the most vulnerable patients in public health facilities through providing food, medication, basic sanitation, and the means to return home.

Over time, Mama ZuZu’s initial family of eight has steadily increased to a still-growing family of over three hundred.

 

“People need to know that they do not have to give a million to make a difference in people’s lives…anything small can make a huge difference,” says Isabelle.

 

 

PART III

So how do I fit in?

For those of you who follow my blog, you will remember that I am supposed to be developing a program in Kigali that pairs students with part-time business internships.

 

I am not doing that.

 

It would take too long to go into detail – but suffice it to say that this has been one of the most difficult months of my life.

My original project did not happen for a number of reasons.

For one thing, my most important contact and project partner decided to leave the project, but did not inform me until two weeks after I had already arrived in Kigali. Then, I learned that the fortunes of the Rwanda Multi-Learning Centre (where I taught last summer) had changed, and now more and more students are able to attend universities through external funding – which is wonderful news, but also means that my project has significantly less import and urgency than before.

So here I was in Kigali with two weeks already wasted and unsure of what to do. I felt guilty for wasting time and grant money, I felt shame for my inadequacy and apparent failure, and I felt disappointment for not having a back-up plan and for trusting so naively that things would work out.

And then, in the midst of the stress and anxiety, I got very sick and spent two days in the hospital.

In almost every respect – physically, mentally, emotionally, and even financially – I felt I had reached my limits.

At the IRDP forum, IRDP specified that, in addition to poverty, challenges in education and employment (my original focus) remain “threats to peace.” However, without my original partner organization and project partner, I already had to start from scratch and I was no longer certain whether starting anew with another school would be the best approach.

But somehow, some way, things tend to work out. It turns out my roommate was one of Solid’Africa’s first members, and when he heard about my frustration and struggle to design a new project – he immediately pushed me to attend one of Solid’Africa’s weekly meetings.

At this point, I was extremely paranoid and disillusioned about working with others, and I was worried that I would not find people as equally invested or committed to whatever issue I chose to tackle.

Fortunately, Isabelle and the members of Solid’Africa convinced me otherwise.

At the meeting, I found a large and growing number of dedicated individuals who had all, in some way, committed to the cause. Some offered the services of their own businesses, others dedicated their skills in marketing and advertising, others used their connections to secure audiences with the President and important political figures at forums and conferences, and still others donated time and money to serving food to hospital patients. Even though Solid’Africa only officially launched in April 2011, they have a rapidly growing membership among Rwanda’s youth, and have also started quite the fashion trend with their popular t-shirts!

Their mission statement: Solid Africa is a mindset and a movement of people that believe that it is possible to channel individual efforts towards helping those in need; and that through a strong social structure, we can all help solve most social constraints in public hospitals.

I listened to Solid’Africa’s current projects and spoke with Isabelle and the other central leaders about their ideas and future projections for Solid’Africa. Currently, Solid’Africa has four main projects:

 

Gemura Food For All: “Gemura” means “to bring food [to someone who needs it]” in kinyarwanda. This is Solid’Africa’s original and most developed project – to ensure food delivery to hospital patients. Solid’Africa serves breakfast to 300 patients at CHUK (Centre Hospitalier Universitaire de Kigali) every day, and lunch every Monday (“Solid’Monday”) and every last Sunday of the month (“Solid’Sunday”).

Kiza – Medicine For All:“Kiza” means “to heal.” This project aims to provide patients with medication that is unavailable (often because it is too expensive) in public health facilities.

Sukura – Hygiene and Well-Being: “Sukura” means “to clean something [hygiene].” This project focuses on ensuring that patients have basic sanitary supplies: plastic cups, plastic plates,tooth brush, tooth paste, toilet paper, female pads, etc.

Gombora – Hospital Release and Transportation:“Gombora” means “hospital release and transportation.” Solid’Africa covers the cost for treated patients to return home.

 

 

Solid’Africa’s biggest and most pressing goal is to build a “Gemura Kitchen” – or, essentially, the FIRST SOUP KITCHEN IN RWANDA dedicated to serving the most vulnerable patients in hospitals.

Right now, all of the food is cooked in two volunteer kitchens of limited capacities which inhibit maximal food production. In order to reach their goal of providing two meals every day to 700-1000 vulnerable patients in Kigali’s public hospitals, Solid’Africa needs a kitchen with the capacity to cook enough food. So far, the land has already been secured and building materials donated; now, all that is left is paperwork and construction.

 

Doesn’t Solid’Africa sound perfect? Here was a dedicated group tackling an important and urgent issue. I could not have found a better partner organization to work with.

However, I had one major concern.

 

Sustainability.

 

Currently, two Solid’Africa members provide all of the milk and there is one sponsor who supplies all of the maize. The structure of Solid’Africa and its planned kitchen rely entirely on donations – which may be fine for the long run, but on any given day, something could happen and the food for the patients could be jeopardized.

In addition, I posed this question to Solid’Africa: “Guaranteeing sustainability for Solid’Africa is one thing, but how do you ensure a sustainable reality for the patients that you are serving?”

I proposed to complement food aid with educational programs that tap into Solid’Africa’s volunteer base to help hospital patients resume their lives after treatment – for instance, a program that works with patients to gain technical skills, write their CVs, apply for jobs, learn English, etc. Vocational learning, especially, would align with IRDP’s recommendations to address unemployment, and specifically the “lack of qualified technicians on the labour market.” 

Another possibility would be to start an educational campaign in secondary schools and universities to engage and mobilize more youth in the issues within their communities. This latter project has made more headway, and I am overseeing the launch of a “Solid’Africa Honor Society” that will model our American “National Honor Society” which selects the best and the brightest high school students and requires 50 hours of community service work. The hope is that changing community service from a punishment to a privilege and duty will help to create a movement that shifts mentalities.

However, one of the members of Solid’Africa put it best: “Educational programs are wonderful and important, but when we cannot even address the hunger, our first priority must be to serve food. People need to eat before they can learn.”

 

 

PART IV

With questions of sustainability on my mind, I spent the next two weeks familiarizing myself with Solid’Africa. I started by editing all of their documents and attending all of their general and committee meetings, then gradually moving up to become their newly appointed secretary and designing an internal structure for the organization. I was moved by the energy and commitment of the members, but also aware of the lack of structure and cohesion within the group. I went to CHUK and met some of the patients; when it was time to serve lunch, I was dismayed by the chaos and disorder, and worked afterward with one of Solid’Africa’s leaders to come up with a more efficient and structured procedure (think assembly line, instead of patients crowding in toward the food and shoving bowls toward us).

But still, I had not found an answer to sustainability.

At first, I suggested that they could partner with organizations that focused solely on food aid, or perhaps apply for external funding to give them an extra financial cushion. However, I admire the group’s insistence on Solid’Africa’s identity as a “mind-set” – and their push to change mentalities and tap the resources of the community to directly channel individual efforts toward social issues.

“We want to instill into Rwandans the desire to help the most vulnerable people in our communities without involving foreign assistance,” says Patrick, a Solid’Africa leader.

Solid’Africa’s goal is to spread their mind-set and start a movement in Kigali, because they recognize that changed mentalities within the community are much more powerful and long-standing than external funding and support. After two years, they hope that their efforts will lead to advocacy and the Rwandan government will begin to require public hospitals to serve food to patients.

As I continued to try to find my place in Solid’Africa and figure out a project that would ensure sustainability, I also began to tell more and more people about Solid’Africa.

 

Bring in X.

X is a fifty-four year old business man who recently signed a $142 million contract with the Rwandan Development Bank to build 1000 houses in Kigali.

He is one of those people who has the rare problem of having more money than he knows how to use.

X made his fortune long ago in construction and built up a business empire that spanned continents and led him to accumulate a net worth of over $200 million (which apparently includes two islands). He retired ten years ago, but apparently he and his wife started quarreling when they were cooped up in their vacation resort and she told him to go back to work.

So he did.

He tells me that business is like playing chess. “You win, or I win. I am happy if I win. You are happy if you win. But the result does not change anything for either of us.”

Clearly, X is not in business for the money. (Otherwise, I think $142 million certainly constitutes a significant “change” for whoever loses it).

X is in business because he enjoys the feeling of success and accomplishment – like winning a chess game.

When I told him about my “business” in Rwanda and my struggle to find a sustainable answer to Solid’Africa, he chuckled.

“Darling,” he said, “I like you. You have a clean heart. You want to help. But you need to think about yourself – you need to think about your future. I can build you a kitchen – that is no problem. But what about you? You need to think about yourself before you think about others.”

I explained that I was not in Rwanda to make a profit, and that I have more than enough to sustain myself (especially once Fulbright funding arrives in December). My goal here is to make a difference – and a sustainable one.

However, X insisted: “If you want to make a difference, you need to start your own business. Don’t work with Solid’Africa. Start your own and donate 10% to Solid’Africa or the hospitals, and invest the rest to build your own future.”

It turns out X already had a business plan that fit perfectly with Solid’Africa and my questions of sustainability. He just hadn’t implemented it yet because he didn’t have a project manager to oversee it.

Ta-da.

Bring in … ME!

 

So, dear Readers, my project has transformed from a program that unites students with business internships to…

*Drum roll*

 

BUILDING A CHICKEN FARM

 

Yes, I am building a chicken farm.

We have the land. We have the construction company. The hatching machine for 200,000 eggs is on its way from China, and we are importing the eggs from either Turkey or Israel.

Why a chicken farm?

Because chicken is high in demand in Rwanda but scarce and poor in quality. If you go to any restaurant in Kigali, steak costs significantly less than chicken (which is FANTASTIC, in my opinion, because I love steak – but also means that people here WANT chicken) and the chicken that is served is dry and stringy. Restaurants that choose not to use the local chicken often have to obtain their chicken from external suppliers.

Thus, from a business perspective, constructing a chicken farm in Rwanda is a very good investment. And I seem to have found the person who has the resources and experience to do it! Now, all that is left for me to do is learn, implement, and eventually manage.

Right now, the plan is for X to first make the arrangements to build a large-scale chicken farm in Mombasa, Kenya (where most of his business is based), and I will watch and observe. Then, we will return to Rwanda and I will manage the construction of a smaller chicken farm in Kigali.

Our hope is that the farm will be constructed by the end of September. It takes 40 days for eggs to hatch, so we should be in business by November. Solid’Africa’s Gemura Kitchen will probably not be completed until December or January, but by then, I should have the means to start supplying chicken in a sustainable manner and use the profit from the business to fuel other sustainable ventures that can also support the provision of food to the hospitals.

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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.