Back on Canadian Soil

It has been over two months since my return to Canada. The sparkle season has come and gone. My mother is settled into an assisted living facility and is doing better. Relief is pouring into Haiti. Snow is burying the US south while helicopters ship snow in BC to keep the Olympics from stalling. Parliament is prorogued. Again. And we have welcomed a new grandchild into our family. Life, with all its twists and turns, goes on.

And yet…

Although I have been busy, today is the first day I have felt I can write about Rwanda and my adventures there. As yet, I have not been able to put my finger on why. Processing my experience, trying to put it in place, juxtaposed against my life of relative ease and luxury here, has been elusive. It is as though a chapter has closed and another started. Or like I put it all in a compartment and it is over, like a box of archived files I’ll never look at again. Why have I not looked at all my photos? Why have I not been able to prepare presentations that people are so eagerly awaiting? Why have I not tried to sell that quilt? Why am I not filling a box for Rwanda? Am I so cold? Will it just never make sense? Am I still processing?

I know, when I returned, that I was tired and busy and preoccupied with my mother and that this has not really stopped. I know I could easily just tuck this experience into the past, like a great vacation. But the fact is, I don’t want to. Something happened over there. To me. And perhaps more importantly, something happened to all the people whose lives I entered. It is just not fair to go somewhere, give of yourself, form relationships with others and then disappear. Morally, I have a responsibility. To myself as well as to them.

If I close my eyes, I can conjure up their faces and names. Such lovely women. Such generous people for whom life has been a series of losses, large and small. How can I add to that through my silence and inaction? I cannot. But what is my role, here, so far away? For this is actually the place where I live, the place I call home. I know that much is true.

I can see how people can devote themselves to people in another needier place, give of themselves their whole lives. Although there are difficulties associated with living in an underdeveloped country, there is something freeing about it too. You know exactly what you have to do every day from the moment you wake up to the second your head hits the pillow, if you are lucky enough to have one. A bit like an addiction perhaps.

I felt that myself. And I think that was part of my emotional inertia when I returned to Canada. I had lost my way in this western life. It felt too easy. It felt too open, with endless possibility. I was not shocked by the consumerism. I was not shocked by our relative wealth. Perhaps, yes, I did miss the sun and my daily dose of Vitamin D. But still, it all felt like home, just the way it is here. It was this wide open space ahead of me that I had no idea how to fill. My life here felt trite, meaningless. This despite being busy with a range of activities, from yoga to book club to granny group to volunteer work. All of these are things I love.

So time has passed and my heart is lighter and freer. I feel more engaged. I think I am emerging from a minor depression, all to do with all the things above. It is hard. It is hard to have more than so many, especially when you know their names. It is hard to feel joy in little things you love when people are struggling to put food on their tables or to send their children to school.

And yet…

And yet what are the women I met doing right now? They are living their lives. If
they think of me at all, they are happy that I was part of it for a short while. They are finding joy in their lives, despite their hardships. They are finding deep satisfaction in their relationships. They are making the best out of everything that is put before them. They are loving their children and their families. They are making their homes. They are putting food on their tables. They are trying to make their homes and lives better. They are happy to be alive and happy to have the support of others in their lives. Who can ask for more?

I must do the same, here, in my life. And I will.

Saying Goodbye – Murabeho…

My final week in Kigali was spent in a blur of activity. Packing was the easy part. But still I had things I wanted to do. One last workshop. One last English class. Get that bicycle for Simeon. Go to Jeanne’s thesis defense. Give away a bunch of stuff to the sewing students. Plant the orange tree. Final fittings of the clothes I had ordered. Finish the quilt. Have a party to say goodbye. Somehow, God was on my side and I got to do it all.

As I have said before, life in Kigali is simple, and yet everything takes time and offers up complications. Take the bicycle for Simeon. Sandrine, Jeanne’s daughter, found one for sale in Nyamirambo and was able to negotiate a good price. The bike was delivered to Jeanne’s home during the party after her thesis defense, which was awesome! (You see how all these things stack up and blend together?) The bike is glorious. Black, heavy, very used but exactly what Simeon will be crazy for. And for a price that is reasonable. I pay up.


But now the bike is in Nyamirambo, which is about as far away from Kabeza (where Tubahumurize is located) as it could be. And Jeanne is afraid that if Simeon rides it, the police will seize it as it is illegal to bicycle on the main roads. So another plan is hatched and the bike arrives by taxi in a pickup truck. The deal is that Simeon has to pay for the taxi. That seems fair. And then he is the proud owner of this clunky, overdressed bike with balding tires. He is over the moon! He rides it with gusto! He is already tinkering to tune it up.

Giving away my belongings to the sewing students was truly a joy. Bit by bit, over the course of a few days, I would walk out into the courtyard with some items in my hand. What really blew me away was how the students were not greedy at all. They would see something and say, oh, that should go to Léah. Or to Soulange. Or to Madina. I was so delighted with their generosity towards others, and their sensitivity to those who were desperately poor, but who keept it well hidden. Everyone ended up with one or two things of mine that I hope they will enjoy and perhaps cherish. Certainly, they will remember me by them for awhile.


On the morning of my departure, I got up early and Simeon and I planted a small orange tree. This tradition is for everyone who comes and stays and supports to plant a tree. I packed my filthy jeans! I hope to go back and see how big the tree has grown.

As for the party, I wanted to invite the women of the community to come and join us for a drink (Fanta) and some small tasty appetizers. Jeanne got the word out to the women. I spent a few hours picking up supplies. Sandrine did some baking and the women in the kitchen were amazing. Suddenly it was all ready, trays of food, boxes of drinks, and the women were arriving. Women from the workshops. Women from the English classes. All the sewing students.


It was quite overwhelming when I saw them all there. Some had walked from quite far away. The food and drinks were gone in a minute. And then, even though I had said I didn’t have room for presents, there were some anyway. Along with lovely words to and about me.

I took my time, scanning the room and looking into each woman’s face, remembering them, the details of their lives. There were speeches. Jeanne had some very nice things to say about me, but the most touching thing for me was when Crescence spoke. She said that I had been like a mother to them all over the months. It really jarred me, but in a good way. It made me suddenly fully aware of the loss in their lives. So many women with no mothers. Some of them still so young. I saw that I had, indeed, however briefly, filled that void. I had opened my heard and my arms to them all, and they had felt loved and safe, as in the arms of a mother.


Her words and my thoughts were very much with me as I got into the car to the airport two days later. The weeping of the sewing students was not just for me. It was for what I represented to them. The losses they had experienced so early in their lives. I like to think that these tears they shed were healing tears.

My own tears came later, and they helped me heal too.

The First Quilt

I saved fabric scraps that the sewing students tossed when they were cutting their first patterns. Scraps off the ground. Scraps in the trash. It was used fabric and dirty, but under the use and grime was some loveliness that I saw. I planned to make a small quilt out of African fabrics. Day after day, I brought all the bits inside, washed them and hung them around the rim of the bathtub to dry. I had tried to explain what I was doing to the students, but basically, they thought I was completely bonkers. But I persisted.

Fast forward a month or so. I had not made much progress on my little quilt. All the tiny squares and strips are cut. I had made a few patches. But the only times the sewing machines are free so I can work were in the evenings, when it is dark, and on the weekends. Plus, the machines are quirky and I have not found one I really like. Even when I do, sewing is slow. There is a lot of making do with treadles.

Then, about a month before I am set to leave, a woman comes knocking at Tubahumurize. Jeanne meets with her. She is an American looking for sewing groups to take up quilting. Her group will supply the fabric and supplies. They will sell the quilts in the US. She brought a book about the basics of quilting. She left Jeanne with some American fabric. Not my taste at all, all pastels and teeny flowers. Bo-o-o-ring.

But Jeanne had been following my paltry quilting efforts with interest. This visitor spurred her always active imagination to even greater heights. We talked. Her idea was to get the students started quilting, but with African fabrics, new African fabrics. This is not a well-known craft in Rwanda. So Jeanne thought she could offer her students a niche market, an opportunity to make a little money while in school. And they could start right away in order for me to take a quilt home to sell. It would fetch more in North America.

The idea was presented to the board, which okayed it with enthusiasm, especially after seeing my little pieces. They saw the potential. They saw the beauty. Leone, who was pregnant, showed great interest. I plan to send my little quilt to her for her baby.

A few days later, Jeanne came bursting into the centre, her arms laden with fabric bundles. The quilt was on! All the students came in and we talked about size and design. And suddenly, all the scissors and rulers were out and the cutting began. Fast forward a few hours and we have piles of fabric of all sorts. I delve into my fabric stash and add a few pieces to add more character to the selection. Also, to be honest, my fabrics are of higher quality.


Fast forward again. I have taught the students a few shortcuts about sewing pieces together. I offer some more ideas on design. I emphasize over and over the importance of accuracy, so that it all fits together nicely. They are too eager. They don’t have the right tools. The charge forward on this project with naïve gusto!
The top is finished! Not perfect, by a long shot, but big and bold and beautiful. I explain the next steps are to layer the quilt. We use flannelette for the middle and a bright, bold pattern on the back. I clear a place in the middle of the main room. I stay up late and get up early to work on getting it to lay flat, to be square(ish), to fit. I put in a few basting lines to hold it in place and call in some students to help with the basting. It is done. We trim up the borders. We lay down a grid of diagonal lines in chalk, to make a diamond-shaped cross hatch pattern.

All that is left is the quilting. We have a discussion about why we can’t use the machines. The quilt is too big. The machines are too small. Hand quilting is more valuable. They are convinced. Some are appalled, daunted, when they see what we have to do, all by hand, but a few are excited. Everyone takes a turn at putting in the tiny, straight running stitches, some not so tiny and some not so straight. We run out of quilting thread, so we switch to ordinary thread. A core group of four takes over – Epiphanie (the instructor), Immaculée, Epiphanie and Léah. And me.

But I am leaving in two days! How will we ever finish! It is huge. There are so many stitches to put in. And I have tons of other things to take care of. On the final night, the four remain after hours, quilting. Each time I pass the room as I make my own preparations, I hear them chatting together. It makes me thing that this is exactly what a quilting bee must be like. Everyone together for hours, chatting about this and that. I think that this is probably some of the best therapy they have ever had.

I feed everyone supper as it is clear they are in it for the night. They eat, as always with gusto. I get out more food. Simeon’s chappatis with honey. A treat! They gobble them all down. Satisfied, they go back to quilting. They are in it for the night. I fall asleep to the muffled sound of their voices. Indeed, on the morning of my departure, they are all sleeping. They finished it! I offer them soap and towels and the use of the shower. A luxury! Then coffee. Another luxury!


But, of course, the quilt is not quite done. We have to sew on the binding. I had cut out the binding strips and sewn them together. The instructor sewed on the binding and we spent another two hours hand sewing the binding. I am leaving in three hours now! It is done, they tell me. Not quite I explain. We spend another hour wiping off all the chalk marks and checking for missing stitches. Okay, now it is done. Out come all the cameras. Out come all the other students. They are very excited and very, very proud. It is gorgeous! And full of gorgeous, generous mistakes.

It fits in my luggage. (I somehow knew they would get it done, and saved space.) It is really time to go now. I make the rounds with my hugs and my whispered messages. The students are awash with tears. I am holding it together until we turn the corner, out of sight. Then I cry.