A Baptism

Last week, Christine invited me to her baby, Benine's, baptism. Christine is one of the women I work with in the nun's co-op and she is also the primary caretaker of the rabbits, meaning that we end up spending a lot of time together and we were really starting to develop a friendship. So I couldn't possibly turn down her invitation.

Sunday Mass was like any other, crowded, hot, and sweaty and full of singing, standing up, and sitting down. Thankfully, my Kinyarwanda has come along enough at to the point where this is fairly tolerable since I can understand some of what is being said if I really apply myself.

Halfway through the service, it was time for the baptism. The mothers, who occupied the first couple of rows of seats in the central part of the Church and came forward together. First, the priest dabbed oil on the foreheads of all the babies in a row and then went back in the same order to pour water on their heads. None of the babies were too happy to be a part of that. I always feel sorry for babies at baptisms because it's meant to be their special day, but it always seems like it is one of the least enjoyable days they could imagine. But after the water, the hard part was over for them. The priest walked by and placed a cloth briefly over each of their heads while several attendants walked around to light the candles that the mothers had been given beforehand. Again, this seemed like a part of the ceremony that had given little thought to the feelings of its infant participants as most of the babies instantly tried to stick their hands in the candle flames that were right in front of them as their mothers sat back down and tried to pacify them.

When Church was over, I took photos of Christine and the nuns, as promised, outside. Little Shimwe, Christine's first child, did not look happy to see his baby sister getting all of the attention. Granted, despite being quite sweet, he always looks a bit disgruntled, which I have attributed to the fact that I have been told that he drinks beer already. The nuns picked him up and tried to cheer him up and I ended up taking a bunch of pictures and, in the hubbub, I got way too comfortable and my phone got stolen. At Church! When I was taking pictures for a baptism! This was not one of my warm, fuzzy Rwanda moments. I made a huge fuss in front of the entire congregation and made it clear that I felt like my trust had been broken. Here I was, alone, having given up an entire life in America so I could try to help people, and, in the midst of doing so, one of them had stolen my connection to my family from me.

Thankfully, everyone wanted to help. Father Vincent tried calling my phone several times and invited me over for lunch to calm me down. He seemed to not want what had happened to my phone to reflect badly on his community and kept on making the point that 99% of people are good, but it only takes 1 person to do a bad thing, which is true. I had momentarily forgotten that it was my confidence in the goodness of people that had driven me to do Peace Corps in the first place. In fact, the reason my phone had been so easily stolen was because I had grown so comfortable and trusting with that 99% that is good.

After lunch, I was invited to a bar and restaurant by my house to celebrate with Christine and another family that had just had their daughter baptised. Rwandan parties mostly consist of sitting around drinking soda and beer and eating meat and fried potatoes. I couldn't drink because I am a girl (unmarried women are all considered to be girls here) and I couldn't eat the meet, but it was a good get together anyways. As part of custom, everyone in the group got up and made a speech. Christine's husband made sure to include me in his own, extending an invitation to me for every family event they would have in the future. I really felt like I was a part of the family. Later, more of my friends showed up. Sister Rukundo handed Benine off to me and I sat, bouncing her up and down, while Marigo got up and danced, and Laurence, my Kinyarwanda tutor-to-be sat and chatted with me. It's good to be starting to have people to celebrate with here in Rwanda, even if it does just mean sitting around eating soda and fries.

"To Study Football"

Even more than I am a fan of soccer, I am a fan of African soccer fans. So, after hearing that my school had a TV, I had asked my students to tell me the next time there was a game in the Africa Cup so I could watch it with them. I thought the games were on Saturday though so I was caught off guard when Faustin was waiting for me on my porch on Friday afternoon when I was coming home from a walk with Beans. Apparently, Tunisia and Niger had started playing 12 minutes ago! It hadn't rained all week, but of course it started at that exact moment so we ran to the school under a couple of umbrellas only to find that there was no reception because of the storm. All the boys were crowded together in the cafeteria with their eyes fixed to a black screen while the one boy with a raincoat stood outside in his rain coat trying to adjust the satellite dish. Finally, the game was on and the teams were tied 1-1. My boys scooted around to make room on a bench for me in the front. The reception went in and out a couple of times and the image was fuzzy, but it was football! On TV! In the middle of nowhere, Rwanda! My students crowded around to explain Kinyarwanda soccer terms to me (of which, I only retained the off-sides rule or “kwiherera” that translates literally to mean “to be alone”). My students predicted Niger would win, but they would have been excited no matter what the result because they ended up cheering for just about everything. Tunisia ended up slaughtering Niger, scoring twice in the last 20 minutes, leaving the final score at 3-1.

It was time to eat. It was already 8:00 so those boys piled out to get their food FAST. I made my way out of the school to make my own dinner and overheard the girls singing in the dormitories, which made me realize that not a single one of them had been in the cafeteria. I guess it's not considered very feminine to take too much of an interest in sports.

The Call to Prayer

I meet Karim at the cowboy shack and wait for him on a small, wooden bench while he washes his arms and legs in a basin outside and retreats quickly to change into his ikanzu (dress) for Mosque. I play with one of the dogs, whose name is Naga and talk to another of the cowboys, while I wait. He asks me what my religion is. Uri Catolica (are you Catholic)? No. I just live by the Church. Uri Musilim (are you Muslim)? No. I just want to know Islam. Karim is ready to go. He is wearing a white dress so clean and bright that I am amazed that he has managed to keep it that clean in the cowboy shack, a white hat, and a red and white scarf that he changes intermittently to cover his head or his shoulders. As we pass the school, a few of the students shout “Assalamu Aleikum” and I can't tell whether or not they are being serious. It dawns on me then that the reason the Muslim community here is so welcoming to me is might be because they, too, understand what it feels like to be treated differently. Past the school, the village is almost silent. I guess noon isn't a busy time of day because most people go home to eat lunch. But not if they need to pray, and that is exactly what we are headed to do. Karim asks me if there are Muslims in America and if I know any. There are and I do. I tell him that I used to live directly next door to the Mosque when I went to university and it strikes us both as odd that I never thought to venture inside. The Mosque is a small, but beautiful white building with green trim standing on the top of a hill behind the marketplace. By the time we get there, I am already sweating a bit from wearing a a long dark skirt, long-sleeved back shirt, and wrapping my hair up in a scarf. Karim introduces me to a few of the men out in the front. They don't seem to know what to do with me, but the man in charge figures Karim should take me around to the other side of the building. I don't think Karim has ever been back there, but he takes me around to a door in the back and hands me off to one of the women. I take off my shoes and enter to sit on a mat behind a large, gold curtain that divides the women from the men. There are only four of us in the room. I am happy to see Mama Fatuma, whose husband, Ruru, is one of my favorite vendors. I sit down and the woman next to me covers my feet and hers with an extra piece of igitenge cloth she is wearing. The prayer begins, although none of us can see the man singing it. We just sit quietly and my legs start to cramp. A few more women trickle in, along with their children. A girl around my own age sits down to my right, where there is a gap in the curtain and spends the rest of the service mischievously peeping into the other room. I find out later that her name is Haciza, which means tomorrow or future. With the children there, it feels more like an over-staffed day care than a place of worship. The women pass off their babies, silently break up a couple of minor scuffles, and crinkle their eyes when their children sit, handing each other pieces of bisqui (cookies) and giving each other baby kisses. At only one point do we need to get up and pray, transitioning between standing, bending halfway with our hands in our laps, kneeling, and placing our foreheads on the ground. I have to focus a bit on getting the routine down correctly. After the prayer has finished, they lift the curtain. They are having an election and everyone needs to participate, including me. I'm not sure what positions people are vying for, but I can understand some of what they are saying. Ruru stands up and explains that he is a hard-working shop-keeper and that he has a wife and a child, signs of prestige in Rwandan culture. Everyone raises his hand for him when he is finished. Several others speak, most with unanimous votes. I'm struck by the smallness of the Mosque compared to the humungous Mass on Sundays. This feels more like a family gathering. Everyone knows each other; everyone has a turn to speak; and everyone is supported in doing so. When the elections are over, their attention turns to me. They are asking about the visitor. Karim tells everyone what he knows about me. He says that I am not a Muslim, but that I know Muslims in America. He tells them that I am a volunteer and I will be here for two years. Only. He also makes a point of telling them that I have a boyfriend, a welcome part of any introduction. After Karim has finished introducing me, an umugabo munini (fat husband, which I've come to understand almost always means a man of power) approaches me and asks if I want to convert to Islam. Right this second. I politely tell him that I cannot be Catholic or Muslim because I believe that all religions are good. He seems to be appeased by this response, but still wants to bring me books on Islam in English, which I thank him for. It's not the first time I've been offered religious material in this country and I am interested in reading it. After our conversation, they put the curtain down again and end the service with another prayer. Haciza and I are the first of the women to stand so we can stretch our legs outside , but before long, Karim finds me and takes me by the arm to walk me home. He is somewhat protective of me and I wonder if he even thinks I could find my way back home on my own (which I could, no worries) or if he is simply fulfilling his role as a host.

Now, when I walk to the market, there are so many more people that are happy to see me. Granted, this has forced me to learn yet another set of new greetings, but the effort has been entirely worth it. I also realized that one of my students was attending the Mosque service, which made me realize that students aren't excluded from having a high quality (or Catholic) education just because of their faith, something I am happy to know.