Jeanne Mwiliriza

So much happens here at Tubahumurize and in general that it is easy to forget that Jeanne Mwiliriza is the sole reason this association exists. It is time you knew more about this amazing woman.

Some of you may know that the reason Jeanne started this organization was because a dear friend of hers, constrained to a wheelchair, had called, afraid that her life was in danger from her husband. Jeanne talked with her and reassured her that it was just idle threats again. They planned to meet the next day. But by then, her friend had been murdered. Very shaken and filled with guilt, she suffered for a few months. But when she made some kind of peace with herself, she also made a decision to start a centre for traumatized women who had lived or still lived with violence. She wanted to do something so that her friend’s death would not be repeated.

But perhaps that is leaping forward somewhat. Jeanne had been married to a successful doctor, Joseph Butara. They had three children: Eloge, Valentin and Sandrine. Prior to the genocide, they had lived in Kigali, but when a new ruling Hutu party was elected, Tutsi families such as their own were no longer welcome in Kigali. They moved around quite a bit searching for a safe place to settle.

In April, at the time of the genocide, her children were ten, eight and five. During this time, the family’s story takes two paths. One results in the murder of Joseph Butera and the escape of the two boys to a refugee camp with their Aunt Charlotte where they lived for about seven months. The other results in Jeanne’s miraculous survival and that of her young daughter.

Over the course of the genocide, Jeanne was taken at gunpoint seven times to be killed, but each time (except the last) there was an argument over whether she was a Tutsi at all. (At this point in Rwanda, identity cards had become a moot point: it was all about madness and murder and how people looked.) Jeanne is not a tall woman, and Tutsi women tend to be tall; thus, the soldiers argued over her “identity.” Each of these six times she was spared and was released.

The seventh time, several soldiers came into her home determined to kill her. The leader was especially intent. He ordered Jeanne to get into the wardrobe in her bedroom so he could kill her. She refused. Her lack of fear really annoyed him and he was hell bent on her death. So instead of the wardrobe, he told her to get in the closet. Again she refused. Finally, he flung open the door to the closet and swept aside the hanging clothes. His abrupt actions caused a photograph of Jeanne and her husband on their wedding day to fall from the top shelf to the floor in front of him. Startled, he looked at the photo and paled.

He asked Jeanne if the man in the picture was her husband. When she replied that it was, he said that he could not kill her because her husband had operated on and saved his own badly mangled leg when he was a young boy. Other doctors had wanted to cut the leg off, but Joseph had wanted to heal his leg because he was still so young. “Without your husband,” he said, “I would not have been able to walk in here to kill you.” Thus, he reasoned, he could not kill her.

He left with all the other soldiers, telling them and everyone else that she was to be left alone as though dead. For the remainder of the genocide, Jeanne and Sandrine were untouched and unmolested.

Rwanda is not that big and people have connections everywhere. Through these, Jeanne finally found out that her husband had been killed, as well as her parents and two sisters, but there was no word of her two boys. She was sure that they too were dead along with her sister Charlotte. She cried all the tears she had, dried them and turned the page onto a new life as a widow and mother to young Sandrine. She also took in children who had become orphans overnight, and whose parents had been Jeanne’s friends and neighbours. Eventually, she “adopted” five orphaned children.

Only in December did Jeanne discover that her boys were alive and well with her younger sister, Charlotte. She was overjoyed to welcome them home into the family. However, Jeanne was never able to find her husband’s body, though she looked frantically for many long months. His bones were never recovered or identified, and to this day, her greatest sorrow is to have been unable to lay him to rest in the ground with a proper burial.

Jeanne is a beautiful and charismatic woman of fifty now. I can only imagine her in her thirties, even after three children. She was, no doubt, still a beauty, filled with intelligence and sparkling charm, despite her many sorrows. She met her second husband, Aaron, a few years later through the church where he was pastor. His own genocide story is of utter loss: his wife, his siblings, his parents and all seven of his children were killed. I cannot conceive of the loss and emptiness he must have felt and, no doubt, still feels from time to time.

Jeanne and Aaron married and continued to raise Jeanne’s expanding family. Memories of the genocide haunted them both, and Jeanne began meeting with other women to share stories and hardships and to comfort one another. They healed slowly, in the knowledge that they were not alone and that their stories mattered.

After the death of her friend, after Jeanne had determined that she would open a centre for traumatized women who were once or were still victims of violence, she began taking the steps she needed to take to be able to do a good job: a sociology degree, courses in trauma counselling, youth training, first aid, health education, Grameen banking and micro-credit loans. Jeanne has founded several associations of women as well, but since opening its doors in 2006, Jeanne has worked full-time for Tubahumurize. She works without a salary to this day and her own home is used for the centre, thus forgoing the rental income she would otherwise have recieved.

One thing Jeanne is really passionate about is that the future of this country depends on letting go of ethnic divisions. Thus, the mandate of the association is specifically inclusive of all women, no matter their religion, ethnic background or economic status. Everyone is welcome. That does not always sit well with some women, but in order to build something new, something old has to be left behind. Jeanne is a devout Christian actually, but is not narrow minded. Indeed, I believe Jeanne has captured one of the great strengths of Christianity, perhaps its best, and that is a belief in the equality of all people.

I witnessed her listening to a young woman recently, a sewing student, who was relating some information to her about her family situation. Jeanne was totally present for this young woman, listening attentively, gazing at her with her warm eyes, asking questions, saying reassuring things. It was a joy to behold. Jeanne, filled with boundless energy and enthusiasm, filled with ideas and plans and dreams and more ideas, sitting so quietly in the presence of this young woman. This is an example of how she works. A whirlwind sometimes, not always organized or on point, but always, always has her priorities straight when it comes to the women. She is there for them.

Jeanne certainly cannot run this place alone, nor should she, but she has many qualities that assure this organization’s success. I am certain that through faith and determination, she will make sure this happens. One dream at a time.

Another Atypical Day

My niece Marie mentioned recently (complained?) that she still has no real idea of what Simone and I do all day, here at Tubahumurize. So this blog perhaps will give a clearer idea of our daily activities, although it must be said that one day is never the same as the next so there is no truly clear routine. And to be honest, yesterday, Friday, the day I am going to describe, was a very busy day.

Our day began in earnest around 8:00 am, with the arrival of the sewing students who bring a lot of excitement and energy and chatter. Simone was already up, doing yoga in the morning sunshine with Simeon, who is a natural. Though I usually stay in bed as long as possible, just listening and thinking and gathering up energy for the day, yesterday I got up quickly, knowing it was to be a full day.

By 8:30, Simone and I had cadged a lift from Aaron to go to the huge indoor market at Kimironko, about a half hour walk from the centre. I even skipped my cup of coffee to leave early! We spent about an hour there, buying a few items to bring home as presents, and of course, I had to fondle all the fabric and buy some too. Then we tipped the young man who helped us find things and we hopped on moto-taxis back to the centre.

After my coffee (!!)(half hour to prepare and drink), Simeon and I walked to the local market to look for a woman named Anatalie. She had been ill and had come to the centre to see if I could help fill her prescription. I had called a nurse who works in a free clinic; she was able to fill the prescription and had dropped it off at the centre the day before. At the market, we asked a few people where to find Anatalie, who works there sewing. I ran into Prosperine, one of the beneficiaries at the centre, who told us that actually Anatalie had gone to Tubahumurize to see me!

But before returning to the centre, Simeon and I needed to buy some vegetables. I found another lovely woman I know, Febronie, who sells tomatoes there. She filled our bag with fresh tomatoes and helped us get potatoes, garlic, carrots onions and rice at a good price. She seemed very proud to be able to help me and for sure we were surrounded by a great gaggle of people the entire time, all clamouring for me to buy whatever they had for sale and just wanting to shake my hand or greet me.

I actually love this environment, so full of smells, sights and sounds, the hustle bustle of people working and chatting and arguing. It feels very relaxed, and though people want me to buy from them, they accept when I make a choice and don’t seem to hold a grudge against me or their “competitor.” I guess what I am saying is that the atmosphere does not feel at all competitive. Just noisy!

Bags full, Simeon and I walked home. I went to tend to Anatalie, giving her clear directions about the medications and putting in the first dose of eye ointment that was prescribed in her eyes. I think she has a touch of pneumonia actually, so I hope the antibiotics she takes will kick in. I told her if she does not start feeling better in three days, she should return to see her doctor.

After this, I had promised Valentin that we would (finally) build a composter for the garden. Two days before, we had gone to several shops down the road to find some stiff wire mesh (about ¼” holes) and some heavier wire for attaching things. Mission accomplished, we had returned with 2.5 metres of wire mesh and a roll of heavy wire.

So Friday, we began by cutting four stakes from wood that had been stored in the garage. Then, we prepared the area where the composter was to go, digging a shallow round hole, into which we inserted the ring of wire mesh and bury it a few inches. We covered all the edges with duct tape to avoid the nasty cuts that wire can give (though it is not sticking that well, so we may need to find another solution).

Valentin drove in the stakes, I cut wire to attach the stakes to the mesh and in about an hour, we had our composter up and running! I even started to fill it with some garden waste. Several people watched this process, especially Simeon and the two Erics from the sewing class. It is going to reduce the landfill wasted generated by the centre and will also enrich the garden soil. As a sidebar, the garden seeds we planted are all sprouted and growing away!

Then, I sent Simeon up the lemon tree with gloves on and a pair of secateurs in hand to prune off a few ridiculously tall branches – so tall it was impossible to harvest the lemons. Also, the two lemon trees need pruning in other ways, but that can wait for another day. We started with the tall branches. So he did that. It looks much better already.

During this time, Simone was busy working on the newsletter and finishing a funding report. Jeanne was off having her hair done. Epiphanie, the sewing teacher, called me to try on the skirt she is making for me, which I did! It fits perfectly. No more of that off-the-rack stuff for me! Made to measure rocks! Simone and I consulted a bit on the day ahead, especially a project we were planning with the sewing students and we divvied up the work.

I took a few minutes to read my email and especially to read Sarah’s blog, about her (my daughter-in-law) amazing, excellent and thankful recovery from brain surgery! Another story for another day, but she is doing well. I spent some time organizing all the photos of the sewing class into one large folder as we were going to present a slide show after their class. Jeanne had returned and prepared a meal of leftovers, which we all ate with gusto. It was almost two o’clock after lunch and we had a class with the sewing students at 3:00 pm.


What we wanted the sewing students to do was to write to the many individuals who were part of a large fundraising effort in Alberta. A program called Green and Gold out of the University of Alberta, had planted an enormous organic garden and had given away all the produce, only asking for a donation. This raised over $16,000 CDN and all the proceeds are to come to Tubahumurize! (The connection to Simone is through her boyfriend Eloge, who is the son of Jeanne, who runs Tubahumurize. Networking, networking…)

Simone and I got the paper, pens, pastels and coloured pencils ready, as well as a template for the students to follow when writing their letters. Valentin and I hooked up my computer to a larger flat screen monitor and Simone got together some music to accompany the slide show.

Shortly after three, the students finished cleaning up for the weekend and came around to get their “lesson.” They were very diligent in their work. Once completed, they took some time to add illustrations to their “cards”. I think these notes will be very much appreciated! They are really sweet. Then, everyone came inside to watch the slide show. They loved it! Laughing and hooting and pointing, seeing pictures of themselves and each other. It was a great success! Something to be repeated for sure. Everyone wants copies of these pictures and that is something I plan to do on my return. It is too expensive and complicated here to make prints.

After the students left, Simone and I got busy in the kitchen, baking a chocolate cake for the birthday party we were invited to that evening, the now-13-year-old son of one of Jeanne’s sisters. One hour later, we had two lovely round Ultimate Chocolate Cakes, covered in chocolate peppermint icing.


At this point, I took a short nap! Shortly before seven, Jeanne, Aaron and Sandrine (Jeanne’s youngest daughter) arrived to pick us up. Simone looked stunning in her new African outfit! We spent a pleasant evening with a very nice family, mostly eating and chatting quietly. All very subdued and dignified. The cakes were a hit! We did not stay late as everyone was tired.

On our return, Simone and I sipped glasses of wine and talked for quite awhile pretty much about life, the universe and everything. She is feeling a bit sad about leaving but also excited about a two week stint in Europe with friends and then her return to Montreal – and Eloge!

I have no idea what time it was when I untied my bed net and arranged it around my bed. I only know that I slept soon after and stayed that way till morning. I think Simone is still sleeping, a wonderful thing as she often has insomnia.

So that was one day. Not typical, but frankly, none of them are. Hope this helps you picture our lives a bit better Marie! Over and out. Elaine

Hidden Secrets

Kigali, for a quasi-tourist, is somewhat of an enigma. You can certainly tell that the culture has not had to tolerate people from different cultures, and also that a large number of people have never lived or travelled anywhere else. It is very much an oral culture, a place where you know all that you need to know by living here. Everyone knows where everything is and how everything works. Although, frankly, not everyone has the same information, so someone is actually wrong! Many assumptions are made about foreigners, but especially that strangers cannot comprehend the things that are so evident to Rwandans. As I have mentioned before, the buses have no sign on the front to indicate their destination. This remains a mystery to me and I have to ask every time. Another example is that streets have names, but rarely will you see a street sign. This is very frustrating for a visitor who wants to know how to get to x or y or z.

People are somewhat bemused when they are asked where you can buy this or that. They will tell you that that kind of store or business or product is everywhere. But if you don’t speak or read the language, if you don’t know one road from another, if you don’t know all the landmarks, if you weren’t born here, how can you tell? And the Rwanda guide books are filled with mistakes. Even the tourism office is not always able to help. The last time I was there, I needed more information about something. I got vague information at first and when he saw I still didn’t understand the details of what I had to do, he explained a bit more. And finally, after a third stab, I had enough details to actually be able to follow through. At the tourist bureau! And the sad part of that is, they think tourists are stupid to need so many details! Ethnocentric, do you think?


A couple of weeks ago, Simone and I had a plan to visit Nyungwe National Forest, where there are several species of monkey troops as well as chimpanzees. The forest is large and you have to have a vehicle to be able to appreciate all the various aspects of the park, especially to track the chimps. Also, we wanted to make a few short side trips, to a cheese factory and to a coffee roasting business. I wanted to rent a car; not a car and driver, just a car.

I saw a sign (in English!) that advertised a Rav 4 at $50/day. I thought that sounded affordable. When I went in to inquire, it turned out that that price was for long-term rentals of more than two weeks. Furthermore, to rent a car for two days to go out of town, I needed to have a driver as well. Why, I asked, when I have been driving for over forty years, accident free, including in Paris, including on the ‘wrong’ side of the road in England? Why? Well, this is Africa, she responded. People could just drive away with a car to Burundi or Tanzania. In other words, steal it! And this is pretty much the status quo everywhere. Car plus driver for two days, between $200 and $300US. Yikes! How on earth do we manage in other parts of the world to keep theft from happening?

I googled car rentals at Kigali international airport. It listed Avis, Alamo, Hertz and some other companies as having services there. But trying to actually connect with one of them was impossible. In fact, I am skeptical that there are actually any there at all because none of them show Kigali or Rwanda as a location.
I googled car rentals in Kigali and up popped a map with dozens of downtown locations and decent prices, but we are back again to street names and business signs! As far as I have noticed, there is nothing recognizable to see, like perhaps a fleet of cars out front that might indicate you could rent a car there.

We have tapped into our friends, acquaintances and even strangers to try to figure out a way to rent a car without a driver without costing an arm and a leg. We have even stooped so low as to ask to borrow. Probably totally inappropriate, like asking a neighbor in France to borrow his lawnmower. (He mowed our lawn himself rather than let us touch it.) I am completely stymied. But I have not given up. Somehow, we will find a way, figure something out.

But meanwhile, it is somewhat frustrating. And to be fair, this society, though perhaps insular at some level, really works very well. Plus everyone is very helpful, always. If I sound a bit frustrated, well I am, but only because I have not yet cracked the code to the information I need. And I may never, and I will just have to learn to live with that.

Lessons from Rwanda

There are a lot of things here in Rwanda that really are quite amazing. For a country that was so very recently leveled to the ground, without infrastructure, without services, without hope, without peace, Rwanda has achieved a great deal. The economy is booming, at least here in Kigali. The infrastructure is back in place – not perfect, but there is running water, electricity (with random interruptions), sewers and garbage collection. The schools are functioning and more are being built, even as I write. Health care is available for about two dollars per year per person.

The courts continue to be very busy with genocide cases, but they too are functioning well, albeit slowly. The government is stable, with severe penalties for anything that smacks of corruption. It seems Rwanda has gone from being the scourge of Africa, a blight oin the eyes of the world, to a model country that is the envy of most other African nations.

How was this achieved? I am not an historian, but I have talked with many people and observed a great deal during my stay here. First of all, I would have to credit a deep faith as one of the primary factors in Rwanda’s recovery. Largely a Christian nation, the country’s despair has been replaced by hope, which many Rwandans see as the return of God to bless this country, having abandoned it for a long time. You cannot talk for long with a Rwandan before God is mentioned as a huge force in his or her life.


Second, it seems to me the government has taken some extraordinarily courageous steps in reconciling the past with the present. Gacacca courts are a primary example, where crimes by more minor players in the genocide are tried and sentenced. By minor, crimes are those of property as well as murder, but no more than some number of people, perhaps ten. The implication is that these criminals were mere pawns (and young pawns at that) in a much larger agenda of genocide. This community court process is due to end in November this year so there is a great deal of effort to complete the cases currently before the courts.

This is a particularly difficult process for those who were the victims in the genocide, because they have to accuse the perpetrators. The perpetrators have to admit their crimes to the accuser(s) and ask for pardon but very often their sentences are not severe. There simply is not enough room in the country’s prisons to jail everyone who participated in the genocide, even if they committed murder. What is expected is that the victims pardon the perpetrators of the crimes. This is the difficult part. But somehow it is working. Victims pardon the accused, at least in word. Their own private thoughts and feelings are set aside, at least in public. As one woman said to me, I have pardoned (him) because I have to.

I find this a very courageous journey towards reconciliation. If people are able to live together in harmony again, if their children are well-educated and not inculcated with divisive ideologies about ethnicity, if the economy continues to grow and everyone has opportunities to prosper, then people can look to the future rather than the past and there is real hope for long-term success.

In addition to this overarching system of reconciliation, there are other ways in which the Rwandan government has taken some remarkable steps. A small thing, but something that has grown much larger in recent years in the Western world as our sensibility about environmental issues has grown, here in Rwanda, plastic bags are forbidden. If you travel here and put your shoes in a plastic bag, that bag may be confiscated at the airport. People carry reusable bags of all kinds and paper bags are the norm in grocery stores and markets. Household garbage is stored in empty bags that once carried coal, or sorghum or grains. When garbage is collected, the bags are emptied into large trucks and the bags are returned to the owners. If Kigali was to start a household composting program, there would be very little garbage at all!

Another interesting feature that has been inserted into the lives of the Rwandan people is called umuganda, which translates as “community work.” During the morning of the last Saturday of every month, everyone is expected to participate in their community’s well-being, at least one person from each household. The buses stop running, the streets are closed and everyone remains in their own community. Roads are repaired, schools, churches and other public buildings are built, even young children participate in this process, carrying bricks and lumber and water.

To me, this half day per month of community work, while compulsory, is a reminder that we all have a responsibility to make our country better. That we are the state, as my friend Sandi never tired of saying. Can you imagine such a mandated day in your community?? Perhaps you are lucky and live somewhere where people actually do take that responsibility seriously and actively participate in their communities voluntarily. But I fear that all too many of us just expect someone else to take care of it, whatever “it” is.

So to me, with these few examples, I believe Rwanda has taken stock of the rest of the world, and learned something from the things we don’t do so well, and from the things we have done badly. And Rwanda has taken advantage of being able to build something from nothing, or something from a very broken something else, incorporating the best of the rest of the world, and inserting and inventing things that are entirely new. Go Rwanda! And God bless.

Turning Sixty in Kigali

On October 30, I turned the big six-oh. That is a pretty big number and I had some feelings about not wanting it to go unnoticed, even so far from home. And it was noticed, for sure!

When I got up, Simone prepared me a delicious omelet and toast for breakfast. Plus my morning latte! I was banished from pretty much everywhere in the centre for much of the day so I amused myself in my room, having occasional wafts of deliciousness intrude from time to time. I did know that Friday was the day for the students to reveal their secret friends, which they call ‘cacahuètes,’ a game of stealth present-giving that had been going on for over a week. Simone and I had agreed that this would also be a celebration with cake and ice cream. Thus, I had already laid in two tubs of chocolate ripple ice cream and the supplies for Simone to make cake. Simone and Valentin, Jeanne’s son, had also worked hard to finish a solar oven in the hopes of using it to bake the cake. But it rained all morning so toaster oven it was.

Around three o’clock, I was told to get ready for the sewing class party, so I put on a skirt and blouse and walked into the main room, which was decorated with streamers and signs. To my astonishment, everyone stood and sang happy birthday in English, French and Kinyarwanda. Then I got to wear a birthday crown. Everyone was all dressed up and seemed just delighted with their surprise. There were gifts, cards, applause, tears (mine) and great joy all around.

Secret friends were all revealed as well, and there were many more hugs. After that, we enjoyed cake and ice cream, which was utterly delicious to the last lick! For our finale, we danced and sang Rwandan songs with great gusto. At 5:30, Simone declared that everyone had to go.

I was again banished to my room but invited out again when guests started to arrive for the next party. Another kind of surprise, as I had asked for a party but had no idea what it would be like. Lots of people came to wish me well, people I had met maybe once or twice before. Adrienne, from Oregon, and her husband and children, whom we had spent a few hours with one day, came. English Sarah came from Ruhengere as did Jeannette, our Rwandan host from last weekend. There was a feast of food. Then cake and ice cream. Again! Conversation, dancing. More cards and small gifts. The whole event was truly lovely.

I was truly blessed to be among all these people on my birthday. I felt truly loved, honoured and special. Who could ask for more?

Daring to Dream

Today, Simone and I held an art class with the sewing students, their second art class. The object was to make three wishes, and to draw them or make them real in one way or another. Most chose to draw and colour in with coloured pencils and pastels. In advance of the class, Simone and Jeanne and I had all made our own three wishes and expressed them through drawing. It was an interesting exercise and reminded me how pleasurable it is to draw, even when there is absolutely no talent involved whatsoever (aka moi!).

My three wishes were as follows: one, that my children did not live so far away from me, but regardless, they are the recipients of my enormous and undying love; second, that someday I can play the piano again with some ability; and third, that I become a really excellent quilter, especially in design. I did a separate drawing because John was not in this picture, because my wish for him/us has already come true – we are together. But he wanted to be in the picture so I made one just for him, a wish we have long held together – that we grow old together and beautifully expressed by the sundial we have in our back yard: "grow old with me, the best is yet to come."


We introduced the topic to the class, showing our sample three wishes. I was the fairy godmother with my magic wand, granting each one of them three wishes. I was actually amazed at how quickly they all rushed out into the garden and porch to find a quiet spot to work. They beavered away for a good hour. Then it was time to gather up their things and go home. I have included a picture of some of them hard at work.


Judging by their enthusiasm at the start and their chatter at the finish, I think they found it really fun. I don’t know whether or not this exercise awakened any deep desires they might have held. But without a doubt, their modest dreams are lovingly, faithfully and sometimes childishly drawn onto paper. A home. A partner. A family. A car. Education. A sewing machine. Faith in God. A garden. As they left the centre, I could swear their sweet laughter came from hearts that were lighter for having expressed these desires openly.

Kigali Fashion

As most of you know, I am not a big stickler for fashion. Jeans or shorts or shpants (more recently) and a t-shirt have suited me very well for over forty years. But, like when we lived in France back in the 1980s, I feel that Kigali is the place to get a bit more style on. In France, I got right into it, having my colours “read” and going on shopping sprees. I had a closet full of wonderful clothes that I wore all the time there. It felt good to fit in better and it felt good to dress up in a society that dresses up. But these clothes languished in Canada and I rarely wear my few remaining pieces – in part because none of them fit…

In Kigali, I feel sheepishly underdressed a lot of the time. I brought a couple of skirts with me, but they are pretty utilitarian (read straight and khaki). People accept me as I am, as that weird foreigner who wears jeans, but when I put on something pretty, my one skirt that has some fullness and colour, or maybe just a pair of earrings, people notice and tell me how lovely I look. Thumbs up all around.

Almost all the women here wear dresses or skirts. At school, children are separated by the clothing they wear. Trousers or shorts for the boys and skirts for the girls, regardless of a child’s preferences. I am aware that the reasons for dressing differently have a lot to do with accentuating the differences between men and women. And I am not terribly comfortable with that. But, nonetheless, I do feel drawn to fit in better, at least from time to time.

Simone has been hunting for a pretty fancy dress, all long and shiny and laden with embroidery. I really can’t go that far, although I did try on a top of that style that comes with a wrap around skirt (called a pagne – pronounced just like it is spelled, using French pronunciation) as well as a head scarf. This fashion is very expensive. I have included a photo of that moment for your viewing pleasure – or perhaps astonished hilarity! I have spared you the photo of me in the whole outfit, complete with head scarf! Just in case you are wondering, all the fancy embroidered stuff has some kind of stiffening material in it like maybe starch? For some reason, this is a sign of an expensive piece of clothing and very desirable. Myself, I prefer to feel the actual fabric, like it would be after it is washed. Nice and soft. And I am suspicious if I can’t rub the product between my fingers to feel the quality.

Last week, Jeanne brought in a dress that she thought would look good on me. Everyone approved but I feel I looked ridiculous – all bust and shoulders. Not flattering from my point of view. But you can be the judge! Apparently, this style makes me look like a “real Rwandan woman”. I have purchased some fabric that I like and feel I could actually wear, and I will have a dress and a suit made from two of these pieces in the near future.

But back to Kigali fashion. My observations tell me that whenever people go out, men or women, even if they have only one outfit for going out, they really try their best to look sharp. Everything is clean and ironed. You can tell that no one dashes out the door in their housework clothes to buy some milk. Ever. When women come to the centre, they almost always look quite elegant, regardless of their age or shape. One exception is for yoga class, but even then they cover up their sweat pants with a pagne. As well, when people receive us in their home, people wear their Sunday best.

The traditional dress in Rwanda is a matching skirt (or wrap), a top, which can sewn be in a variety of styles, and a head scarf, which is worn in a variety of ways depending on preferences. The head scarf denotes a married woman I am told. There are very particular styles of dress for weddings, and I also assume for other occasions like funerals and baptisms. Everyday wear ranges from the traditional to the very modern. Simone finds that young people wear incredibly stylish clothing and I agree. There is great attention to detail in both the clothing and the accessories. The western style clothes have way more flair here than they do in the west.

I will never give up my jeans and t-shirts, but for a few short months and maybe two or three times a year, on special ‘granny’ occasions, I will dress up in Rwandan style with all the attention to detail that entails.

The Tubahumurize Sewing Project

So many people were involved with fundraising through Give Meaning.com for the sewing project here at Tubahumurize. It is now into its second month and is a complete success from every angle. There were twenty students at the start, but several had to drop out for various reasons, though certainly not because they wanted to. There are currently 18 students – 16 girls and 2 boys – and we are in the process of bringing two more young women aboard, one of whom began the program but had to drop out.

Most of the students are 15-20 years old. Very nearly all of them are orphans whose families were killed during the genocide. They live in a variety of situations. Perhaps with a relative, like an aunt. Some have been taken in by women who are members of Tubahumurize. A few live on their own and a few are heads of households. Two or more girls live in households where they are basically servants and only with great difficulty have they gained permission to do their housework and attend our school. One girl gets up at 4 am so she can get here for 8 am. Three women have young children. Most students had to leave school early on. Only one or two have finished primary school and have attended some secondary school.


Their teacher is a woman named Epiphanie and she is really something. Very calm and patient, and obviously very talented, since the young people are learning by leaps and bounds. It was clearly not intellect that held them back in school! They are still working with used clothing, which they take apart and turn into something new. I am amazed at what they can do in such a short time and also at what they produce from sometimes pretty dowdy fabric. They make some pretty neat outfits! They are not quite ready to cut into new fabric but I would be willing to let any one of them make me something, as long as Epiphanie supervised the process!

The class is not just getting an education in sewing. They are also receiving a variety of other kinds of activities that will help them develop into more rounded individuals. For example, they attend workshops in health, nutrition, life-skills and English, and we offer them art classes, English choir, and soon yoga. As well, they attend trauma counselling, which right now is on an individual basis. They do not yet feel comfortable talking about their troubled young lives in front of one another. It is too new, even to them. They have perhaps never talked about what has happened to them. It is buried deep and is very painful.

The students also take turns preparing their midday meal. There is a large three “burner” coal burning brick stove, on which they cook their meals. The usual fare is beans and rice, which perhaps would grow repetitive for me, but for them is likely their main meal of the day, and by Rwandan standards, is pretty healthy. We have plans to put in a small garden, which the students can help plan and tend, and to raise chickens for eggs, again with the students in charge of building shelter from the rain and a fence. The fruits of the garden and of the chickens will also help to supplement their diets.


The lot on which the centre is located is perhaps 100’ wide by 75’ deep. The main house is quite spacious by Rwandan standards, with a large living area, where all the counselling and workshops take place, a small functional kitchen, an office, a bathroom, and two bedrooms, one with a private bathroom.

The students’ sewing area is behind the centre. The ten treadle machines are nestled into a small room. All of the cutting and patterning and hand sewing take place in the courtyard, paved with smooth, painted cement, between the main house and the sewing room. The students take turns at the machines, with half sewing and the other half working on other stages of their work. They learn from a blackboard, which is literally that – a board painted black – but it works! – and from listening to and watching their teacher. At the end of each day, the students work together to clean the courtyard, and at the end of every week, they clean all the cement areas as well as the courtyard kitchen area and the bathroom.

I have grown very fond of these young women and men. They are perhaps the most industrious young people I have ever met. Not one of them is looking for an easy way out. They all seem to take this opportunity very seriously and responsibly. In their lives, opportunities like this will likely be few and far between.


I love their names: Pascaline (2), Claudine, Ephipanie, Immacule, Clementine, Madina, Elvani, Osette, Jeanette, Soulange, Antoinette, Jacqueline, and Erique (2). Clearly I am missing a couple but I am working from memory here. I love their response to new things. I had brought a few skipping ropes, and one day I took one out for them to use. To see the joy on their faces, to hear their laughter – it was almost too, too good. They are so painfully beautiful, still children really. And probably never had much of a childhood, considering that most of them were three or four at the time of the genocide. To have lived through that, at no matter what age, was most certainly traumatic.

Every weekday morning, when class is just starting, the class sings a hymn and offers a prayer. They sound like angels to me, with their high, clear voices. So last week, I started a choir with those who wished to participate. They seem to love it and want to sing more than once a week. I am teaching them some pretty easy stuff, like This Little Light of Mine, Kumbaya, Summertime, Swing Low, and We Shall Overcome. They hardly know what they are singing but I do my best to explain in French and someone translates into Kinyarwanda at minimum, what the song is about. Basically, so far, it works. They love to sing, and they seem to enjoy learning and watching me as they rarely take their eyes off me while we are singing, and they copy me, even if I scratch my nose or something. My own choir instructor should be so lucky! It’s like they don’t want to miss a beat! (No pun intended… )


Just today, Simone and I offered the first art class. We introduced the concept of art – What is it? What kinds of things are art? Who can make art? They were engaged and interested but a bit mystified. I think very few of them had ever had an opportunity to do much that requires just imagination. The exercises we did today were very simple. One was with the class sitting in a circle, eyes closed, one behind the other. One person chose a shape and drew it on the person in front’s back. The shape transmitted was sent around the circle to the last person who then wrote the shape they received on a piece of paper. They had a lot of fun with that.
The second exercise was to draw someone else in the class without looking at the paper. You could see who had never drawn before, who was intimidated by the exercise and who really got it. It was pretty impressive really.

Next week, we asked them to think about what they might do if they were granted three wishes: what those granted wishes might look like. We will offer all kinds of materials for them to work with, from drawing to collage. I hope they will be able to share their wishes with everyone. We are also planning a large mural sewing project as well.

So these are the kind of things the sewing class is up to. Every day, they amaze me. They give me the most wonderful hugs and always smile and want to chat. They are somewhat shy but curious about everything. They think I am nuts because I have asked them to keep their cuttings scraps for me, with which I hope to piece into some kind of quilt, but which to them are garbage. Hopefully, I can show them such scraps’ usefulness. I try my best to be a kind of mother figure to them. Indeed, they call me Elaine but they also call me Mami, which is like older woman I think. I went out today with a bolt of fabric I had bought to show them. They approved enthusiastically.

They adore poring through the little album of photos I brought with pics of all my family and friends. For young people with little or no family, indeed from any woman with whom I have shared my family pictures, I have never felt one twinge of jealousy that I should be so rich in family and they so poor. Indeed, they seem genuinely delighted. One group of women actually applauded when I said I had a wonderful and kind husband. Most of them are either widows or living in abusive situations.

At the moment, there is a possibility that this project will receive money for an electric sewing machine that does embroidery as well as money for a serger. This will bring the students’ abilities to a much higher level. In fact, even the instructor would have to be taught how to use the embroidery aspects of the machine. But that is very much a fashion here, to put some gorgeous finishes on women’s clothing in ways I have never seen but certainly recognize as a form of embroidery. So we are all hopeful about that as that kind of skill will bring in more money for sure.

Simone and I are trying to come up with ways that the students can make some money, once their skills reach a certain level. This will be soon, as we are going with the teacher next week to purchase fabric for the first time. So we are planning and scheming on their behalf so they can begin to earn a bit. It may involve banking anything they make so that when they graduate, they will be able to purchase cloth or a sewing machine. This plan is in its infancy.

So thank you to all of you who helped to make this project become a reality. It is really amazing what is happening here, thanks to you. It is also amazing what is happening to me, because these kids just rock my world.

Group Counselling at Tubahumurize

On Thursday, I had the privilege of attending a group counselling meeting. It was not planned that way; a group of Canadians was at the centre filming (research for a funding proposal) and they and I were invited to introduce ourselves to the group and the group to us. The plan was that we would then leave and the women were to have their regular counselling session in private, especially because they are a relatively new group, having been meeting for only a few months.

But what happened in reality was that after our introductions to the group, which were translated from English to French to Kinyarwanda (a fairly tedious process)(and for me just French to Kinyarwanda), the women introduced themselves one by one, and each one told us about their lives and about what had happened to them during the genocide. All of the women present are widows with children and all are HIV positive. They range in age roughly, from thirty to forty. Most of them experienced brutal, violent rapes. Most of them lost their husbands and families in horrifying ways. Many never were able to bury them as they would have wished. One woman said she had no more tears to cry and that she didn’t care if she lived or died. Each of these mini stories was translated for us as we watched and listened.

One woman, who I will call Fortuné, made a decision to tell her whole story for the first time. And she told it well. She is about thirty three now and is very beautiful, so I can only imagine her beauty as a girl and young woman. I suspect that beauty was also once a curse.

She began her story talking about her birth in Kigali to two parents, the first child of what would have been a family of five. But a few years after her younger brother was born, her parents separated and the father took a new wife. Her mother lost the baby that she had been carrying and then her brother died as well. The parents spent the remainder of her childhood fighting over who would get her. She was shuttled back and forth from house to house, even stolen, all of which created a lot of confusion and instability for her.

At age fourteen, the house servant, who was her friend, offered to take her away because all this fighting over her was causing Fortuné to suffer. So she agreed and they stole away to another place entirely, far away in another area of Rwanda. But the so-called friend betrayed her and brought her to a man who locked her in a house. Even if there had been any possibility of escape, it wouldn’t have helped, as she had no idea where she was nor where home was. So she was given more freedom. The man, needless to say, raped her repeatedly and she became pregnant. He also beat her frequently. She carried the baby and gave birth to a girl.

Not too long after that, at some point, somehow, she recognized a man from Kigali who was a friend, and through this relationship she was somehow able to escape with her baby and find her way back to Kigali. She eventually found her mother and settled in with her for a short while. But one day, the father of her baby came with some other men and stole the baby from her. She was despondent and suffering as well, since she was lactating and stopping so abruptly made her ill. She went for help and, while out, again, a man took her hostage and locked her up, raping her over and over, as well as being very abusive towards her. I don’t know how long she was in this situation, but not too long.

At some point, she was able to get away from this man, but just then also came the beginning of the genocide. She was pregnant again actually by this second man, but did not know that for quite some time. She was fifteen. After leaving this second man, she returned to her father’s home. One night, militia entered the house and raped her, one after another, while her father was forced to watch. Then they killed her father in front of her and took her away again, again imprisoned as a sex slave. Throughout the genocide, she was passed from one man to another, each one staying with her for one or two weeks. Sometime during the genocide, she realized she was pregnant and she gave birth to another child near the end of the genocide. However, she did not know that she was HIV positive and, indeed, didn’t know that for a long time. She repeatedly told us that she wished she hadn’t left the man who beat her (the second child’s father) as it would have been better than what happened during the genocide.

Finally, Fortuné, at seventeen, was found by a man who was good. She did not love him, but he was nice to her. Over several years, they had four children together, plus the child of the second man. But one day in about 2002, a friend of hers, who had suffered in the same way she had during the genocide, decided to go and be tested for HIV. She was positive. This made Fortuné decide that perhaps she too should be tested, but she was very afraid to go as she did not want her husband to know what she had been through during the genocide. She was so ashamed. She thought he would reject her.

But in the end, she did get tested and was positive. She told her husband and he too was tested, but was negative. She was sure he would leave her. But he did not. He accepted all that she had suffered during the genocide and wanted to stay with her. But Fortuné herself decided to leave him. Why was not clear as he was a good man who treated her very well. Perhaps it was that she did not want him to become ill too. But she did leave him with her children. Perhaps it was the shame of him knowing what she had been through.

During the past few years, she has only had the courage to have two of her children tested for HIV. She did not say if they were positive or not, but since she did not test the others, one can only assume the news was not good.

Through the years, Fortuné continued to look for her lost daughter. She was finally able to find her in 2003, but at that point the father and his family had turned the child against her. The child rejected her completely. But she continued to see the child, affirming her love for the child and telling the story of how they came to be separated from each other. At this time, the child and Fortuné are becoming closer. But as a “widow” with five children, she does not have many options.

Just to read this story is bad enough, but to be present to the pain with which she spoke, the anguish that rose up from somewhere very deep inside her over and over in waves, to hear her heartfelt cries for her mother and for her lost child, the unimaginable shame she felt to have her father witness her multiple rapes, I (and everyone else in the room) could not help but share her anguish, her shame, her sorrow as she relived her past as a fifteen year old girl again. Our tears flowed freely with hers. And somehow, what arose from this deep sorrow was some relief and some peace. Fortuné reasserted that she had never told the genocide part of this story to anyone, and was only able to do it that day because she was with friends who were present for her. She left, I am sure, lighter, filled with the certainty that she had not been rejected yet again. That she was not just accepted but loved.
She was smiling and able to give and receive hugs.

I feel very privileged to have borne witness to the very heart of the group counselling that goes on here at Tubahumurize. Each one of these women arrives here alone and suffering. Each one is able to share her deepest burdens with the group, in her own time and way. And each is growing in previously unimaginable ways. The women support one another, as each person is at a different stage, and all of them have been through similarly horrifying experiences. I don’t know what will happen to Fortuné in the long run, but I do know that she is now on a new stage of her journey. She knows that she is no longer alone.

The Women of Kabeza

In the district of Kabeza where I am staying, all seems relatively prosperous. But that is only because what you see is on the main road, which is mostly commercial as well as is where the schools, churches and clinics are located. The road seems to more or less follow the crest of a broad hill, or it is at least elevated because about every 200 metres, there are roads that lead down the hill, from which other roads and paths twist and turn. All of it is inhabited with all manner of dwelling. The further down the hills you go, the rougher the terrain, and the more dense and crude the housing. Everywhere, the smell of charcoal fires burning. There are open drains everywhere, from which emanate all sorts of odours. Children gather water into large plastic jugs from open taps that spill into drains. At the bottom if the hill are banana trees, which sounds very exotic but is a breeding ground for all manner of pestilence.

Anyway, on Friday, Simone, Jeanne and I walked the treacherous paths down to the bottom of one of these roads to pay our respects to women who are members of Tubahumurize, but many have not been active members recently. It seems it is quite an honour to pay visits to these women in their own homes, as many of them took the day off so they would be there for our fifteen minute visit. We visited six homes in all.

There are hordes of children everywhere, all of them dusty, barefoot and ragamuffin. All of them with eyes like saucers to see two mzungus (white people) in their midst. A gaggle of children followed us everywhere. The children who go to school are learning English and they love to practice their little phrases like “good morning” and “how are you”. They always giggle when we actually respond! Anyway, the small children not yet in school broke my heart somehow, as they live in a very brown world. I seriously didn’t see a drop of colour down there. And yet, people seem proud of their small homes and possessions.

We went to Nathalie’s home, a woman I have met several times because she is active and attends the workshops. She is clearly poor but well off in comparison to others we met. Shie also HIV positive. She lives with her son David and her brother’s little girl, Solonge, with whom Simone fell in love. I had still a little doll from my bag of toys that I carry around that I was able to give her, which made her super happy. Nathalie showed us pictures of her wedding and it is clear that her life has been on a downward spiral recently.

Next we visited two of the women who make beads and jewelry, Crescence and Margot, in the former's home. I delivered the calendars so many of you helped me gather, for which they seemed very grateful. They were working indoors, with the finished beads on a table, stringing tiny beads onto nylon cord. They work in incredibly dim light, as there is just one small window and even that was half covered. There is no electricity. They both need glasses to do this fine work, as apparently so do all the other women who make beads, but have no money for such luxuries. They sell these beads in the market for a pittance of what people are willing to pay in North America for such painstaking work.

Next we visited Atanasie, a woman who is in truly dire straits. She is battered by her husband, who has left her but returns from time to time to do more damage. He drinks and has infected her with HIV, which has been passed to the children. He comes and takes, but brings nothing. Nice guy, right? She is actually afraid for her life. She has nothing to feed her children. She had a black eye on the day we visited. Her eldest daughter has been rejected by this man because she is a product of a previous marriage, even though the father is dead, murdered during the genocide. He refuses to allow the girl to be in the home. Whenever he appears, the girl runs away. I think the mother is the saddest woman I have ever met. Her eyes are just deep, deep with sorrow and, dare I say, hopelessness.

Simone and I asked Jeanne if we could bring her and her family to Tubahumurize for shelter, as she fears for her life and also that of her daughter. Jeanne said it was impossible as there are too many other women like her who need the same thing. I argued that perhaps it was better to help one rather than none, although I do see the dilemma. Aaron, Jeanne’s husband, who is a pastor and a very nice, gentle man, said perhaps the women themselves should decide, as that way the decision would be very democratic and inclusive. I think that is a great idea and perhaps something to work towards – setting up such a process. On the other hand, what happens after we leave, for example. How long could this place reasonably offer shelter? The long and the short is there is no women’s shelter in all Kigali. To build one is Jeanne’s real dream. There is surely a need.

Next, we visited Jacqueline, who lives in a tiny two room home with nine people – seven children and she and her husband. It is a very crude home and I can’t imagine doing much more in it than sleeping. And even that would be crowded. The amazing thing is she is one of the happier, stronger women, I believe because she is active at the centre and has responded well to the counselling. There is hope in her eyes. Her husband, who had been abusive, contracted HIV, and is now quite docile. He has not infected her and her children are all healthy too. He is willing to wear condoms.

At the home of Yolande, we were invited into a tiny room by her daughter, Leah, who is actually one of the students who is learning sewing. The site visit had been cancelled from Thursday and move to Friday but this message had not been passed on to Yolande. She had missed work the day before to greet us and was unable to take another day off. Thus her daughter missed a day of instruction in order to care for her youngest sister. The family clearly does its best living in such tiny quarters, but I fear it is an uphill battle, with crumbling walls and a dirt floor.

Finally, we visited Febronie, who sells tomatoes in the market. She is full of energy and even joy, even though her life is not easy. She has five children, the four youngest of whom I was able to give a small toy. They seemed quite pleased. I believe Febronie’s life has been vastly improved by a micro-credit loan. It may not show in her immediate surroundings but she has some pride and faith that things are getting better.

I came away somewhat shell-shocked and feeling very blessed. I have seen poverty before, but nothing really like this. And yet, and yet, each family really does its best to keep things clean, to eat, to care for one another, and to have a sense of dignity. I did not see one iota of shame in any of these women for the state of their lives. They have hope that things will get better, and most of them are taking steps to make it so, little by little.

Genocide Memorial

On Sunday afternoon, Simone and I went to visit the Genocide Memorial of Kigali. We took moto-taxis across town, up hills and down to an altogether new district for me. The memorial site is on a hill overlooking part of the city, with ever more hills in the distance. There are cultivated fields between the site and the city. Further up the hill, beyond the memorial site, there is clearly another neighbourhood, as there were many people walking in both directions, dressed in their Sunday best it seemed. Some were also no doubt bound for the memorial.

The site itself is guarded as apparently there have been bomb attacks and scares on it as recently as two months ago. So we were scanned and searched before entering. Also, no photos were allowed inside and cell phones had to be turned off.

The main building is white and very modern. I am not sure what year this was built, but the funder is the Aegis Foundation. It is very beautifully laid out, full of air and light. This was not a site with piles of bones, but a history of Rwanda and the years leading up to, during and following the genocide. There are many photos, very carefully described events in as few words as possible, memorabilia and several videos of various Rwandans telling parts of their story in three languages (you select the one you want). It is a very peaceful place and everyone I saw who toured it that day was very quiet and respectful.

I found it quite heartbreaking, especially the areas where children were featured. Such innocents. Such wasted lives. And of course, it tapped into my shame and guilt about my/the world’s lack of response to this awful slaughter. The situation was so complex and was described to us in the news as civil war. And indeed, it was very confusing as there were at least half a dozen political groups with official names. Even Rwandans were confused. However, I/we watched, doing nothing to stop this genocide. I felt their blood on my own soul and shed tears for this terrible suffering that afflicts the country now and likely will for generations.

One of the areas of the memorial is a series of rooms describing a few other genocides around the world, such as the Armenians, the Bosnians and the Jews. The point seemed to be that predictable signs are always there ahead of time and that, in future, we can be more alert and better prepared to avert such disasters.

Outside the main building are some beautiful gardens and fountains as well as over a dozen mass graves that commemorate thousands of the dead. Several fresh bouquets of flowers had been placed on some of the graves, so clearly locals come to remember their slain family members. One wall is dedicated to the names of the dead who are known to be there. It is very peaceful and was a good place for me to process a bit of what I had seen inside. I found myself thinking as I walked, “Here, you can rest in peace.”

I feel very hopeful for the Rwanda of today. Yes, many people are scarred and it is not easy to let go of the past. Yes, some of the perpetrators actually live among the victims. Yes, there are thousands of prisoners who have yet to be tried. But there is a justice process in place, Gaccaca courts, albeit one that is very new and quite an experiment. The accused must face their victims in their villages and neighbourhoods and describe exactly what they did. Then the justice system takes over and applies sentences.

The president here, Paul Kagame, is trying to break the cycle of violence the country has lived with for two generations, so that Rwanda can move on. He has outlawed identity cards that caused such problems and indeed, has outlawed anyone identifying as anything but Rwandan. You are either Rwandan or not. The economy is growing, as is tourism. Small businesses line all the main streets. Just outside Tubahumurize centre itself are probably twelve shops directly across the street and as many more on either side, with all manner of things for sale. And the president has placed much emphasis on education.

My hope is mostly for the generation that is now coming of age and those who are younger. It is hardest for the older generation, which witnessed and experienced far too much. But even they have shown great resilience, just in continuing to live. That said, for them it will always be hardest. But if the young can be kept free of hatred, in school all together, learning. If the economy can offer hope for the future of everyone. And if the laws of the land are fair and just, I believe that Rwandans can leave the past behind, not forgetting, but healing and flourishing all the same.

A Day in the Life

There is so much to describe about life here in Kigali. I think perhaps the easiest way to give you an idea of what it is like is to describe an ordinary day here.
The birds, which all have lovely songs that are new to me, are the first noises I hear in the morning. Then roosters start to crow from all directions. The night is still upon us, except for a glimmer of light perhaps only birds can see. My cell phone’s clock says it is about 4 am. I sleep and doze for a few more hours under my bed net on a comfortable double bed. I hear the increasing sounds of traffic as the city wakens and begins its business. I hear the sounds of the young women arriving to begin their day of sewing in the studio behind the main house at 8 am. I think about what the day will bring.

At some point – perhaps the need for coffee or a drink of water, perhaps I hear Jeanne arrive – I decide it is time to get up, usually about 8:30, which, if you know me, is no easy feat. In the bathroom, which I access from my room, I wash, brush my teeth, taking care to use boiled water, take my meds and get dressed. I make my bed, open the curtains and windows, and tie up my bed net into a knot over the bed. I am never this tidy at home! Then I make my way to the kitchen down the hall.

The kitchen is small, with tiny ants, flies and other little bugs all over the place. I am now used to this somehow, and I am okay with it as long as they aren’t near the food we prepare. On one wall, there is a deep, double wide stainless steel sink, with a flat area for drying dishes. Across from this is a three foot high fridge and above it, two cabinets with shelves. They are not used for much except empty paper bags and empty water containers. On the wall between the fridge and sink, a 4 burner gas stoves sits on a table. The stove is attached to a large propane tank on the floor beside the table and fridge. On the other side of the fridge is a toaster oven, which sits on a very low table. If you want to use the toaster oven, you must unplug the fridge. The trick is to remember to plug the fridge back in! On the fourth wall is a cabinet, filled with dishes, cutlery, pots and pans and so on. The top of the cabinet holds bowls of fruit, onions, garlic and lemons. This is also pretty well the only flat surface to cut or mix anything, besides the top of the fridge. Above is a shelf on which rest supplies like coffee, tea, spices, milk powder, honey, sugar, and cans. We use clean dinner plates to cut up what we prepare, which works but dulls the knives very quickly. I hope to soon find a cutting board somewhere. It is ironic, because John raised quite a lot of money for Tubahumurize making gorgeous cutting boards and here there are none. I don’t think it is part of the culture.

Generally, Simon is the kitchen at this hour. He is a charming local boy from a rural area who was hired to do all manner of duties – cleaning dishes, washing floors, preparing meals for the sewing students, and so on. He also runs errands such as just today, I sent him to the store for more powdered milk and matches (needed to light the stove). Sidebar: the matches are made of wax, so lighting them is a trick that involves holding it close to the sulfur point to strike it because it bends easily, and then moving your fingers back very quickly once it is lit. Yesterday, he washed all my clothes (except my underwear) and brought them folded to me at the end of the day. He speaks only Kinyarwanda so communications are difficult. We do a lot of gesturing, but he only needs to be shown once as a rule. And he is learning a bit of English along the way.

For my first task, if Simon has not already done so, I funnel the water into bottles from the large vat of water Simon boiled the night before and put them in the fridge. Next is coffee. I have a small espresso pot so I get that ready, along with a pan of clean water to which I add sugar and milk powder. I make a cup for myself and one for Jeanne. Then Simone and I have some kind of breakfast – perhaps fresh fruit, perhaps eggs that are scrambled, fried or made into an omelet. Perhaps there is bread and we make a bit of toast. These days we are out of butter, and this can only be purchased downtown. We eat at a large table in the main room, which is also the room where the group counseling sessions and workshops are held. We clean up and Simon does the dishes.

After this, we discuss all kinds of things with Jeanne from what is planned for the day to dreams for the future. Also, one or the other of us is often needed to help Jeanne write a letter or email in English. Simone is mostly her private secretary these days. Jeanne’s computer is in her office and her cell phone serves as a modem, through which we access the internet. Unfortunately, this complicates our lives as there is often a bit of a lineup of people to use this computer. It is our main contact with the outside world. We keep the modem stocked with money, using cards that can be bought practically anywhere. Indeed, people approach you in the street to sell them. You scratch off the wax to reveal the code and enter it on the phone to fill up the account with minutes.

These days, when I am not giving a workshop or sitting in on counselling (something I have not done as yet) or assisting with English lessons, I am preparing for another workshop. The one I am working on now is basically women’s reproductive health – puberty to menopause and what comes in between, as well as a bit about child development as most of the women have families. The area where I need to use the internet relates to the women who are HIV positive. I know a bit but need to understand better how this disease affects the way they would ideally behave. I work at a desk in my room on my own laptop, except when I need to access the internet.
Lunch often consists of leftovers, which today is an amazing dish that Simone prepared last night with fish, coconut milk, tomatoes, garlic, onions, ginger and half a habañero. So utterly delicious! Today we will eat this with rice prepared by Jeanne. I plan to look over her shoulder as she makes rice, because my two-to-one rice recipe makes sticky rice and hers is the way rice should be, separate grains. So I will learn. And she will get to taste Simone’s cooking!

[Well it is now tomorrow evening, that is to say Saturday. A whole day has passed. Jeanne loved Simone’s dish and I learned a new way to make rice. And Simone and I found a shop that makes furniture and they will fix up a board that we can use for cutting in the kitchen! We pick it up tomorrow.]

Now I will go back to generalities. On three afternoons a week, there are workshops in English and also a yoga class in the early evening. These were organized and are led by Simone. I assist with the English, and in the yoga class, I am a student. It is amazing how a bit of exercise and stretching makes you feel good! And I adore watching as women master this new language, even in the smallest ways.


Once a month, there is a general meeting held at a church hall down the road apiece. This month’s meeting was today. There was a lot of singing and prayer and a homily by the sewing instructor. This was all in Kinyarwana so I was mostly flirting with a little girl of about two years. All the women today were given a bag of goodies, from articles of clothing to toothbrushes to little bottles of perfume, to pencils and so on. All the things that were donated by so many different people. There is something unsettling for me in giving such small things. Not that I think they aren’t appreciated, but that they are so very little. On the other hand, the women are very appreciative of the fact that so many people know and care about them and live so far away. Happily, I was able to give one of the toys that I had gathered from the Op Shop and from Sophia to the little girl. I am sure it was her very first toy, a small, gray bunny rabbit, something that some other child no longer wanted. I am sure it will be well-loved. A dream would be to be able to put a child’s toy in each of the women’s bags. The pre-school children all seem so under-stimulated.
One of the concrete things to come out of the gathering was the demand for more English classes, which Simone is delighted to insert into the schedule. Another is I put forward was that the women form a choir, led by me (not that I am qualified but hey, who’s checking!) and pretty well all the women in the room raised their hand when Jeanne put out the idea to gauge interest. And they want to sing Canadian songs! Simone and I spent a couple of hours today brainstorming songs that would be fun to harmonize, but we did stray beyond Canadian borders… for sure!

Another interesting thing that happened at the monthly meeting was that Jeanne said I would basically discuss any problems with women who had a health issue. So a gaggle of women followed us back to the centre where I gave out acetaminophen and a lesson on drinking enough water to stay hydrated, and also some back pain meds for a few women with sore backs, but first insisted that they stretch some before I would give it. And to the little 2 year old, I gave a two week supply of vitamins because she has a cough and because her mother took some red pills and she wanted some too.

So the afternoons pass in a variety of ways and then it is time to prepare dinner. That all takes awhile. Simone and I have developed a kind of dance as we work in the tiny kitchen, trying not to bump into each other or infringe on what the other person is doing. Simon is often watching as well so we have to avoid him too. But somehow we get it done and the table set and then we eat and clean up. So far, we are eating very well. The fruit here is fabulous. Fresh pineapple for about $1 and riper than I have ever tasted. Tomatoes and avocadoes and papayas, which are so sweet and delicious… And something that Jeanne calls Japanese plums, which are egg sized and red and full of edible black seeds, the size of a peppercorn perhaps. And so on. What is harder to find are grains in variety. And there is just one bakery that sells brown bread, all the way downtown. Not cheap.

One day soon I will have to get some more Rwandan cash. This is a cash economy and very few places accept Visa. I think I have figured out the currency and am beginning to get a sense of what things cost. I can even bargain a little bit but I also tip, which is not part of the culture… so I guess it all evens out. As an aside, I brought a bunch of US $100 bills. I had been told they should be new, and they were, at least in terms of ones that are more difficult to tamper with. But here, the exchange on bills that are older than 2006 is less than on the newer ones. Not sure what that is about, but I would have to say someone somewhere is pocketing the difference.

Into the evening, Simone and I often play a couple of games of cribbage. We may also do some emailing and writing and reading. Even though night falls quickly, we do have electricity in the house, although the lighting is not that bright. But bright enough to do those things. I am glad I brought a small desk lamp with a halogen bulb so that I can see better and a transformer so it works (thanks Jim). My old eyes don’t really do that well in dim light.

Sidebar: This evening we enjoyed a torrential rain. The heavens opened. The wind blew. Thunder rumbled and cracked. After the deluge, the night air smelled so delicious, free of dust and heat and humidity. It may be the beginning of the small rainy season…

At bedtime, I take a quick shower. And I do mean quick as the water is cold only, from all the taps. It is a bit like diving into a Canadian lake in July, say, and gasping a few times and then saying, well this isn’t so bad really. At least some of us say that. :) Anyway, it feels awfully good to wash off all the sweat and dust of the day. And that is pretty much the end of my day. I open my net and put it around my bed, along with my lamp and a book and bunch of crosswords and sudokus and such. And pretty soon I go to sleep to the soporific sounds of drinkers and loud music from the bar next door. Like a lullaby…

All in all, life here is pretty grand. Murabeho!

Impressions of Kigali

Muraho! (this means 'hi', or more exactly, 'I greet you.")
Kigali is a low, sprawling city. As far as I can figure out, everything is curves, both up and down and around, like the landscape of round, reddish hills in which the city sits. Between the curves and my absence of direction (the sun seems always to be overhead!) I never have a sense of where I am. I have taken to writing down the names of the various neighbourhoods. The one where I live and where the Tubahumurize centre is located is called Kabeza. Most of the city is built close to the ground, though there are buildings several stories high that are newer or being built as the country gets back on its feet and grows.

Although I am not at all certain of the population of Kigali, it seems there are people out in the street all the time, at least during the day, going about their business. Although there is a lot of curiosity about a white foreigner, I do not feel at all threatened; just a bit stared at. I try to wave and smile and people respond in kind. The children, all in various uniforms, are learning English in school and love to try it out on the likes of me, saying "hi" or "how are you", to which I respond in English, to their complete delight it seems. One of the most endearing things I see here is the way people touch each other. Men hold hands with men, women walk arm in arm or arm and waist. All greetings with people you know or people you are introduced to begin by touching or shaking hands and by either one or three kisses on the cheeks. Every departure involves the same ritual.

Little buses are everywhere, some old and worn, some new, larger and airy. I have now taken the bus three times, to the tune of 200 RWF per trip (about $0.40), including a transfer. The buses arrive at stops, as well as where people are waving them down. If you understand Kinyarwanda or have a good ear, you will hear the name of the district to which the bus is heading. I have no idea how it works, but somehow, I have managed to return to the centre or arrive at my destination each time. It feels like luck, but I am sure there actually is a system!

To be sure, I have not tried to take this trip without someone who is from the city and speaks the language. One day I will try with just Simone. The experience is pleasant enough, with country music playing (!!), and people either peeking at us or studiously avoiding eye contact. You announce that you want to get off by tapping the window and the people around you make a “psh, psh, psh” sound to get the person who opens the door’s attention. Somehow it works!

There are swarms of motor-taxis throughout the city, which is basically a motorcycle that accepts passengers. You can recognize them by their green helmets, which are numbered (they are the official, registered taxis) and blue helmets (a bit more sketchy, I am told, with no recourse if something bad happens).

Yesterday, I took my first motor-taxi ride with Valentin, the son of my host, who rode with a large bag of groceries I had bought, and me alone, sporting the obligatory passenger helmet. It was quite a thrill riding behind my driver, as they dart in and out of traffic, in their efforts to get you where you are going as quickly as possible. Negotiating a price for the trip happens before you get on, as it does, actually, before you show interest in any item you want to buy. The cost is based on how far you are going, just like a regular taxi only cheaper and more dangerous – but to me more fun. A tip is not expected but very much appreciated. It cost 800 RWF for Valentin and I to get home with the groceries, and I gave the two drivers 1000rwf (about US$5). Their smiles were very broad.

Today, Jeanne, Simone and I visited a group of women who are clients of Tubahumurize, indeed a few of whom I had already met, who live in a neighbourhood at some distance. We arrived by foot, then bus, then motor-taxi, then foot. We had the privilege of being invited into two of the women's homes, followed by the rest of the women and a gaggle of children too young to be in school. The children are incredibly shy and incredibly curious and incredibly beautiful. Before we left, I had asked Jeanne if I should bring something as a gift, especially for the children, and she said no. But I wish I had. I was able to share an energy bar with three of the children, who became a little more daring after that. And of course the oldest one conned the youngest, whose name is Prince, out of his share. The purpose of the visit was to get a sense of how the women live, even for Jeanne, as it was her first visit there as well.

The neighbourhood stretches behind the main road where the school, church and training centre are located. The houses are arranged in what seems rather like a honey comb, with many twists and turns on dusty paths. All the houses seem to be constructed of concrete – at least that is what I think it is. The women lead simple and probably difficult lives, as it is not cheap to live in Kigali, as I am discovering. And it is almost completely a cash economy. Beautiful bougainvillea spill over the wall that surrounds the neighbourhood, making the dusty walk quite enchanting.

For me, the highlight of our visit was when the daughter of one of our hosts, who is deaf from childhood meningitis, and who had quite a closed face as if she was not interested in us, discovered that Simone can speak sign language. All of us watched spellbound as Simone and Marie Jeanne talked in a very animated way, their hands flying as they signed, for quite a long time. I am sure it is not often that this young 17 year old feels so included in so-called normal life. They became bosom buddies, from all accounts, and MJ opened to me as well, as I am Simone's "tanti" -- her aunt.

The women all escorted us down the hill and out of the neighbourhood, a few vying to be the ones to put their arms around my waist or to talk with me in French. I had the feeling we had paid these women a great honour in visiting their homes and their neighbourhood. I am a bit uncomfortable with this, as it was a complete honour for me as well. And it felt a bit artificial visiting with no purpose than to be voyeurs. I hope it did not feel that way to them. It did not appear to be so, and for that I am grateful.

Enough for now. Murabeho! (good bye, or I bid you farewell). Elaine