tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58322874122552569392024-03-14T11:50:27.914+02:00laura's african adventureLiving with the Salesian Sisters and teaching at a secondary school in Gisenyi, Rwanda.laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.comBlogger137125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-52320778677515047332011-06-02T21:18:00.000+02:002011-06-02T21:18:04.201+02:00Empanadas.<em>Le 16 avril</em> My uncle Jim asked me when speaking with my dad’s side of the family at Christmas time – “What’s one thing that you’ve been learning that you hadn’t expected to?”<br />
<br />
“Cooking the way I am – Sr. Ema has a lot to teach.”<br />
<br />
And here I am, in the middle of Africa learning how to make Argentinian empanadas… in French.<br />
<br />
I’m very proud to say that I have officially learned how to make a traditional Latin American dish from scratch. And who better to teach me? Aline, Joselyne and I got the tutorial on how to make and work the dough, how to know if it’s reached the right consistency, how to season the meat, how to use the zig-zag cutter to make perfect little half-moon pockets, and then how to put them into the frying oil until they’re good and golden brown. MMM!<br />
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I’ve always liked empanadas, burritos, quesadillas, you name it – but biting into a hot empanada that you’ve made with your own to hands from just a pile of ingredients? Nothin’ like it.laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-43440800105202235592011-06-02T21:16:00.002+02:002011-06-02T21:16:45.486+02:00Deuil Nationale<em>Le 13 avril </em>From the first full day of the 1994 Rwandan genocide and for one full week, the country has a national mourning period. In French, it’s the Deuil Nationale (which translates roughly to a Week of Mourning), and the whole vibe of Rwanda changes. I’m sure that in previous years the outward displays of grief were much more present, and there have been instances of riots and various violent acts, but from what I’ve seen, the Rwandan people commemorated this 17th anniversary Deuil Nationale with composure.<br />
<br />
<br />
Just as one observes any significant death in nations around the world, the flags were at half-staff – for seven full days. On the first and last day of the week, there is no school and no one goes to work. The church that is usually hopping and might be confused at times for a dance party does not play songs that involve clapping during this period (which really limits the repertoire). Around the country, groups of people gathered together to listen to people give witness of their experiences of the ’94 Genocide. On the television, these gatherings are broadcast – as well as singing, prayer, and other memorial tributes. Many wear purple wrist kerchiefs or scarves in order to show their participation of this commemoration.<br />
<br />
It’s a strange situation, being in a country where so many around you have lost their loved ones in such a cold-hearted way. I had questions, but mostly asked those in my house for fear of asking too much. Friends were somewhat somber but mostly kept to themselves about how they were feeling. I did my best to be there, silently supporting if it was needed. Mostly, I didn’t know quite what to say for fear of saying the wrong thing or didn’t know just how to act. After all, my loved ones who have lost their loved ones have been dealing with this grief for seventeen years – how much can I really do now? The best I can do is to love them on a daily basis and pray that they can find healing.<br />
<br />
One resounding theme that I heard from many that I’d asked in my community (and some outside) was that the country needs to find true forgiveness. From the surface, it seems as though the country has moved on and all is fine and dandy, but there is still much more healing that has to take place. Seemingly simple things like recounting the country’s history to the next generation needs to be strictly factual and unbiased, for rekindling and passing on the distrust will not aid in Rwanda’s continued growth.<br />
<br />
We must all pray for those who have lived through the Genocide – that they may heal and that they may forgive. <br />
<em><br /></em><br />laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-33790857359615079222011-05-21T20:44:00.001+02:002011-05-21T20:45:54.174+02:00I'm home - more blogs soonlaura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-46691619674924786892011-05-04T15:08:00.000+02:002011-05-04T15:08:29.832+02:00Ifaranga Rimwe<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><em>Le 8 avril </em></span>One US dollar is equal to about 590 Rwandan Francs. I have bills in my wallet for 500, 2000 and 5,000 FRW. <br />
<br />
Most commonly, the only coins that are used are 100 FRW, but from time to time I’ve gotten 50, 20, 10 and even 5 franc pieces. <em>What is the value of FIVE Rwandan Francs?</em> I’ve asked myself.<br />
<br />
When I’d gone to the Western Union Bank to take out money that my parents had transferred from my accounts at home, I was in for a real treat.<br />
<br />
The teller does the conversion for USD to FRW and then takes out a small amount which is the service charge. He slid a small wad o’ bills over to me under the glass window. [I swear, if I were handed the amount he’d handed over in USD and not FRW, I would live a good life.] And then he had to count the coins.<br />
<br />
Brand-new 50’s, 20’s, 10’s, 5’s and ….. <em>a ONE franc piece??</em><br />
<br />
Besides being the laughing stock of all coins at 1/590 of a dollar, this poor coin looks like Monopoly money. (I suppose it has less value, too.) The coin is about the size of the tip of my pinky finger – only slightly larger than a pencil eraser.<br />
<br />
Being so entertained by the coin, I’ve decided not to use them and to only keep them as Show-and-Tell for once I get back. Ask me when I get home, I’ll be happy to show you!laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-65081546747565648532011-05-04T15:05:00.000+02:002011-05-04T15:05:32.896+02:00Sixteen years of training<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><em>Le 7 avril </em></span>As far back as I can remember, I’ve enjoyed singing. Singing in the car, singing in the shower, singing in the woods. I sang in Greenwood Elementary School’s choir. When Regina started the Children’s Choir at St. Greg’s when I was in 4th or 5th grade, I jumped on the opportunity. With orchestra consuming my allotted music slot at school, I continued in the choir at St. Greg’s – the big-kid, Adult Choir. Even when we tried out different parishes to add some spice to our lives, my father and I both joined the St. Francis choir. And as we all well know, I participated in Glee Club at university. (Thinking it would take up too much time, I did not participate the first year – without music in my life, however, I was suffering. Sophomore year I tried out and thankfully I was accepted.) <br />
<br />
Having had such a variety of choirs and such fantastic conductors, I’ve seen my fair share of repertoire. I’ve done Gregorian chant with Brother Kevin at St. Francis, Carmina Burana and all which that entails with Carole Ann at Fairfield, and started out learning beautiful harmonies from Regina when in elementary school. With the conductors demanding both self-expression and precision, I’ve come to appreciate each piece for what it is.<br />
<br />
More than that, music is an incredible medium where more than just the significance of the words, the melodies hold so much of the meaning. One can hear a song in Latin or French or Swahili and, not comprehending a single word, enjoy the piece. The music itself is the message.<br />
<br />
And then I arrived in Rwanda.<br />
<br />
We speak French in the house, go to mass in Kinyarwanda, and prayer in our chapel includes songs in French, Italian, Kinyarwanda, Swahili and on rare occasion, English. Is this some divine test that I was preparing for my entire life? It’s more intense and more exciting that rehearsals, too, because you’re given the page number and you just have to go for it. I’ve been enjoying the challenge and thrill that comes with trying to keep up. In music, it becomes so painless and gratifying to step out of your comfort zone.laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-37413328038556352712011-04-06T02:51:00.001+02:002011-04-06T12:51:19.812+02:00Genocide Memorial Day<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><em>Le 6 avril</em> On April 6th, 1994, Rwandan President Juvenal Habyarimana’s plane was shot down when approaching the capital city of Kigali. He and Burundian President Cyprien Ntaryamira were on their way back from Tanzania where they had signed the Arusha Accords. This agreement was aimed at defusing tensions between Rwandan groups – the Hutus and the Tutsis – by forging a power-sharing agreement. The Arusha Accords would have allowed the majority Hutu and the minority Tutsi to rule side by side after centuries of inter-tribal pressure. The Accords never came to fruition, however – instead, it became a rallying point for Hutu extremists. <br /><br />The Rwandan people were less worried about the President’s having been shot down than they were about what the event would trigger. From the beginning of 1994, the tension in Rwanda had been escalating – everyone knew that something evil was brewing, that something awful was going to happen. There had been increasingly more violence during the early months of 1994, and weapons were made readily available and at shockingly low prices. Government forces had begun recruiting young men into a group of militia called the Interahamwe – “those who attack together.” <br /><br />As the violence and confidence increased, and the numbers in the ranks of the Interahamwe continued to swell, any sense of individual responsibility fell. The groups of rowdy, confident youth would parade through the streets with machetes tucked in their belts and grenades strung around their necks. They wore colorful shirts and would hassle whomever they wanted. No one said a thing.<br /><br />There are so many factors that went into the Rwandan Genocide, and it’s impossible to read all of the media on the War and its causes. But just like any other genocide, propaganda and brainwashing were the wood that fueled the fire.<br /><br />Since the Europeans arrived in Rwanda and started acknowledging the people as separate tribes, there had been problems. The Belgians had decided that it was the tall, lean and lighter Tutsi minority with imperial Masai ancestry who should run government and have high-standing positions. This created bitterness in the Hutus. Hutu teachers would take ethnic roll call, which required one to stand when either “Hutu” or “Tutsi” was called aloud. This all was further aggravated when the category of “tribe” was placed on identity cards. With that, someone could look at your identity card and tell whether you were Hutu, Tutsi, or Twa – the pigmy people who are few in number and did not factor into this power struggle.<br /><br />Hutus were told that Tutsis were their enemy – that Tutsis were the cause of any and all the suffering that Hutus had endured in their lifetime. False claims were made in various forms, but most powerfully through the radio. In a country where there were few televisions and even few literate citizens, the radio was the only way to get news. And in a country starved of information, the radio stations were willing to provide – even if all they were providing was brainwashing remarks about Tutsis being the cause of all Rwanda’s problems.<br /><br />It’s as disturbing to read about the events leading up to the Genocide as it is to read about what happened in the 100 days of killing that started on April 6, 1994. 800,000 Rwandans were killed during that short time frame – twice the number of civilians that died in the entire Vietnam War. In such a small country, about the size of Maryland, that meant that one in ten citizens was now dead. How is that possible?<br /><br />When one reads the statistics, hears the stories, it all goes in, but the brain hardly recognizes this as being possible. We’ve seen the power of propaganda and mob mentality and its excruciating results before – the Jewish Holocaust was more than 50 years before the Rwandan Genocide, to which we had said “Never Again.”<br /><br />In a country that was ripped apart by bloodshed, though, it’s incredible to see the strides Rwanda has taken in the seventeen years since the Genocide. How does anyone hope to recover after such an event? Where do you begin? But the government, led by their fearless president Paul Kagame, has done a wonderful job of encouraging reconciliation and pardon. For forgiveness is the only way that one can overcome such pain. Love is the only way to heal – one by one – until the people as a whole can move forward.<br /><br />Today, on April 6th, take a few moments to pray for all those who perished in the Genocide. Pray for those who were left behind to pick up the pieces, whether as victims or as the accountable. All need your prayers. And take a minute to tell someone about the significance of today – Genocide Memorial Day. The whole world stops for a moment of silence on September 11th, but very few are aware of this remembrance to the 800,000 lives that were lost in Rwanda in 1994. It’s truly commendable what progress Rwanda has made post-Genocide, and we must all work together to keep the growth and healing moving forward.</span><br />
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<br />
<blockquote>
<em>This prayer was offered on the 10th anniversary of the Rwandan Genocide by Reverend Mpho Tutu, the daughter of Archbishop Desmond Tutu:</em></blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote>
<strong>A Prayer for Rwanda</strong><br />
<br />
God weeps over each death <br />
As though it were the only death.<br />
The God who knows each hair on our head<br />
The God who has written our names on the palm of his hand<br />
Does not catch us up in a numberless genocide, in an anonymous <br />
Sea of blood and violence<br />
And let us die unnamed<br />
But God knows us, God gathers every tear of grief every tear of terror into her bottle<br />
And God weeps<br />
God weeps with our tears<br />
God rages against our complicit silence<br />
When, I wonder, will “never again” mean<br />
NEVER AGAIN?<br />
When will we stop claiming that our hands are tied<br />
When, in fact, our hands are folded?<br />
Which death will be enough of death?<br />
In silence let us remember and reflect….<br /><br /> </blockquote>laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-52912969270874810332011-04-06T02:46:00.002+02:002011-04-06T03:37:21.166+02:00Grammy’s birthday<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Le 21 mars </span></i>I was in a way dreading March 21st this year. This day has always meant so much to me, and now I find myself anxiously awaiting its coming. <br />
<br />
I usually keep pretty busy here in Gisenyi, meaning that my focus is solely on what’s going on here and what I need to be doing next. It wasn’t until yesterday, when I was preparing my “Mot du Matin” ("Word of the Morning, " posted to the blog on March 20th) to read at school in the morning, that the reality of today’s date really hit me. This would be Gram’s first birthday… without Gram.<br />
<br />
Reading my “Mot du Matin” aloud to my friend Vincent so that he could translate the next morning for me in Kinyarwanda as I read in English, I started to choke up a bit.<br />
<br />
“Now Laura, you have to keep it together tomorrow. If you cry, I’m going to have to cry. It’s only what the best translators do.” I laughed and promised that I would be able to keep collected. <br />
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It was at Adoration at our chapel just afterwards that I really lost it. I thought I could handle it, but I didn’t make it through the first line of the first song before I was leaking profusely. Worse, I didn’t see this coming so I didn’t have tissues – and as my dad knows, it’s not easy to leave Adoration. I did my best.<br />
<br />
I was able to collect myself after a while and truly was thankful that I was able to share this moment of prayer with Jesus and my dear sisters – and with Gram. I know that this is where she wanted me to be.<br />
<br />
In the morning, I was thankful to have been half-asleep throughout mass and for the Kinyarwanda dialogue, because I’m sure that hearing any familiar tune or reading would have put me over the edge. Laura, just keep it together.<br />
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When it was time for the “Mot du Matin” at school, I beamed – I was ready. I had practiced, I was proud of what I’d written (even if Vincent had jokingly criticized my writing for the targeted audience – “Laura, you’re such a literature student.”). I was ready to go.<br />
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As we presented the “Mot du Matin,” I was truly at peace. I no longer felt any trace of sadness. I had no reason to be sad. In singing “This Little Light of Mine” at the end, I felt Gram with me. My guardian angel.<br />
<br />
We’ve never needed to be sad that Gram left us. We only grieve that we cannot revel in her company on earth any longer. A few years back when she’d had her first bout of cancer, she had told my cousin Jen and me in a calm and courageous voice, “If you truly love me, you will rejoice when I go to my Father.” And we do.<br />
<br />laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-25471741645048732462011-04-06T02:43:00.001+02:002011-04-06T03:31:11.450+02:00Spring cleaning.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Le 19 mars </span></i>So, we’re preparing for some visitors. As is always with an approaching visit, one must clean the house and prepare in any way possible to best accommodate your guests. You may as well start calling me Cinderella. In fact, all six of us in the house have taken on the role. At least at the end, Cinderella is gets her prince – I’ll be getting 18 nuns. <br />
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April 18th is Provincial Gratitude Day, which will wrap up a week-long retreat which all the superiors in the province will be attending. This means that 18 nuns from Kenya, Rwanda and Tanzania will be sleeping here for the night of the 17th. Where do you put 18 nuns, do you ask? You must move out of your room and sleep at the school. (It’ll be a nun sleepover, I’m pretty excited about it!)<br />
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That being said, I know that if my parents were to have 18 people come to their house, they would do a lot of cooking and cleaning. However, I’m living in a convent – a Salesian convent. Salesians like CLEAN. I’ve had to learn how to scrub walls with my left hand for fear of losing my right one! And I’ve learned that you can actually take down curtains from the windows and wash them – who knew?<br />
<br />
The house is looking amazing and as we scurry around to prepare, we’re very much looking forward to our guests in a few weeks. And besides, that means ENGLISH-ONLY for the whole time they’re here! And mass in English! It’s been almost 7 months without mass in my native language. There is much to be excited for.laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-22784067711185618312011-04-06T02:42:00.000+02:002011-04-06T02:42:41.527+02:00Rain season’s back.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Le 18 mars </span></i>I was hardly aware that we’d even been in a dry season for the last few months until the rain season came howling in. In fact, my parents were lucky enough to catch the tail end of the dry season during their visit and rain did not affect our plans. <br />
<br />
It’s no wonder that our property looks like the Garden of Eden. Truly, it’s magnificent and always is bringing an abundance of the season’s finest crops. The gardeners work very hard to keep up with our every-blooming plants, vegetables and flowers and it sure pays off. But when you factor in the fertile soil caused by our close proximity to our volcano Nyiragongo and the profusion of rain that we get? We are always putting fresh-from-the-garden produce on our table.<br />
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Unlike the rain season in the fall, this rain season has no rules – it can rain in the afternoon, the morning, when you’re trying to do laundry – you name it, it will rain. In fact, it rains so much that the process of drying clothes on the line has become quite a hassle. One must be constantly checking the sky once he puts his clothes out to dry. Whenever the clouds start looking ominous, take in your clothes! You can put them back out when the sun is back and the drying process can continue. If you’re not attentive enough, your clothes could be out there for months.<br />
<br />
I’ve always been a big fan of rain. And I still am, except for the nuisance of line-drying my clothes. Having rain in the morning or evening or when I’m going to bed? I’ll take it. <br />
<br />laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-87519280255164130632011-04-06T02:41:00.000+02:002011-04-06T02:41:18.188+02:00St. Patrick’s Day.<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; tab-stops: .25in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Le 17<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>mars </span></i>In the United States, everyone is some percent Irish. At least it feels that way.</div>
In Rwanda, everyone is Rwandan. Or, if they are not originally from Rwanda, they may be from the Congo or Belgium or France or – who knows, maybe even Argentina.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, I was not expecting to be celebrating St. Patrick’s Day this year.<br />
<br />
And then I got a call yesterday from Kyle, my American friend doing service in Kigali. His cousin and her friend are in Rwanda and the three would be passing through Gisenyi on Thursday.<br />
<br />
“Kyle, don’t you know that’s St. Patrick’s Day?”<br />
<br />
“Absolutely, I do.”<br />
<br />
So I asked Sr. Gisele if I could meet up with my American friends in town for a bit after I finished my work – no problem. In the midst of hurrying through my tasks, I got a text: “Oh, and I found green food coloring.”<br />
<br />
When I met up with my three fellow Americans, they’d already created quite a tizzy for their waitress. She had no idea what they were putting into their beer or why. St. Patrick’s Day isn’t known around here and the whole green beer thing is hard to explain.<br />
<br />
A bit later after a change of locale, some brochette and bananas, a few friends came to join us.<br />
<br />
“WAIT wait wait! Hold on…” And in went the food coloring into the unsuspecting Rwandan’s drink.<br />
<br />
So we had to explain to our Rwandan friends and our waitress who didn’t know a word of French, English or even Kinyarwanda (which Kyle has been picking up like a champ), so she was completely befuddled by our peculiar actions. She was probably thinking, what strange people, those Americans.<br />
<br />
I was going to let St. Patrick’s Day pass unsaid this year, besides my green sandals and necklace to celebrate, but that’s not what was meant to be. God’s Irish, you know.<br />laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-68792724236937941182011-04-06T02:39:00.000+02:002011-04-06T02:39:31.814+02:00The holy draft.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="FR" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR;">Le 16 mars</span></i> Being religious is pretty much the equivalent of being a free-agent during the draft season – you can be sent anywhere. Except in the religious realm, draft season is your entire life. <br />
<br />
We’ve had quite a few changes since I first arrived in Gisenyi. Now, a few more have been added to the list. In the fall, Sr. Lumiere took the National Exam in Hotel and Restaurant Management. With the release of the scores a few weeks back, the Provincial in Kenya decided that Sr. Lumiere should make the most of her good marks and start studying at Rwanda Tourism University College – Gisenyi branch.<br />
<br />
Yay! I was so happy to get the news. Sr. Lumiere is wonderful in so many ways and it’s wonderful and enriching to have her around.<br />
<br />
And then a few days later, we got some more news – with Sr. Lumiere’s addition to our community, we would have to be sending our Sr. Josephine to Nairobi. Not even Kigali! With the nun-shuffle, Sr. Lumiere is coming here, Sr. Josephine goes to Nairobi and a Kenyan sister will be heading to Kigali.<br />
<br />
It’s sad to see one of my dear sisters go, but all were very accepting of the news because, as they say, “it’s all a part of the life.” And they’ve grown used to it. Where we had a loss, there was also a gain. Besides, there’s nothing much that these sisters can get flustered or frustrated about, because they say, “C’est ca que Dieu veut.” (“That’s what God wants.”) It’s a nice way of looking at everything beyond our control. I like it.<br />laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-76882679803431626012011-04-06T02:35:00.000+02:002011-04-06T02:35:50.741+02:00“there are three types of bananas…”<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Le 16 mars </span></i>There are a few things that Rwanda has an abundance of: tea, hills, and bananas just to name a few. If you take one step out of the airport, you’re bound to see “bananiers” (banana trees). Everywhere you look, hills, banana trees, and a place where you can buy tea.</div>
During the hike up the nearby mountain with my class in December, the students gave me an education. They showed me around their neighborhood and told me everything that there is to know about the people, the animals, and the plants.<br />
<br />
“Do you know what this is?” said Patience, pointing to a tall, leaning tree with broad green leaves and a bunch of yellow bananas.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, it’s a banana tree.”<br />
<br />
“Yes. This tree grows the bananas we eat as fruit. There are three types of bananas: bananas to eat, bananas to cook, and bananas for beer.”<br />
<br />
It’s true – life here in Rwanda wouldn’t be able to function without bananas. There are the “puny bananas” as my predecessor Jacqui called them, which is quite accurate – they’re TINY. They grow not more than four inches long and therefore it makes two a serving. (Quite often, too, there will be a hand of bananas with “gumelles,” (twins) – two bananas that are Siamese twins.) These bananas are for eating as fruit, and I will truly miss them when I go back home and find only pretty-tasty-normal-size-bananas.<br />
<br />
The bananas for cooking can be made in a series of ways – you can fry them or grill them and eat them as you would French fries, or you can make them in an array of casseroles which I’m becoming quite fond of. Much tastier and far more exotic than potatoes, bananas can be cooked many ways but I prefer them with peas. Mmm.<br />
<br />
Then there’s the type of bananas that are used to make beer. Banana beer, in fact.<br />
<br />laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-83810300389718732452011-04-06T02:33:00.000+02:002011-04-06T02:33:59.874+02:00Holy leftovers.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><em>Le 14 mars </em></span>Living in a convent, daily mass is encouraged. It’s not required, though I’ve come to like my Rwandan mass – even if it is at the crack of dawn. I’ve gotten used to the customs, the language (I have my mass booklet which has been a savior), and the songs – some I even sing along to! I’ve also gotten used to having priests. In fact, at every mass I’ve ever been to, they come standard. <br />
<br />
This morning when the choir began their processional hymn, I watched as the parade of gown-laden men and youth came out of the Sacristy. Okay, Father’s just running a little slow today… But he never came.<br />
<br />
And then it dawned on me – Fr. Valens and Fr. Antoine went down South to Butare for the day, so they would have left early in the morning. They were headed to play a priestly basketball and football tournament. Go figure.<br />
<br />
Usually when one of our two priests isn’t around, another from the surrounding churches fills in. This morning, however, it seems as if everyone had headed to the tournament. Instead, I watched as a man dressed in the simple white robe and sash went about the opening prayer then after the readings he read aloud the Gospel and gave a homily. I see this guy every morning at church – he’s not a priest… does he know that?<br />
<br />
And then the unthinkable happened. In all of my 23 some years, I’ve never witnessed this before. Sometimes when mom’s made too much chicken soup, we eat the same meal for a few consecutive nights. The man went over to the tabernacle and pulled out the previously-blessed Eucharist.<br />
<br />
WHAT?<br />
<br />
I suppose that’s usually the case, though. The priest blesses the wine and Eucharist in his hand and then goes to the tabernacle to pull out the others, which I presume have already been blessed. Something about this – the whole morning – struck me as funny. And everyone else must have seen this before, because no one else even batted an eyelash.<br />
<br />
I turned to Petite to ask what was going on – “Yes, this does happen from time to time. It’s called ‘Sharing of the Word,’ so it’s not mass.”<br />
<br />
I’ll have you know that this was all worthwhile – our Muhato priests won in their basketball match. <br />
<br />laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-76973406163696260542011-04-06T02:16:00.000+02:002011-04-06T02:16:47.584+02:00A monster under my bed.<em>Le 13 mars </em>Okay, so it wasn’t a monster. And it wasn’t under my bed, either. But it sure as hell scared me.<br />
<br />
At the end of a very lovely, relaxing day, I came to my room to unwind before another week of school and running around at 100 miles an hour. To make sure I’d start the week off right, I decided to tidy up. Being busy so often means rooms get disheveled quite frequently.<br />
<br />
Just as I was about to pick up a pile of clothes from my chair, I spotted movement on the desk. Did I imagine that? No… that movement just continued on off the desk and onto my exercise ball, then scurried away along the edge of the room.<br />
<br />
What exactly is protocol for seeing a rat? In the movies, the woman stands on a chair and screams while jabbing at it with a broom. Me, well I’m in a convent at 9pm – I can’t just scream. So I run next door to Petite Gisele’s room (which I’d just left moments before) and knock franticly on the door. I tell her what happened and she comes in to survey the scene. (Mind you, she was not nearly as flustered as I was.)<br />
<br />
I search with my handy dandy flashlight along the perimeter of the room – he can’t have gone too far. Sure enough, behind the stacked up luggage that has no place to be put away and thus has been turned into a table, I see him – beady-eyed – staring back at me. Poor little guy, he was probably just as uncomfortable to be looking me in the eyes as I was him. <br />
<br />
“There he is! Do you see him? There he…aah!” and he scurried his way right on out the door. WHEWPH! <br />
<br />
But he took a right. As my dad well knows, taking a right out of my room is a dead-end. Unless you’re Petite Gisele, that is – she’s the only one in my neighborhood. Onward runs the little guy (not little – he was definitely a rat and definitely at least the size of a hotdog bun), turning into the only place he had to go… right under the closed door of Sr. Gisele’s room.<br />
<br />
Oh, good. That’s so much better.<br />
<br />
Trying to think quickly, I ran to put my sweatshirt along the bottom of my door to prevent my new neighbor from returning to my room. We searched high and low, but no luck. (I suppose, really, it was a great deal of luck that we didn’t see him.) Discontented that we weren’t able to verify for sure that he wasn’t there, but pleased to know that the door to the outside was open down the hall and he could have easily run past us in our frenzy and out to safety, I left Petite my flashlight and we again said our goodnights.<br />
<br />
I had been tired before. I had been quite content after a peaceful, refreshing day and was about to head to bed to get a solid night’s sleep, but now I can’t. The sweatshirt’s still barricading the door, but until I relax a bit more I won’t be able to get to bed. No worries – it’s only a rat. God forbid it’d been anything worthy of truly fearing!laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-54424849691153553092011-04-06T02:10:00.000+02:002011-04-06T02:10:42.615+02:00The tables have turned.<em>Le 12 mars</em> There’s such a perfect Catch-22 to being far from home. There’s a pain that comes with loving life. The first few months of my time in Rwanda (finishing around January after the holidays were over, more or less), I missed my family and friends from home very much. I was enjoying the thrills of meeting new friends, experiencing a new culture, and the challenges that came with teaching, but there were times when I did miss home very much.<br />
<br />
So I threw myself into my life here in Rwanda whole-heartedly (and that may be a part of the reason my communication has been so terrible, I apologize), and I am completely in love with Rwanda and her people.<br />
<br />
The irony is that just as soon as I cease feeling the pain of missing home, I begin the grieving process of leaving my Rwandan home.<br />
<br />
I think the reality of my imminent departure came to fruition when my parents were preparing to leave Rwanda. They were here for only ten or twelve days and were so torn up about having to leave. “If I was in Gisenyi for 3 days and feel this way, I can’t imagine how you’ll do leaving after 8 months,” my dad said somberly as we pulled away from my neighborhood of Muhato. I think the safest thing would have been for me to keep my distance enough that I wouldn’t have to hurt upon leaving, but that just wouldn’t have been a fulfilling experience – and that wouldn’t be me to not love each person I meet.<br />
<br />
So now it begins. I have just less than ten weeks to go, and I know it will fly by. I’m trying to keep the reality of that in my mind, as for such a long while it felt as though I was here to stay. After this realization made my heart heavy this afternoon, I went over to the school where our students are preparing for our exams which start on Thursday. It was the perfect remedy. Ten or so of us huddled around a tiny table, going about the logistics of Front Office – acting out scenarios, circling key words and laughing often. It was just what my soul needed.<br />
<br />
Then, lucky me, I got to see off the group of students (some of whom are from other secondary schools in the area) who have started up a Kung Fu Club. It’s amazing – they’re very dedicated and very talented. So, as if it was from divine providence, I got another round of hugs. Ah… as I was at the gate with them? A few friends were passing. More hugs. I was nearly eaten alive by mosquitoes, but I suppose it’s a good testament to how much these people mean to me that I willingly stood in a cloud of mosquitoes to be with them.<br />
<br />
I knew that I wanted to come on mission for a longer period of time that just a couple of months in order to truly establish relationships and have more lasting experiences. However, that’s a double-edged sword – being around long enough to love your friends means leaving them will be all the more difficult. I knew what I was getting into, but also told myself that this experience would be worth it. And it is.laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-18749561878487553682011-04-06T02:07:00.000+02:002011-04-06T02:07:23.079+02:00Ash Wednesday<em>Le 9 mars</em> Growing up in New England, we children used to say after we received our cross, “How’s mine? Oooh, yours is HUGE!”<br />
<br />
All of us, no matter how small the cross, were clearly sporting ash on our foreheads.<br />
<br />
Leading up to Ash Wednesday in Africa, I was wondering just how it would go. If their skin is dark, and the ashes are dark… Well, I just had to wait and see what would happen.<br />
<br />
As luck would have it, our school as well as the other primary and secondary schools in the area, decided to have a joined mass at the parish to celebrate this mid-week holy day. Primary school means lots of children. Rwandan children, particularly in areas like Gisenyi, absolutely love muzungus. I always get waves and smiles and “good morning!”s when even walking from the house to school.<br />
<br />
A church packed with children meant all eyes on me – even though I was in the back half of the church during mass.<br />
<br />
As I went up to receive my ashes, I could hear some little voices saying, “muzungu!” Please, Lord… let me receive a small cross, I thought.<br />
<br />
Sr. Gisele marked my forehead with a cross of ash, and as I turned to go back to my seat, I felt hundreds of little stares on me – in awe. I literally thought I was going to lose it at this point and break out into a big Barry laugh, but somehow I restrained it and instead settled with beaming from ear to ear.laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-53575129157696784522011-04-06T02:02:00.000+02:002011-04-06T02:02:51.595+02:00Finally some restful sleep.<em>Le 6 mars</em> Having a rooster is great – it’s like having an alarm clock that you can’t hit the snooze button for. It wakes up when the sun’s getting up and won’t let you sleep through 6h15 mass. How great!<br />
<br />
Except there’s one day a week that I don’t have to be awake with the sun. And even though the rooster helps me out of bed each morning, it’s because I’m frustrated that I no longer have a peaceful environment to sleep in. I’ve just about had it with that …<br />
<br />
And then Sr. Ema asked to have the rooster prepared for our meal on Sunday. Finally, I can take a nap without having to blast my ipod to drown out the cock-a-doodle-doo’s. And I will not only be able to sleep tranquilly on Sunday morning, but we’ll also have a wonderful feast at lunch!laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-48443761892371640132011-04-06T01:34:00.000+02:002011-04-06T01:34:49.684+02:00Reading is bad for your health.<em>Le 4 mars </em>On the way to Rwanda, my dad was busy reading instead of sleeping. I poked fun at him the first day, as I’ve rarely seen him this tired and out of it, telling him “Dad, you said you did everything to avoid jetlag, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to sleep on the plane.”<br />
<br />
The book he was reading was Left to Tell by Immaculee Ilibagiza, which is about the author’s story of the Rwandan Genocide and how she found God throughout this time. He wanted to finish the book before landing, he said, and he succeeded. He was, however, extremely tired.<br />
<br />
The day before my parents left, my dad handed me his copy of Left to Tell and told me just how much it had meant to him and how excited he would be if I, too, would read it.<br />
<br />
Having heard such ravings about the book, I set right to it, once I sat down for the 4 hour bus ride back from Kigali to Gisenyi. And then in every waking moment from there, my nose was in my book. It moves quickly and is hard to put down.<br />
<br />
And it was. Two days after I’d started the book, I had already finished it. Maybe I wasn’t getting full nights’ sleep, but I was truly enjoying reading. So…I pulled another book off the shelf that I’d been looking forward to reading for months. It’s one that my cousin Melissa recommended to me by her favorite author, Jodi Picoult, and she’d said, “Laura, you’ll really like this one.” At T. F. Green airport, before my departure in September, I found the book on the shelf and promised myself that I’d read it before I got back.<br />
<br />
I tore open the book and dove in. Five days later, I was already done with the 500 page book. HOW on earth did I ever do that? That’s right – I forfeited writing, journaling, and even sleeping just to read one more page. I suppose there are better places to get caught up in a good book, perhaps a vacation or a relaxing weekend, but I happened to pick “middle of volunteer work in Rwanda where 7am means sleeping in.” I was exhausted all week and all I thought about was getting to my book. That being said, once I finished, instead of diving into another book, I decided to catch up on my sleep and writing.laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-40640624756926070932011-04-06T01:29:00.000+02:002011-04-06T01:29:57.897+02:00How to keep your whites white in Africa<em>Le 26 fevrier</em> Well, this should be a short entry.<br />
<br />
Even at home, I tend not to wear too much white. White is a tough color to have in your wardrobe, because after only a few washings the white turns to off-white, and soon to a slightly yellowish color. Great.<br />
<br />
Before coming to Rwanda, however, I picked up a few t-shirts that would be nice enough, versatile, and I could just leave them to someone once I go – they’re blue, gray, dark gray, and white. WHITE. What was I thinking?<br />
<br />
Needless to say, it’s been a pain in the neck. I’m not quite sure how the nuns can wear white habits so fearlessly and keep them so crisp and clean. I’ve been learning a whole lot about washing clothes by hand since I’ve been here, and I realize that part of the trick is making it a process, not a one-and-done type of deal.<br />
<br />
I’ve watched as the sisters come to the washing area, fill up their bucket, and then scrub some soap into their clothes, putting extra elbow grease into any stains. Here comes the important part – they let them sit. They let the water and soap tackle the stains while they go off to do other things. From here, they may come back later (or even the next day) to continue washing and then rinse by hand or even throw them into the washing machine. (Yes, we do have a washing machine, but it’s used once or twice a week and fits not more than 5 habits.)<br />
<br />
This seems to do the trick for the sisters. Truly, they should get some kind of award for this, because I’m still struggling. I’m not sure exactly what their secret is, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it has something to do with being devout Christians.laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-19155447095228598852011-04-06T01:25:00.000+02:002011-04-06T01:25:14.971+02:00"Lend me your shoes."<em>Le 26 fevrier</em> Rwandan people are quick to share with others. They also are eager to help one another out, even if that means their personal space is smaller than Americans’. In church, for example, I will sometimes see a woman fixing the collar of the person in front of her or an old man tying the dress of a small child walking by. Sometimes I’m the one whose personal space will be violated – but violated with love.<br />
<br />
When my parents were here, they caught the first football match of an interscholastic tournament. The boys’ volleyball team and girls’ football team made it to the finals. Today was the girls’ game, way down by the lake and along the road that leads right out of Gisenyi town. I was hoping to capitalize on the opportunity and walk home with the group from the match, so I wore my running shoes and just prayed that I’d be able to shake the dust out of them and hit the road.<br />
<br />
All was going well when we arrived at the field – all of our girls had showed up, and a good number of our boys were there, too, to support our team. I was pretty excited. Once the teams were both present and ready, they headed out to the center of the field. And then I got beckoned. “Laura, Sr. Gisele needs you.”<br />
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I hustled out to the edge of the field where I met my dear friend Petite Gisele. “Laura, please, can Diane have your shoes? The game’s about to start and she cannot play in her sandals.”<br />
<br />
Never having been asked such a question before and fully used to Rwandan culture, I willingly handed over my lovely Asics trainers (with my orthotics, by the way) and my socks. I felt slightly selfish, knowing that these shoes cost more than one trimester of this girl’s schooling. The orthotics, too, were made especially for me and even with insurance they were expensive.<br />
<br />
Before I had too much time to think about it, my friend Ferdinand had taken off his sandals and thrown them by my feet. I tried to object, but he had already made up his mind.<br />
<br />
What more can you ask for than a culture where a friend will literally give you his own shoes?laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-43934997062320626202011-04-06T01:19:00.000+02:002011-04-06T01:19:37.353+02:00Rwanda herself was sad to see you go.<em>Le 24 fevrier</em> Since Sunday when leaving Gisenyi town, my parents have been dreading when they would have to leave Rwanda. It’s a truly wonderful place, and it’s hard not to fall in love with it. The two of them truly did their research before coming here and read up on many different types of literature on Rwanda, its history, and its culture before they came. Having done so, they were able to fully embrace each moment and aspect of the trip. There was a nice balance, too, of touristy things and hometown things. We were able to have a rather well-rounded view of Rwanda in a relatively short time and my parents (as I do) found nothing not worth loving.<br />
<br />
This makes it difficult to leave, when you realize you’ll be oceans away and unsure when you will be able to come back. I know that this, too, will be a major challenge for me. Near or far, though, leaving Rwanda is difficult. Its people are bubbling with love, energy, and joy, its terrain is breathtakingly beautiful, and all around are smiling faces. As my dad said, “They say that ‘God sleeps in Rwanda,’ but I’m pretty sure He spends the rest of the day here, too.” It really is heaven on earth.<br />
<br />
After visiting the sisters’ school in Kigali one last time to say our goodbyes (and receive lots of hugs, too), we headed to the airport. With the flight having been changed slightly, they had to rush through security to check-in and head off to the gate. I think this was for the best – in difficult situations, sometimes it’s harder when you have time to think about it.<br />
<br />
I waved to my parents as they hurried along for their departure, and then Jeremiah and I had one final Fanta together. We had a Fanta Fiesta (which is more or less grape, but sounds much catchier).<br />
<br />
On the way back to the sisters’ house in Kigali where Jeremiah would be dropping me to stay, the clouds started turning an ominous shade of gray. At just about the same moment when my parents’ plane was scheduled to depart, the skies opened up and Rwanda grieved the parting of its dear friends.<br />
<br />
I’m one who’s a big fan of symbolism, but how can you not read into something like this?laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-64156301538488639892011-03-26T22:38:00.000+02:002011-03-26T22:38:40.070+02:00The Barrys go to market.<em>Le 24 fevrier </em>Any <em>muzungu</em> in an African market will stick out like a sore thumb. The three of us Barrys (especially now that Dad has his notebook) tend to make a spectacle.<br />
<br />
It’s been an interesting transition from being a local in Rwanda and trying to blend in as much as possible from touring the country with my parents. I’ve been trying to balance being friendly and being safe – as a girl and a <em>white</em> girl, in certain situations I feel like I need to tone down my friendliness. These last days with my parents, however, I’ve thrown all caution to the wayside and it’s back to being the Barrys Unleashed.<br />
<br />
In any type of market in Rwanda (and I’m sure in the rest of Africa, too), vendors’ entire being goes into trying to sell their goods. This may be bananas, fabric, wood carvings, you name it. With whites and black alike, the vendors are full steam ahead, trying to persuade buyers to go into their area and buy from them. Being white makes it worse. Being friendly makes it even worse. God forbid you actually go <em>into</em> the store – that becomes another whole problem. It’s hard to look and survey, because the shopkeeper will assume that this <em>muzungu</em> will buy from them. Much to the owners’ dismay, my parents and I like to see all there is to see in the whole market and come to a decision later.<br />
<br />
It’s an intriguing dynamic, too, trying to bargain with the vendor while at the same time chatting to them and learning Kinyarwanda from them. It’s a very interesting game, bargaining, and it’s one that many Americans might not be used to – I know we’re not. You get caught somewhere between getting ripped off and decent price and possibly not helping the vendor to make himself a living. It’s really hard to know, and it’s not the most comfortable of situations either. My dad noticed that if he showed very little interest in the item, he was able to drive the price lower – even if that wasn’t his intention. Before leaving a handicraft market in Kigali today, we’d just about had it with shopping and were getting quite impatient. This is perfect for getting bargains, as it turns out.<br />
<br />
I’m not quite sure what to say about our market experiences together – all I know is that they’re tiring. It’s so wonderful to go in and socialize with the people, but unlike in the United States, you can’t just <em>window shop</em>. Here, the vendor really hopes that you’ll buy something and will push until you do so. I did get quite a kick out of watching my parents –especially my dad with his speed-walking – stroll through the market and chatting with each person they met. He learned more phrases in the markets! And I’m very proud of him – my mom and I each like shopping and it was still stressful, my father usually sits in the car at CVS when we need to run in. Talk about stepping out of your comfort zone!laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-50732572927974158432011-03-26T22:31:00.000+02:002011-03-26T22:31:45.152+02:00Stepping into the ‘The Lion King’<em>Le 22 fevrier</em> There isn’t one American who hasn’t seen Disney’s “The Lion King.” You know – the one that takes place in a vast land that is fully alive yet incredibly mysterious at the same time, swarming with animals that we’ve only seen at the zoo.<br />
<br />
Driving into Akagera National Park in Eastern Rwanda was just like that. After stopping to push up the roof of our vehicle to turn it into a safari-ready Mwami Mobile, we drove from Rwanda into the Lion King. I was half expecting the scenery around me to turn into a cartoon and have Simba and Mufasa come strolling along the bend.<br />
<br />
Akagera was absolutely incredible – we were able to see an afternoon game drive yesterday and morning game drive of the lakes region today. I wish I could count all the types of animals we saw – baboons, hippos, giraffes, warthogs, buffalo, impalas, zebras, monkeys… and all the birds you could ever imagine. Even without all of the majestic (and not so majestic) creatures, though, the landscape was absolutely breathtaking.<br />
<br />
Looking out from Akagera Lodge (the sole place to lodge in the park outside of literally sleeping among the animals), we had an incredible view of the lake – and in the morning, we were able to watch the sun washing over the mirror-like water. (And we were warned, too, to keep our door closed because there’s a baboon that sometimes comes around to socialize with guests.) Around each turn driving through the park, we were taken aback by a new sight or perspective. Thank goodness for my digital camera, because there’s no way I would have been able to pick and choose which moments to document and which ones had to be kept in my mental stash.<br />
<br />
Literally, I felt as if I’d been in Akagera before. And I did know it very well – I’ve seen the Lion King what, maybe 38 times in my life? I even felt compelled to rove the spacious terrain in our safaried-out Mwami Mobile singing “Circle of Life” at the top of my lungs. It felt like the most appropriate thing to do.laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-58397199837285463202011-03-26T22:27:00.000+02:002011-03-26T22:27:53.963+02:00Don Bosco Group.<em>Le 20 fevrier</em> My friend John is the leader of a group of students from the parish that dance and do theatre – they call themselves Don Bosco Group. I’d seen them perform on a few occasions (the skits are always entertaining even with the obvious language barrier) and was truly impressed. John has invited me a few times to their rehearsals, and I’ve loved just going to soak in the energy and revel at the talent of these youths.<br />
<br />
When John heard that my parents were coming to town, he was thrilled – “Laura, do you think you could bring them to our rehearsal? We would love to perform for you.” I don’t know if I was more flattered by the gesture or excited for my parents to see the group. I agreed on the spot to be at their Sunday practice.<br />
<br />
I told my parents a day or two before the rehearsal that we would be attending, just prefacing them with “they do modern dance and theatre and are truly incredible – you’ll see.” Knowing how special this group must be, to fit the event into our short weekend here in Gisenyi, they willingly complied.<br />
<br />
I don’t think they knew what they were in for.<br />
<br />
When we arrived at the hall next to the parish, one of the groups was already dancing. John and my friend Alexis brought us to a few chairs right up front where we would have a great view. One group after the other went, and the faces on my parents didn’t change – complete awe.<br />
<br />
It’s an interesting thing with these youth – their skills are incredible but it’s difficult to decide whether to watch their remarkable moves or their smiles radiating complete joy.<br />
<br />
John then introduced my parents to the students, saying that they were my parents and wanted to come see the group perform. Everyone was thrilled.<br />
<br />
Then, the unexpected happened. Thomas and a few of the others from DBG took the floor and did a skit – in <em>ENGLISH</em>. This means that not only was the group performing in a language that they’re not nearly as comfortable in (and it’s more difficult to be creative in a foreign language), but the group actually put this skit together for <em>us</em>. I may have been more aware of this fact than my parents were, but we all were beaming from ear to ear. Here was this group – young people and friends that I’ve gotten to know over the last few months from the parish – putting on a skit to welcome my parents to Rwanda. What a gift.<br />
<br />
While the theatre team went outdoors to create another skit, the dance troop displayed more incredible dancing. It’s hard to explain just how incredible they are. Perhaps I have a different appreciation for dance than others – I was never a dancer. When I was very young I took ballet for a few years and gymnastics another few, but I never truly danced. I love sports and music very much and can imagine myself on stage when I see others sing – but dancing? Dancing is something that I have a great respect for because I cannot do it myself. Truly, these young people are gifted.<br />
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After another skit from the theatre group – with my dear friend Alexis as the main character, radiating joy all the way from his toes – the dance team performed a few final songs and we had to say our goodbyes. My parents and I said a few words to the group, thanking them and applauding them, and then I took a group picture. And then everyone wanted their own picture with my lovely mother and charming father. I’m sure they felt like celebrities!<br />
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I only wish I could explain the love in the room when my parents and I were with Don Bosco Group. Rwandans are so quick to love and almost as quick to appreciate others’ actions. Even though some of the youth know me only from mass, they were all so eager to meet and perform for my parents. It was wonderful for them to see my loving family and just how much they love. My parents fell instantly in love with each of them, and they with my parents.<br />
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It’s difficult to explain what happened to family after the Genocide – people had to take in their nieces and nephews who had lost parents, others maybe took in others they did not know – either way, people had to take care of one another. People had to lean on one another because it’s all they had. Somehow, in this parish assembly room, my parents became parents to all of the Don Bosco Group youth. It was truly a magical feeling. And it made leaving Gisenyi all the more difficult, as they were leaving their children.laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832287412255256939.post-24004886433393990662011-03-20T19:18:00.004+02:002011-03-20T23:56:05.814+02:00The Significance of March 21st<em>Message from John & Barb: Laura called us today, March 20th, and read us the reflection </em><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><em>she’ll be reading to the young people at her school tomorrow morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Each day someone reads or says some sort of reflection during morning prayer before classes begin.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Upon hearing it, we asked Laura to email it to us so we could post it on her blog for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Here it is:</span></em></span></span></span> <br />
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Does anyone know the significance of today? It’s March 21st. There are two answers I’ll accept. Today is the first full day of Spring and it’s also my grandmother’s birthday.<br />
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Spring is a time when people who have grown weary of the short days and snow of the cold winter rejoice, because the weather begins to get warmer and the plants begin blooming again. Spring is more than just a change of season for those that have gone through a long winter – it’s new life, a new beginning. It’s no coincidence that Easter falls during this season. Jesus died for us in order to bring us from the cold winter into the springtime – eternal life. When we follow Christ and have faith in Him, we, too, can enjoy the springtime of everlasting life with Jesus.<br />
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Today would have been my Gram’s 90th birthday. My grandmother, Josephine Barry, was always a woman of strong faith and looking for new ways to show God’s love to others. She and my grandfather taught their five sons and later their eleven grandchildren to love one another, to work hard, and to be thankful for what they have. Most of all, they taught us to have faith in God. To all who knew her, my Gram was truly an angel. She never stopped showing us how Christ wants us to live.<br />
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Last May, we knew that my Gram was nearing the end of her days. While her family dreaded losing her, she contented us with her unwavering faith. She was not afraid and didn’t want us to be, either – she knew that she would be going up to heaven. When my grandmother passed away in June, we were very relieved and happy for her – “this is the day that the Lord has made,” she would always say.<br />
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By dying for us, Jesus made it possible for us all to enjoy everlasting life. Easter reminds us of His sacrifice and shows us just how much God loves us. He sent His only Son down to Earth to die for us and save us from our sins. Let us be thankful and mindful of Jesus’ sacrifice this Lent, and may we be aware of just how much He loves us, to have died for us. <br />
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When we were little, my Gram taught us a song that we used to enjoy singing together. It’s called “This Little Light of Mine.” The message is to bring our talents, our love, and our faith to others and to be God’s light for others. <br />
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<em> This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine </em><br />
<em> This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine </em><br />
<em> This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine </em><br />
<em> Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!</em><br />
<a name='more'></a></blockquote>laura catherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11501097580940204427noreply@blogger.com1