A fresh start

I started this blog in 2009 when I was doing a minor field study in Rwanda. Rather than upholding the blog – once I got home I just quit writing. In various ways the reality I faced in Rwanda was suddenly too complex to be viewed in black or white. I know too little about poverty to categorize it, and looking back on my previous posts I think that is what I was doing. I was desperately trying to view it through the lenses of victim and croc, poor and rich. The reality is much more nuanced than that- and nuances are difficult to categorize.

I am a structuralist by nature, and in order to find some peace with my breakthrough I came to look closer at the Swedish society. While in Rwanda I met many Rwandans who in no way were poor. While in Sweden, I see many people that in no way can be considered well of. The dichotomy is closer to me than it was before but at the same time I see this underlying structure of poverty that is perpetrating the system we live in. With this comprehension, that suddenly sounds so obvious and banal, I must admit that I have become more sceptical to… sudden change.

While in Rwanda, the last thing I thought of was, was becoming a bureaucrat. Now this seems like an interesting path that if used wisely can do some good.

agata

Come on Obama- do your thing and I will do the rest!

The dichotomy has reached its peak. How can I possibly turn away when a six year old, late at night with nothing to eat, comes up to me and all he asks for is some bread? – It’s okey, I just wanted to see you, were his words when I told him that all the shops were closed and that he would have to wait until tomorrow. I gave him a hug, and he stayed glued to my legs a bit longer than expected. It’s the atrocities of everyday here in Rwanda. People around the world have given their consent and the silent killing of children continues, albeit in the shadows, and for questioning eyes only to discover. I see them there every day; children, young boys with their baby brothers or baby sisters staring at what looks like the moment. Every second without food seems to be a fight, not only against hunger but also the feeling of despair. I need to do something. Like now.

You alone can’t change anything.

Well, if I was writing a thesis now and not a blog, certain words would have to be operationalized and defined in that statement. I let Obama stand for the ‘change’ part. I dig deeper into ‘anything’. Anything, nothing or like they would say in Spain- nada. It surely would be the personal paradox of this year not to believe in the civil society’s strength while the theme for my BA thesis is the civil society’s possibilities in the rigid Rwandan regime. Because this ‘anything’ is truly annoying, let me explore it further. Since when did people begin to define themselves with the system that surrounds them? You might say, well everyday! “I am a worker’s son who is about to do a ‘class trip’ (in Swedish ‘klassresa’ referring to someone who was brought up in e.g. the working class but through a university degree now adheres to a higher social rank)”. Or, “I am brat with a baby blue Lacoste shirt and my name is Gustav (a typical upper middle class name among Swedes) and I am proud of being a part of today’s Sweden, especially now when Reinfeldt has done such an excellent job”. Yeah right… but what I am trying to say is that the system you are currently in is without a doubt creating the opportunities for your identity, but you yourself probably identify with… let’s say if you are Gustav there for a while this dude, and if you are the worker’s son you probably have Håkan Hellström as an idol. Either way, you are not the system. You are a person. Herein lays the problem; when people say that you alone can’t change anything they usually refer to the system. But seriously bulb heads; who asks you to change the system?

Alex, a boy who has lost both of his parents and is in his early teenage but looks as if he is 7, came up to me the other day asking for bananas. I asked him if there was anything else he wanted from the store. He didn’t point at the Nutella, the yoghurt or the Coke standing in the fridge, instead he replied that he would like to go to school. I followed him home, mostly out of curiosity I must admit. Because how can an orphan have a home? I saw how he lived and I had to pull myself together in order not to cry, and so I called my Rwandan acquaintance Julius who knows how these things work. From next week on Alex will get to go to school. It’s a boarding school where he gets food three times a day, a place to sleep and most importantly he gets a good education. The fee is 200 USD per semester, and me and my friend Åsa will be sharing the cost. That’s 200 Swedish crones a month- for saving someone’s life. I am not changing the system. I am changing someone’s life.

And seriously- so could you.

If anyone’s up for it, please let me know because while here I could make sure the money actually goes directly to the child.

Over and out.

Debates breaking the silence

A couple of days ago we set off for a village named Kibuye. The village is surrounded by a remarkably peaceful lake called Lake Kivu, and was the main reason for the two hour long bumpy ride which made my hangover considerably worse than it actually was. Bear in mind that Rwanda is one of the poorest countries in the world, and as soon as you leave the city the poverty does not only strike you as a bitch slap in the face, but also gives you a surreal feeling of time travel. Not only is it a cliché to paraphrase ‘as if the time stood still’ but also a matter of defining time, because once we got out of the bus there was a shop selling Bob Marley cassettes. But while viewing out towards the landscape, it was not only as if the time had stood still since the 1980’s cassette revolution, but also as if all the tourists ever passing by, the market economy with its  g l o b a l i z a t i o n  and the war in Congo were just bizarre things that had no place in this reality. I do not under any circumstances wish to romanticize poverty, but at least it makes you think over your own situation in this truly peculiar world.

Rwanda is currently undergoing a heavy rain season and the rain was falling like cats and dogs (an idiomatic expression I have been using frequently over the past few days and exists in many languages). We asked for the direction to the restaurant famous for its viewpoint over the lake, and as we understood that we had to walk ten minutes in the rain, the four of us bought one umbrella each from the shop with the Bob Marley cassettes. The Rwandans were laughing hard at four pale ‘Muzungu’ girls, brave enough to face the rain with pink umbrellas. When I say face the rain I am dead serious. Rain here is considered to be dangerous and one must do everything in ones supremacy to avoid the infuriating wet drops. Thus Rwandans as a rule take shelter under a protective roof… and wait. Sometimes the rain goes on for twenty minutes, sometimes for an hour. Either way, there is always a group of people standing under the roof and wait. When Sweden, year after year turns out to be the most single dense country in the world, I bet you this rainy season with its fatal rain drops at least brings people together under one roof and accordingly serves as a dating spot. Imagine, if you have the slightest courage to face the rain before you pick the waiting stop, the window of opportunities is wide open. I know that if I was sixteen again, I would have loved the rainy season in Rwanda.

Anyways, I am not sixteen anymore, I am twenty-five with an eager interest in politics. Right.

So, as we finally found the restaurant and move a couple of times between sitting outside (facing the mortal drops) and indoors (facing the mise-en-place work of the clueless waiter), we ended up sitting inside. Out of the blue, a French man in his mid fifties asked if he could join us. Because we are so open-minded we let him to. It turned out that this man, a journalist he claimed, is here to collect data for the trial he is preparing against amongst others the French government and Kofi Annan. Now, I do not mean to sound badly informed; I am fully aware of Kofi Annan’s failure as a leader during the genocide. However, there are few things as entertaining as a male’s mid-age crisis, desperately trying to disguise itself in ‘more important’ matters; such as a back-packing trip to India (when it really is an all-inclusive five star trip), a brand new lap-top (with half of its functions never used, even less discovered) or a self-proclaimed journalist title (whose results probably will be published, but for the wrong reasons). As the politically engaged researcher I am, I dared myself into a wild debate with this so called journalist. It was all fun and interesting, occasionally even witty. Until, I mentioned the Palestine-Israel conflict. The atmosphere shifted and all of a sudden the peaceful silence was broken. The three other guests at the table obviously found this discussion too straightforward, whereas I in the midst of my hangover could not have bothered any less. For every minute the discussion went on I was regretting more and more my witty compliment I had hurried to make earlier- of the journalist being a ‘pillar of democracy’.

In the end, we exchanged each other’s emails: for me it was a false pretext to have a chance to google the man- for him doubtlessly another chance to mask the mid-crisis.

Thanks for reading.

With love,

Agata

Fat women and so on

For the past few days I have been occupied by catching up with my time table. Yes you heard right. I have actually made a time table which tells me what I need to do for the next few days. For those of you who actually know me, you are probably quite aware of my steady anxiety of being a last-minute advocate. The fact that I have not been entirely able to keep up with my time table is another story, but at least it enables me to keep a fairly good over-view of my work. Due to last week’s memorial ceremonies and the fact that entire Kigali kind of died there for a minute, consequently the work on my thesis went into a snooze mode. This week on the other hand, I had my first interview, and three more are booked. It is really exciting to have an interview! Wow what an adrenalin kick. While sitting in the hot spot I felt as if I could do this forever: asking questions and handing out my business card. Wait… doesn’t this sound a lot like business management? Okey, in that case I take that back. Journalism? Selling my soul for a scoop? Yaiks! I guess my stay here makes me realize that being a student is actually pretty damn nice.

So Rwanda. Time goes by really fast and I and my research colleague have been having a hard time realizing that we’ve been here for three weeks already. We have made some Rwandan friends, but living in ‘Little Sweden’ does not make it any easier. I had a coffee with my friend Eric (the guy who invited us for dinner at his place) the other day. That was really friendly. We had a good laugh as we were talking about body images and relationships. The saying goes that Rwandan men enjoy big women and that most couples get married after dating for about a year. Wooo…wait a moment doesn’t that sound a lot like my life? I’m slightly taller than my boyfriend and we have been going strong for a year. I told Eric this and he said that unfortunately he didn’t think that my boyfriend loved me. He also said that it is necessary for a boy to offer cows prior a marriage. He asked me if my boyfriend had any cows, and when I said that he didn’t he laughed, and this time convinced that my boyfriend was what he called a ‘national fucker’. This might sound very forthright, but what I think Eric meant was that Jonathan was a player. His solution to all of this was to sit down with Jonathan and talk to him about my, what he called ‘future intentions’, i.e. propose to Jon?

Yesterday we went to a very nice restaurant to meet up with two of our arty schmarty friends, check out their page here. They are two cool and stylish looking guys, trying to do what they are passionate about. We had a couple of beers and a pizza. It was kind of pricey but still worth it.

Sadly Eric told me that we will not be able to make any girl friends while here. It’s just not possible, were his words. He said that girls here are a bit more inhibited and once they get a boyfriend they settle down, get married and have babies. I don’t know about that. Many women seem friendly and educated, not only focusing on the household. But sure, it does remind me a bit about Korea… where I made two female friends during a period of four months. It would be easy to say that girls are just ‘like that’ (referring to suspicious towards other girls) , and that boys are more easy-going and relaxed. In this context however it kind of becomes clear that the expectations on girls, created and sustained by various institutes and groups such as churches and families does indeed give girls a different way of living- consequently a different way of acting. Maybe I won’t make any female friends, but at least I will have experienced their way of smiling to me.

I miss my friends, my family and my cute little god son who turns one year today. Happy birthday kiddo. Sending you my love.

Little Sweden

How surprising is the world, when you travel 16 hours by plane but still end up at a guest house called ‘Vi skogen’ (Swedish and literally means ‘Us forest’) and is run by a Swedish NGO (non-governmental organization) focusing on agriculture and forestry. The kitchen table is made out of light wood and reminds me of the one from my elementary school back home, and there is even a cheese slicer among the cutlery. Ah, sweet cheese slicer! I find Mr Slicer and Miss Rwandan Cheese make an extraordinary couple. (For cheese slicer click here, for Rwandan cheese there is yet no wiki-information available)

As you might suspect we are not the only Scandinavians here. There is another girl from Stockholm, and one from Denmark. The only exotic thing in this house is that the Danish girl is from the south part of Denmark, thus speaking with that very difficult Germanish-Danish accent. Other than that it feels awkwardly Swedish…

Outside our big house is a wall with safety net and a guard standing to open the gate twenty-four seven. I doubt the guard is really essential as Rwanda is probably one of the safest places I have ever encountered. However, this is one of the few ways for the Swedish NGO to give something in return to the local society: by hiring people and giving them a salary. Nonetheless, I wonder whether the Swedish Worker’s Union would, if having the chance, remark on the guard’s working hours which are twelve hours a day/ seven days a week. Or does the Swedish morality only count for Swedes?

Yesterday afternoon we went to a genocide memorial site and participated in a candle ceremony. It was peaceful, and very silent. As you might recall we went to a memorial last Monday but felt that it was not our place to be, and left very quickly. This time the atmosphere was calmer and although the people were expressing their grief it was very still. I guess a week of mourning is exhausting for everyone…
At the ceremony, the executive director for our supervising organization was there. He is an average sized Rwandan with a very stern face. For some reason he tends to make a remarkable impression on me. He seems very wise and calm, and just one of those people who expresses a ‘first-rate’ aura. It kind of made my day.

On our way home from the ceremony we grabbed one of the few minibuses around here in Kigali. The bus driver squeezes in four people on one row (back home its three people on one row). My legs never fit and during the ride I constantly feel like an oddball. On my way out of the bus I always either slam my head, my knees or my hips. Today was no different and I hit my hip really hard in the door opening. Picture of my bruised hip might come in the next post.

Thanks for reading.

Big misses, small kisses.

Yours truly,

agata

Agata Power (I’ve got the power)

For those of you less familiar with my inner strength, please precede to this link Agata power

Cry Mother Africa, Cry.

Rwanda is as you might expect a dynamic place. Its’ history has left deep marks; not only on the Rwandan people but also on the international community (at least one can hope that shame also leaves marks). The past few days have without a doubt been one of the few more turbulent ones in my otherwise very privileged Western life. With turbulent I do not mean chaotic in any practical way, because we have as usual been served excellent food, drunken wonderful African tea spiced with ginger and sugar, and have had the opportunity to mingle freely among prominent Rwandan politicians (I might come to that later). With turbulent, I refer to the ‘brain-chock’, the confusion which escalates when one realizes that apathy is no longer an option, and that cynicism is only for the rich ones.

I don’t know how much you know of the Rwandan history, thus I wish to brief you in very shortly. But seriously, this is a matter of people’s lives. While being here, it makes me realize that the ignorance towards poverty many of us in the Western world share will definitely never make a difference: instead it only adds on to the Western wheel of fortune while leaving the unprivileged mourning their pre-destined future. Therefore, consider this ‘briefing’ as a favor:

Rwanda was colonized in the late 19^th century, first by the Germans and later by the Belgians. During the colonial era the Rwandans became institutionally categorized into three ‘ethnic’ groups: the Tutsis, the Hutus and the Twa (within the context of genocide the Twa are of less relevance). This was, amongst others conducted through ‘ethnic cards’ handed out by the Belgian church. Now, the groups mentioned did in fact exist prior the colonization, but with the colonial power they were legally enforced and institutionally reproduced. The minority of Tutsis was favored despite (or perhaps thanks to) their prior privileged status. In 1962 Rwanda gained their independence and the majority group, the Hutus, overthrew the ruling Tutsi king. Thousands of Tutsis were killed and some 150,000 driven into exile in neighboring countries. The children of these Tutsi exiles later formed a rebel group, the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) led by Major Kagame, and began a civil war in 1990. The war, along with several political and economic upheavals, worsened ethnic tensions. On April 6th 1994 the tensions culminated to the genocide of roughly 800,000 – 1, 200 000 Tutsis and ‘moderate’ Hutus. All this happened in 100 days and was performed by the Hutu militia. The Tutsi rebels defeated the Hutu regime and ended the killing in July 1994. Although claimed to be legally elected, the RPF is until today in power led by President Kagame.

It is exactly 15 years ago 10 percent of the population was literally wiped out. With all the capacity in the world nobody did anything, for the simplest reason of state sovereignty. What is sovereignty without people? Who thought sovereignty was more important than approximately 1 000 000 people’s lives? ONE MILLION PEOPLE’S LIVES. Men, women and babies slaughtered by machetes. This is the confusion, the ‘brain-chock’ I am telling you about. Ignorance, apathy and cynicism; all a disguise for our wealth. And it continues like a frustrating never ending story. Listen to Manu Chao \’Politik Kills\’ , although the video is not describing Rwanda in particular! And the video is not describing the environment I am currently finding myself in.

Today, 6^th of April has been a mourning day for all Rwandans. Me and Åsa went to one of the memorial sites in the morning. It was overwhelming, thus we left pretty soon.

Yesterday we were fortunate enough to experience two valuable events. The first one was the Conference on the Genocide against Tutsis. There we were given the sweet chance to listen to outstanding scholars in the field of Genocide. As a finale to the Conference a theater group performed their interpretation of the Rwandan history. It was a breath-taking show performed by dedicated and talented artists and musicians. Rare, delicate, and memorable.

The second event was a welcoming vegetarian dinner arranged by our new Rwandan friend Eric. It was a three course dinner accompanied by some R’n B music in the background (heja globalization).

Tomorrow we are moving to a new hostel with a kitchen. Unfortunately, I think the hostel is owned by a Swedish NGO. This kind of contradicts my principle of trying to stay local. I guess the term ‘glocality’ is once again preferable.

Thanks for reading.

With love,

agata

Do you like Congo music?

-Yeah! I like Congo music. But I can’t dance the way you dance mister.

-Ah… tsss.

And he walks away.

Everyday around 14 pm a group of twelve people gathers at the hostel we are currently residing in, and they occupy the restaurant for an hour and a half. There they have a banquet of chicken, grilled lamb, rice, mashed potatoes and salad. In addition to the food, the crowd spontaneously begins to dance and sing to loud Congo music. I still have not figured out whether this is their lunch break, or if they are on holiday enjoying their break. But I know that I wish I was a part of the crowd. And that I spoke fluent French.

Yesterday I met the staff at the organization which will be supervising me here in Rwanda. As I suspected they were not too cheerful about my choice of the topic, and said it was rather controversial. I responded calmly: Say what?! Controversial schmerschial. It’s a BA thesis. Nobody will die. It’s a promise from the Swedish Rey. And he’s big back home, and those other Scandinavian motherlands too. Common brother give me a chance!

Well no, obviously I did not say that. I smiled and said that I was not quite familiar with a topic being controversial and that I was here to learn. We came to an agreement that I would report most of my writings to them. It sounded like a fair deal at the time.

Today, while doing some background research for my thesis at the centre, I was given the chance to speak to the boy who lives at the centre and occasionally works as a chef. He told me that he was twenty years old. He asked if I was married. I said I had a boyfriend ‘en Suède’ and that I was twenty-five years old. He looked at my face quite puzzled and said that I looked younger. I said that I wasn’t, that I was actually quite old. He agreed and replied that yes, you are old.

On our way home from the centre, my colleague Åsa unintentionally made a car stop for her while passing the road. The cars here are quite careful and they tend to watch out for ‘Muzungos’ (the nick name for expatriates). The man asked us if we cared for a ride back home to town. Now, usually I don’t jump into strangers’ cars, but seeing that this man was wearing an ironed shirt and driving a black Mercedes, the choice wasn’t too hard. Anyways, the ride turned out to be really friendly. He gave us his number, showed pictures of his two boys and his wife and told us that we should arrange dinner plans. It was awkward and really nice at the same time.

Also dear readers, I fear I will not be able to take many photos as the rumor says that people here tend to get upset over cameras. I don’t know why, but I have chosen not to take the risk to find out whether it is true. Now, it’s not as much that I wish to take photos of “beautiful African people” (comment made by a member on flickr), but since this country is the same size as Småland in Sweden, but with a population of 10 000 000 people it is difficult to pick up your camera without anyone actually being in the picture.

So far two mosquito bites, and no malaria.

With love.

agata

You are in Rwanda, dear Wanda.

Yes I am.

I arrived with my dear friend (and research colleague?) Åsa to Kigali airport at 12.00 pm local time, which is actually local time for Swedes to. Thus I wonder if it actually makes it to glocal time? For those of you who are not familiar with ‘glocality’, it is something that is local and global at the same time, such as the ‘Glokala folkhögskolan’ In Malmö which offers education in Hip hop culture and graffiti painting. I wonder if Timbuktu had something to do with this…

Rwanda, from the top of the Ethiopian airline aircraft was like a green painting, divided into little frames with red contours. I assume these were the lands of farmers facing daunting economic property reforms, but from above it reminded me more of an idyllic little country side. It looked just as the picture in my guidebook from Bradt. A book which, by the way, is applauded by the backpackers at our current hostel for its’ up to date information from 2006. As you might understand there are few guidebooks on Rwanda, and Lonely Planet has yet not realized its possibilities in this Gorilla loving country. So far it seems as if most of the tourists here are to see the famous silver back gorillas, and less to experience the food or any other main attraction for tourists.

Speaking of the food: so far it has been less ‘exotic’ consisting of French fries and chickpeas in yoghurt. However, I had the opportunity to try some spicy carrot soup in the restaurant at the hostel. Very refreshing for lunch, but probably more of my colleague’s favourite. Speaking of my colleague, she suffers from a phobia for mosquitoes, thus constantly making sure her mosquito net is firmly set around her bed. Just for the fact, we have so far seen one mosquito in this country. I am starting to question my expensive malaria pills. My colleague is not.

Tomorrow we are set to meet the representatives from the research centre ‘Never Again Rwanda’ for the first time. I sense my research question will be questioned… I will brief you into that matter once it is settled.

Take care and thanks for reading.

Over and out.

agata