Volume 6 - June 2011

SOMA
Stories, Opinions, Messages, Art
A quarterly journal publication by Peace Corps Rwanda Volunteers

CONTRIBUTORS
Sonya Alexander is a health PCV and aspiring fashion and shopping magazine columnist. Her goal is to visit every major Rwandan market and never wear the same outfit twice. Sonya comes from Baltimore County and went to Washington College (in Maryland) where she studied psychology. She loves teaching camp songs, making oatmeal cookies, and coloring with the local children in Gitwe, Ruhango, in the southern province.

Jen Ambrose, a health PCV, is originally from Montana and went to Claremont McKenna Col-lege, where she majored in International Relations and developed both a love for the West Coast and an appreciation of the Big Sky State. At her site in Nyagatare, she works for EPR, teaches English, and talks to students about their view of Rwanda and their hopes and plans for the future. Jen is currently trying to decide whether to spend her post-Peace Corps life attempting to improve the aid industry, attempting to tear down the aid industry, or accepting it for what it is and becoming part of it.

Matt Beamer, an education PCV, was born in the city of Casper in the state of Wyoming, where he remained until leaving to attend Montana State University as a Math and French double major. Matt currently teaches math at G.S. Rwatano in Gisagara district. He enjoys reading, running, and (when in the U.S.) brewing beer and cooking.

Sally Dunst is a health PCV in Nyamagabe. Originally from Fredonia, a tiny town in western New York, she graduated from Cornell University. Sally is working in the ARV service area of Kigeme Hospital helping the staff create an electronic database of patients. She is also allowing the Rwandan mountains to enervate her on daily bike rides to work and is assiduously memorizing ridiculous GRE vocabulary words.

Janelle Fann, an education PCV, is a writer aspiring to live with the kind of honesty she writes with. Originally from Michigan, she attended university in Tennessee. She will live in the great city of New York after her stint as a Peace Corps Volunteer primarily because she has a free place to live there.

Kerianne Hendrickson is a health PCV who lives in Rulindo district in the Northern Province. Originally from Grand Rapids, Michigan, she attended Michigan State University where she received a Masters Degree in Social Work focusing on older adult and mental health studies. She loves people, especially the old and the wise.

Michele Hernandez, an education PCV, studied at California Lutheran University where she re-ceived diplomas in Spanish, French, and International Studies. She taught swimming and water polo to children for four years and then taught for a year in California. In 2008 she joined the Peace Corps as an agroforestry agent in Mauritania. She arrived in Rwanda in 2009 and has been teaching English in Bungwe (Burerea district) to secondary students since 2010. Currently she is developing youth empowerment materials as a Peace Corps Volunteer assigned to CHF International, stationed in Kigali.

Avery Miles is an education PCV who lives in the mountain village of Muramba in Ngororero district where she works at a secondary school. She comes from Morris Plains, New Jersey and went to American University where she graduated in 2008 with a degree in International Rela-tions. Avery likes dancing, reading, hiking, and writing.

Jen Olsen, who was a health PCV, is a blossoming photographer known for running with and
from the small children in her village outside of Kigali. Other than raiding the VRC bookshelf on a weekly basis, her projects allowed her to convince people to draw comics of the day-to-day absurdities that are ubuzima mu Rwanda. She hails from Long Island, New York and studied sociocultural health at Binghamton University.

Christa Pugh, an education PCV, is originally from Rochester, Minnesota. She graduated from Georgetown University's School of Foreign Service in 2008 and then spent a year as an Ameri-Corps volunteer in Washington, D.C. before joining Peace Corps. Christa teaches in Nyamasheke District and works with her school's English club and GLOW club. In her free time, she enjoys sewing, watching Gossip Girl, and having long conversations with her cat.

Trude Raizen, a health PCV, is based near Gishwati forest in Rutsiro in the West, where she is engaged in a losing battle against mold but regularly enjoys views of three volcanoes. Since she got electricity a month ago, her latest hobby is quilting. She graduated from Swarthmore College in 2008. Trude has decided that Amstel is the most drinkable beer in Rwanda, and she highly recommends getting a kitten for mental health.

A.J. Rikli is an education PCV who teaches S1 chemistry in Rugabano sector, Karongi district. He comes from Portland, Oregon (the best city on earth). A.J.‘s favorite word in Kinyarwanda is "gutera" because of its many different applications.

Dan Serwon, an education PCV, teaches math and English in Mulindi, near the Ugandan boarder in the Gicumbi district. He loves football, golf and college basketball and won 10,000 franks in his March Madness pool this year and is still upset that the Steelers lost the Superbowl. He tries to make everyone laugh, but is also capable of having deep conversations and crying, which he enjoys just as much as laughter.

Lucy Sung is an education PCV in Gicumbi District, Northern Province. She teaches chemistry to smart students who love to yell, "BINGO!" when someone gets the correct answer. Lucy is from Los Angeles, CA and attended Bryn Mawr College, a Seven Sisters school outside of Philadelphia. Lucy misses fish tacos and loves adjusting recipes to work in Rwanda. Kimchi in Rwanda? It is possible.

Andrew Udelsman is an education PCV in Kabatwa, right under the volcano Kalisimbi. It's got to be the coldest part of Rwanda-- if you don't believe him, come visit! He‘s from New Haven, Connecticut, and he studied sociology. Andrew loves monkeys and Congolese music.

Deanne Witzke is an education volunteer living in the Western Province, Rutsiro District. She loves yoga, ultimate frisbee, ijana piles, and documentaries. She studied Psychology and Criminol-ogy at Drury University in Missouri. Her goal is to own a not-for-profit restaurant bridging the gap between rich and poor in a small way. If you're intrigued, or know how to bake, contact her.

V6 - EXPERIMENT IN LIVING, By Jen Olsen

The Week of the Rwandan
By Jen Olsen

Peace Corps preaches that we as voluneers live at the level of the local community, and on some points, we really do. But even by the minimal monthly living allowance Peace Corps gives us, it‘s still a far cry from what the typical Rwandan lives off (probably because they‘re also accounting for our letters home, phone credit, toilet paper and the occasional relapse into western life by splurging on an egg sandwich and coffee at a café once a month. Mmmm...).

But my neighbors don‘t have such luxury, and the girls in my village don‘t take the bus, go to town, or contemplate buying tree tomatoes even though they‘re out of season. Every day I walk the four miles to town out of the mountain with my neighbors. They‘re mostly heading to the markets, but doing so with bas-kets of maize balanced on their heads.

This means of carrying things had lost its shock value until I saw a woman walking down our mountain carrying a full-sized school bench, a chair, a market bag, and a basket of produce, all balanced on her head. There was also a baby on her back. She also had the forethought to cover the baby with a shawl to protect him from the sun. And the mountain‘s not a small decline by any means. I still feel like I‘m in boot camp every time I go up it and I almost fall once a day going down. These women are malnourished, usually pregnant, usually with a baby already strapped to their backs, and they move jugs of water, vegetables, or benches, apparently, up and down the mountains like mules. No complaints, no hesitance.

When I walk with their kids, they‘re always excited: excited to play with their friends at the water pump; excited to kick a football made out of banana leaves; excited to tell the muzungu they‘re going to look for food. Small children chew on sugar cane or unripe tree fruits, and stumble their chubby legs over to me, arms stretched out for what feels like hours waiting to get close enough to touch the mysteriously white-skinned, fine-haired girl who lives god-knows-why in their village. And I feel guilt at the empty water bottle in my bag, at the pros-pect of bread, eggs, maybe even juice and other luxuries of having more than 500 rwf a week to spend.

Being confronted by these images moment by moment, acknowledging the women who carry one jerrycan strapped to their heads and the other to their waists, and I wonder how they aren‘t still scoffing at me. One woman tried to carry my hoe for me, amongst all the other stuff she had on her. I told her I had strength and could carry it, and she laughed. The children gossip about me. A little girl I walk down the mountain with sometimes told me how other children tell her rumors about me, and she refutes or confirms them (since she has ACTUAL CONTACT with the muzungu). And this one girl, she said that you never take lifts from passing cars, and you always walk, always! Even though you could have a ride! (True. My rigorous dedication to walking is paying off because people notice, thank goodness. Plus, my legs look awesome.) And the other kids, they tell me that you have a fiancé! And that you won’t take a Rwandan husband! (Also true. I don‘t think that requires an expla-nation . . .)

We are both quite the paradox, I think. I look absurd to them and likewise, they boggle my mind on a regular basis: movements, facial expressions, emotional expressions, dress, work, contemplation, everything. We blink at each other and sometimes I‘m not sure who the zoo exhibit is. Okay, that‘s not true. I know it‘s me. I actively try not to stare while they actively embrace the impulse.

But they‘ve started to accept me. They‘ve let me in to their lives for, I don‘t know what reason.

We (Americans) pulled out of Rwanda in 1994. Not only did we pull out but we pulled every other white person out, too. We left friends and colleagues to burn themselves out, to smolder until all the flames had scorched the land and a million people had died. And now they welcome me into their village? I walk home with friends and neighbors, marveling that everyone knows my name, that the mothers bid me hello, that the older boys and girls cast casual remarks as I pass, and the children ambush me with hugs as we approach my house. I feel a little like a rock star; exhausted, but riding a high on the cycle of adjustment; I've just hit the gold star on rainbow road and can now just sit back and enjoy the ride. I don‘t feel like I deserve this, but I‘m grateful.

No one should take such a gift without a second thought. I felt I owed it to my village to get a little closer to their world. Living in the village isn‘t enough if I can still have all the comforts of change in my pocket and American dreams on the edge of my vision.

So I spent a week like a Rwandan. I ate one meal a day; beans, rice, cooked bananas, so on and as much water as I could afford to boil and carry with me during the day. The beans I cooked came from my own garden, and the 2000 rwf I budgeted for the week was spent only in the markets on produce from the people I call my neighbors.

It was just an experiment, really. We can all acknowledge that it isn‘t their way of life that‘s confusing to the senses. They live the best they can. They are farmers, or mothers, or workers, and that‘s no different from us. It‘s the millions of moments in between life, in between active decision making about how to live that confuses me. I just wanted to get in touch with them, to understand their mannerisms and movements. To quiet my curiosity at things I see but don‘t have an explanation for [which is most everything]. They‘ll still think I‘m a muzungu, that I‘m hiding my baby-pool of money and riches in the closed door of my bedroom. But at least I would understand more. Maybe I would have answers to the millions of unfamiliar moments I experience each day. Or just one. One answer would be enough for now.

It took until day five of this lifestyle for me to have a delusional urge for bagels, day seven to dream about pizza, but it only took until day three or four to start to feel the effects on my body. My lips shriveled and my skin broke out in an unfamiliar dryness. My motions were slow, deliberate, which I only realized while I tried to swish my head around in a bucket to wash my hair; I became instantly disoriented and nauseated. I also realized that a mannerism I‘d noted, particularly in men, of walking (moseying, almost) slowly, with the arms lingering out to touch things, meandering side to side, in what had appeared to be a very random and erratically slow movement, had an underlining malnutrition to it. I found myself reaching my arms out unintentionally to touch passing objects, and then realized it was because I was so dehydrated that I couldn‘t be sure where my feet would be landing. I had reached my fingertips out to graze the surface of an electrical pole, a plant, anything, because it gave me a sense of depth, grounding me to my current location and giving an awareness to my surroundings that I wasn‘t able to comprehend anymore on my own.

Anyhow, I made it to day seven before I bought eggs and some bread to make an obscene amount of French toast (a compromise with myself, for not deliriously going to look irrationally for expensive Kigali-city bagels). I felt like Hermann Hesse while researching Siddhartha but with much less clarity than he had. That also might just be the hunger talking.

How do you even begin to even the score? Not only are my neighbors hungry and poor, but they‘ve accepted it as a standard of living. At the same time, they‘ve opened up their arms to me, accepting me as one of their own despite every indication of being dramatically different. Even trying to live at their level for a short period of time, there are some things we can‘t understand without having lived it the last 16 years. I‘ve only lived through the past seven days with notable consequences and because of that small, relatively insignificant experience, I count myself lucky for every day I feel accepted here, because I‘m not sure, what with so many other things to worry about (food, water, illness, shelter), I‘m not sure I‘d ever let the zoo exhibit convince me it were human. And yet here I am (here we all are), the doors to our cages have been opened, and we‘re peeking our heads out to mingle with our communities, a little less foreign than we were yesterday.

Learning how to cow dance
Photo courtesy of Jen Olsen

V6 - KOMERA, By Matt Beamer

Celebrating 50 Years of Peace Corps
By Matt Beamer

The Peace Corps race team, Photo courtesy of Gordy Mengel

Well, it was no Boston, but that didn't stop 29 PCVs and Peace Corp staff members from running hard and having fun at this year's Kigali International Peace Marathon on May 22, 2011. It was the seventh edition of the annual event, and the theme was something that John F. Kennedy, an athlete himself, might have endorsed: "Sport is Life."It was in celebration of the 50th anniversary of Kennedy's Peace Corps that PCVs and staff put forth an extraordinary effort to participate in the race.

The weekend kicked off with the quintessential carbo-loading dinner on Saturday night, the eve of the marathon. The Peace Corps athletes (marathoners, half-marathoners, and marathon relay runners) were graciously hosted by D.M.O. Brooke Hopper. Brooke, perhaps drawing on her own Peace Corps experience, led a group of PCVs on the official support team in the preparation of food which more than a few of us had began to forget even existed. There was delicious pasta with fresh vegetables, garlic bread, fresh green salad, fruit salad, and a delicious chocolate zucchini rum cake with raspberries on top (see recipe on page 38), not to mention the assorted raw vegetables scat
tered throughout the dining area. For hydra-tion needs, cases full of a rainbow of Fantas were on hand, kept cool in a dedicated beverage refrigerator.

As runners and support crew members fueled up for the race, there was a palpable feeling of excitement in the air. For most of the relay runners, it was the first time meeting their teammates, and excited discussions about the team order were taking place in every group in the happily crowded front room.

Halfway through the evening, Dr. Elite made one or two hearts thump a little faster when he handed out bib numbers and timing chips to all of the runners. And, as this event was to celebrate Peace Corps' 50th anniversary, each participant received a khaki Peace Corps Rwanda hat and a Peace Corps Rwanda t-shirt in either blue, black, or white, on the back of which was the apropos imperative "KOMERA."

After leaving Brooke's house, most of the runners called the case de passage home for the night before the marathon, and the whole building seemed to be alive with the pre-race jitters. Sometime around midnight the occupants of the case finally fell into a fitful, uneasy sleep, aware that in six hours the buses would come and race day would begin.  

On Sunday, May 22, race day, the athletes started stirring around 5 AM. Breakfast was a continuation of the paradisiacal dinner of the night before, and nervous runners quietly ate plates of pasta, bread, and salad or paced and talked more than thy ate, anxious for the 8 AM start.

Finally, around 6:15 AM, the buses arrived to take all of the participants and the support team to Amahoro National Stadium, where the race would begin and finish. Upon arriving at the stadium, we were greeted by the sight of hundreds of other athletes preparing themselves for the competition. A couple of the more adventurous PCVs joined a large group of Rwandans in a very dynamic warm-up, replete with squats, jumps, and some frantic waving of arms and legs in an effort to jump-start their muscles. Those who declined to take place in the early warm-up stood or sat around the track soaking up the atmosphere.

As with any race, there were a wide variety of runners on hand: lithe professionals and semi-professionals, weekend runners, and everyone in between. And, as the emcee of the event told those in attendance several times, there were participants from all over the world, with a solid contingent of runners hailing from Rwanda and the rest of the East African Community. A large number of Europeans, Asians, and Americans represented a variety of governmental and non-governmental organizations. There was even a special guest brought along by the Peace Corps support crew: Flat Kennedy, a two-dimensional JFK reaching down to shake a supporter's hand with a smile. After being unrolled from his tote bag, he patiently posed for photo after photo with runners of all ages and nationalities. Shortly before the scheduled 8 AM start, there was even a group picture of the vi-sionary and his vision as PCVs and staff gathered around the poster at one end of the track.

After the commemorative photo, all of the runners were ushered outside of the stadium. There was some confusion, however, as to when and where the start would take place. Indeed, after standing in a dirt parking lot near the stadium for several minutes, there was frantic action from one of the marathon officials as he waved the full-marathon and first-leg relay runners back into the stadium. Not everyone made it to the starting line on time, but the starter counted down, and, with a loud "GO!" the marathon began at around 8:25 AM, followed by the half-marathon about five minutes later and the 5-kilometer fun run five or so minutes after that.

The day was heating up nicely, so those who were awaiting their leg of the relay took shelter in the shade in the upper reaches of the stadium, waiting and watching for signs of the first runners.

It didn't take long for the first marathoners to come through, and before long there were loud cheers every few minutes as each Peace Corps runner ran around the track in the distinctive Peace Corps t-shirts. Those doing the relay were free to collapse on the infield after handing off their timing chip to the next runner, but those in the half-marathon and the full marathon had to once again exit the stadium to brave the heat and the deceivingly hilly (although flat for Rwanda) course. PCVs Kayla Ahrens, Joey Young, Jennifer Olsen and Kelly Miller were the brave half-marathoners who set out for a second lap. The lone wolf in the marathon, committed to four tortuous laps, was Steve "Charles" Cahill.

There continued to be a steady stream of runners in and out of the colorful Amahoro National Stadium throughout rest of the morning and into the early afternoon. Each time a Peace Corps runner was on the track, there was a great swelling of support both from the official support team and from the other runners, and before long those blue, white, and black shirts were crossing the finish line, collecting a finisher's medal as they did so.

The first male marathoner to cross the finish line was ILPCITIROCHIR KAMBIE Felix of Kenya in a time of 2:17:04, and the women's marathon champion was J RUTTO Beatrice, also of Kenya, in a time of 2:51:45. For the Peace Corps, Steve finished the marathon in 4:41:33, placing 83rd overall. The top Peace Corps finisher in the half-marathon was Kayla Ahrens in a time of 2:11:42, placing 281st. The top Peace Corps relay team crossed the line in 3:55:03, placing 9th among relay teams.

After the race, there was a general feeling of accomplishment among the Peace Corps athletes. When asked about his full marathon experience, Steve responded, "I felt good about it. I didn't walk a step, and I thought I was going to die, but I didn't. I'll do it again next year."

Overall, the marathon was a great way to celebrate 50 years of Peace Corps. Thanks must be given to the help of the support team, who prepared the last supper before the race and cheered on runners both in the stadium and in front of the Peace Corps office as runners passed by twice on each lap. Also, the work done by Mary, Brooke, Dr. Elite, and all of the Peace Corps staff who participated on the relay teams made the event a resounding success. Just remember, "Sport is Life" and komera.

V6 - THINGS WE DO TO EACHOTHER, By Lucy Sung

Things We Do To Each Other
By Lucy Sung

Peace Corps‘ no-fee passport application in hand, I skipped up the steps of the federal building that housed the post office with passport services. Before I went through the doors, I asked the security guard a simple question to confirm if I had the right place.

"Do you know if the post office here has passport services?"

"Are you applying for an American passport or international passport?"

"What?"

"You can‘t do international passports here. You gotta go somewhere else."

"I‘m an American citizen, you naïve, assuming moron. I can‘t believe I‘m about to join a federal agency that represents Americans to foreigners even though there are fools like you."

Well, I wished that‘s what I said. As soon as the word "citizen" left my mouth, I was allowed inside the building, where I found myself feeling confused, angry, and quite frankly, sad.

Now in Rwanda, I find myself explaining to other people not who I am, but what I am. America is already a foreign concept to many people. When I tell Rwandans that I -- in my brown eyed, black hair, round face glory – too, am an American, I blow their minds. I wish I could take their reaction as a compliment, but I cannot with the barrage of words that usually follow.

"Nooo! You are CHINA! Look at your eyes!"

"You lie! She lies!"

Having your identity invalidated hurts. It stings, like pili pili in your eyes.
Of course, not everyone starts to chant "China!" or "Japan!" when they see me. Sometimes, they furrow their eyes in deep concentration before saying, "I think you are Chinese." Occasionally there is someone who says, "I think you are Korean," to which I give a high five (for knowing the country) before going into my spiel. "My parents are South Korean, I was born in American so I have American citizenship. Do you know Peace Corps?..."

Mimi, a fellow Asian American PCV, also experiences similar annoyances: people on the buses do not believe you, they call you "liar," and they continue to harass. Mimi found that it took other PCVs, who happened to be white, to confirm that she is American. "Only then Rwandans would nod and agree. But you can still see they are not completely convinced."

Recently, President Obama released his long-form birth certificate to stop allegations that he is not a U.S. born citizen. I feel like I need my birth certificate and a world map by my side just to make things easier, to make things make sense to those who do not understand. But I am not a machine. I get tired, fed up, and the goals of the Peace Corps take a backseat. I cannot stay angry long, for these unfortunate interactions happen everywhere. I hate speaking so slowly with my students. It is necessary, but it echoes painfully close to the cashiers, landlords, and neighbors who enunciated each word in growing volume to my mother because she spoke English with an accent.

I‘m still trying to mediate my thoughts on how race and my role as a PCV play out. I cringed when I overheard a PCV saying, "We volunteers are all Americans; we are all the same." The beauty of America is that we‘re not all the same – throw away the old school "melting pot" theory. We are a mixed salad with croutons scattered throughout.

"Whatever you do, don‘t engage in discussions on ethnicity."

Over and over again during our trainings, we were reminded by PC staff not to discuss ethnicity with Rwandans. Understandably so – the scars of the genocide still mar our communities as proven by the stories, reburials, and tears shed during Genocide Memorial Week. The abaturage at my site tiptoe around the words "hamburgers" and "tootsie rolls" as if the military will jump out of the bushes and take you away. Putting labels or being put in a label can be dangerous. I am plagued by a question with no clear answer: how can I continue the conversation on diversity in America while avoiding a Rwandan bringing up their past divisions of Hutus, Tutsis, and Twa? How can I talk about being a Korean American (not Korean in America) without it sounding similar to a Rwandan who is Tutsi or Hutu? The ethnic relations are too deeply rooted for me to even try. 
 
It is a challenge that demands being open-minded, understanding, and most of all, respectful. In a country still recovering from the genocide and getting their exposure to other countries through kung fu movies, I must ihangane – be patient. I must remember that no matter how much I master the language, or perfect the cultural expectations of someone my age and gender, I am an outsider. I can only be myself and represent myself. The person who calls me umuzungu or umushinwa does not mean the next person will call me the same. Instead, I focus on the opportunities to share stories and find the similarities that don‘t make us so different from each other.

V6 - GLOW, By Christa Pugh

So You Want to Start a Club
By Christa Pugh

When I arrived at site last year, I was excited to find that eight of my new students had attended Rwanda‘s first Camp GLOW in 2009. These students returned to our school motivated and eager to start a club with the help of my site-mate, health PCV (now RPCV) Tricia Vannatter. I was recruited somewhere along the way to serve as the club‘s co-coordinator, and since that time, working with the GLOW Club has become one of my favorite activities at school.

Helping students start and maintain a GLOW club is a very rewarding secondary project for teachers. To start a GLOW club, begin by identifying student leaders and meeting with them to discuss club leadership and topics for meetings. Talking with girls at your school who have attended Camp GLOW is a great place to start. Ask them what they learned at camp, what they want to teach their peers, and who can fill leadership positions.

Even if these girls aren‘t interested in starting a club, or you don‘t have students who have attended Camp GLOW in the past, you can still start a GLOW club. Choose a few girls from your classes who are smart, motivated, and good leaders to help you get started. Once the club is established, you can hold an election to fill leadership positions, but I would recommend choosing at least a president and vice-president whom you already know and with whom you can work. The Peace Corps Life Skills Manual can help you come up with topics – download it at http://www.peacecorps.gov/multimedia/pdf/library M0063_lifeskillscomplete.pdf. or you can get a copy off the SharePoint (it’s big though so be ready). 


I see my role in the club as providing sup-port to the student leaders and helping them ac-cess information and materials. It‘s important to me that the club is student-led. By leading these meetings, the club‘s president and other officers are developing their own leadership and public speaking abilities. Plus, I think that students are more receptive to information when it comes from a peer rather than a teacher. With that in mind, I attend every meeting, but I try to stay as hands-off as possible. If necessary, a PCV could provide more support by meeting weekly with the club‘s leaders to help them prepare for the general meeting.

At my school‘s first GLOW Club meeting, returned GLOW campers shared their camp experience and talked about the meaning of GLOW. Now, a typical meeting consists of the club president sharing information and activities from Camp GLOW about goals, deci-sion making, safe sex, HIV/AIDS, and other topics. The meetings of-ten start with an icebreaker activity they learned at camp, or by singing a club anthem my students wrote about why they love GLOW (writing a club an-them, pledge, or slogan is a great club activity for one of your first meetings!). I‘m on hand to an-swer questions the club president can‘t answer and correct any misinformation, and I usually wrap up each meeting with a closing statement as the students always want to know my "advice" about whatever topic we‘re discussing. I some-imes help the students with ideas and materials for creative projects (see the end of this article for some ideas).

Christa‘s GLOW club decorating notebooks Photo credit Christa Pugh 

Last year, our most successful meetings occurred when Tricia and I asked our students to come up with a way to teach the ideas of GLOW to others. All by themselves, the students wrote a skit and songs in English that touched on ideas about sugar daddies, being empowered to say "no", setting goals, and family planning. They gave a presentation first at our school, and later at the sector office for students from a neighboring secondary school. The presentations included community speakers about HIV/AIDS, gender-based violence, and child rights. This project en-couraged club unity by giving students from Senior 1 to Senior 6 a project to work on together; increased their self-esteem by allowing them to see a project through from beginning to end successfully and receive positive feedback from our headmistress, sector officials, and their peers; gave them an opportunity to practice presenting in front of a large group of people with confidence; and presented a valuable message to about 1,000 students from my sector! Watching these presentations is one of the highlights of my service thus far, and I feel fortunate and proud to be able to continue to work with these girls on a weekly basis.


Here are some ideas for creative activities.Disclaimer: My club has already done some of these activities but some are in the queue for the next two terms. Some are my own ideas and some are based on a GLOW Club curriculum written by an unnamed PCV from Sabina, Uganda. Also, even if a project idea comes from you, try to give the students opportu-nities for leadership as much as possible – for example, explain the activity to a few students and let them communicate it to others, or simply suggest an activity and then step back and let them take over. 

Bring in speakers from the community. For example, three women from the HIV/AIDS group at Tricia‘s hospital presented about liv-ing with the disease and allowed the girls to ask questions. You could also host female busi-ness or government leaders.

Friendship bracelets are a fun project if you can get someone from home to send you em-broidery floss! I used a pattern from www.makingfriends.com/ jewely/bracelet_klutz.htm. Using this pattern, one skein of floss (about 9-10 yards) is enough for about three bracelets. Teach a small group of girls how to make bracelets ahead of time, and allow those girls to teach their peers.

Have a talent show – either within your club or your club can host one for the entire school. Use it as an opportunity to talk about express-ing yourself (encourage them to write their own poems, songs, and stories!) and speaking loudly and confidently in front of a group.

Ask the girls to anonymously write down any questions they have about sex, sexuality, or relationships. Answer the questions yourself, help the club leaders answer them correctly if they feel comfortable doing so, or bring in a guest speaker to answer (this is a great oppor-tunity for Health and Ed PCVs to collaborate!).

Teach the girls to journal. Buy a cheap note-book for each student and allow them to deco-rate the covers with stickers and markers, if you have them. Talk to them about what journaling is – a way to remember experiences and think through problems and ideas in writing. Stress that a journal is private, and that there is no right or wrong, they can write about any-thing they want, in any language. One good starting activity is to ask the students to spend 10 minutes writing sentences starting with "I want", "I think", and/or "I feel." Other journal topic ideas: What is leadership? What are the qualities of a good leader? What are your goals for the future? Describe a woman you admire. What do you like most about yourself? What are the qualities of a good friend? Write about a time when you were a good friend to someone. Write about a time when you had a problem and found a solution to that problem.

Give the students situations and have them role-play to practice being assertive, making good decisions, and giving good advice to their friends. For example, have the girls role-play insisting that a sexual partner uses a condom.

Note: Be on the lookout for the upcoming GLOW & BE clubs manual within the next month or so. Questions? Contact camp-glowrwanda@gmail.com.

V6 - REFLECTIONS, By Janelle Fann

April Days By Janelle Fann

"40,000."

I feel my eyes go wide.

"In this parish?"

I want to grill Father Valens about that figure, feeling that he could not possibly be correct. Only a thin understanding of the culture and of the man holds me back.

"Yes," accompanied by a rather vigorous nod, a bobble head priest.

I sit back in my chair, weak with incom-prehension. Depending on who you ask almost a million people died here in just under one hundred days. In addition to the general slaughter thousands were murdered in churches. There are stories of priests who drew up lists of people to be killed. Churches with Swiss cheese roofs from grenades and bullets. For a while after the genocide religion was ignored. But now Christianity (Catholicism in particular) is truly back in full force. I do not know how to respond to such faith.

Shakespeare wrote (and I take liberties with the man‘s words here) that it is foolish to weep for dead men. If they were evil and went to Hell, it was no more then they deserved. If they went to heaven then they surely were in a better place then the weeper. Being no Shakespeare, this situation looked like divine abandonment to me.

I turn to look out the window mulling over my heathen status. My already weak faith was obliterated by my mother‘s long death and I have only made feeble efforts to reconstruct it. For an entire country to have faced what this one did and still be able to turn to religion afterwards at any point is almost inconceivable to me.

We finish breakfast and I walk around the parish. Rwanda is struggling to find an eco-nomic foothold, in the meantime people strug-gling up Mount Poverty. The arduous journey is documented is the hands, eyes, garments, and habitats of her people. It is then, glaringly obvious, how nice the parish (and by extension the priests‘ living space) is: clean, well kept, equipped with solar power. I marvel anew at my surroundings.

Three priests serve the parish where I live: Valens, Paul, and Edward. Valens is very much a jovial sort, Willie Loman—Rwanda style. He keeps giving me warm yogurt and walking away as I struggle to eek out what is supposed to be "lactose intolerant" in Kinyarwanda. Paul is . . .interesting. Please be aware that I‘m already not in love with living with three priests (even if it‘s only for a short time) when Paul and I have this exchange.

Paul: Are you married?

Me: Oh No. I‘m single, just like you.

Paul: I am not single. I am married to the church and when (?!) you become Catholic I will be married to you too.

Me: Uhhh. . . (Because really, what do you say to that?)
Valens is the oldest and well, fatherly. I don‘t eat much in general and even less in the face of continuous pots of boiled potatoes, boiled rice, boiled foliage, and. . . well boiled every-thing. On a night when I‘d managed to unearth my appetite, I tried to explain hunger to Father Valens by pointing to and rubbing my stomach. It was at this point Valens got up and rounded the table in order to rub my belly. Discomforting. Later at the same meal, he decided it would be fun to tickle my twenty-eight year self.

Willie, My New Husband, and the Stealth Stomach Rubber, are basically good
guys.

Paul and Valens do not join Father Edward for lunch, leaving Edward and myself to enjoy the afternoon‘s selections of boiled delicacies.

I pick at my boiled something as Father Edward peppers me with questions in halting English:

"Have you talked to your family?"

"Yes, they are very well. How‘re yours?"

"I don‘t have."

"You are an orphan?"

Edward belly laughs. "Me? Yes, an orphan."

"No. . ." I pause. "No cousins, brothers, sisters?"

"Ah no. No one. You have?"

"No, my mother and father had me only. Your mother and father had you only, too?"

His face is glassy in its smoothness. "My mother, brother, sisters, and father. Everybody in 1994 was in the church that bulldozer de-stroyed."

* * *
As Sister Marie Grace and I stood look-ing into the pit, something fluttered down into it. At first I think one of the ragged children who followed us threw something in. I start toward them threateningly but I notice the wind is picking up and scattering small green leaves about. I move back to Marie Grace‘s side not touching, not talking. She rubs her forehead with three fingers and abruptly begins a jerky circuit around the pit.

There is no "Never Again" sign or commemorative banner here as in other places in Rwanda. How you find it is by asking, if you‘re a stranger. Then you are directed to a straggling dirt path and about one hundred and fifty feet from the road there it is. But Marie Grace does not need to ask.

On the right side there‘s a field of almost ripe corn. On the left, a tight stand of eucalyptus trees where five or six goats are placidly graz-ing. Looking down you see the opening, just a small thing maybe two feet across. Beyond the opening, the size and depth of the pit is reminiscent of a swimming pool and you realize that it‘s shaped like an upside down funnel. The little sun that reaches the bottom reveals mud and decaying plant matter. But your mind works to find skulls and femurs, shredded clothes and naked teeth.

Marie Grace catches my hand and tugs me away this April 7th. I go as placidly as any goat because I am leaving the children there. Though a few follow us, two or three of them, puzzled and reverential, remain at the lip and are still. I turn and follow Marie Grace because the children are there at the hole in this place, filling it, quelling the echo of loss with the reso-nance of life. I can not think of a more appropri-ate way to negate death.

V6 - POETRY, By Annan Henry

I.
At night when the blood
Swells in my ears for want
Of something out of silence
And my beating heart
Is measured by the rush
When I cringe and quail and quake
And fold my heaviness inward
And so clenched gain traction
In trepidation's heightened avidity
Then, are exhalations whispers
For want of home
Then, is 'alone' a word
I know all too well beyond
What I have shown

II.
As for my transgressions, forgive me them
May they remind you that I was bereft and burdened
And that I ached for your embrace
That I, having been dismissed once more
Felt never again able to bear it
And cried out at the world against you
Please remember that I bled hope
That I smiled for the blessed sweetness
Of stars and sky and the rest in your company
And how mysteries unfolded before my tearful eyes
And how that struck me utterly down
So that I was certain, as I've read
That the abyss must be all flowering and blue beneath
And that you must have authored it all.