Independence Day. On this day in
America, we reflect on our history, pride ourselves on our democracy,
have a barbeque, drink cheap American beer, and set off some
explosions in the sky. Rwanda also celebrates on this day, just
without the fireworks. However, in the same way we celebrate our
liberation from England, Rwanda also celebrates its liberation from
colonial rule (50 years on July 1st), followed by
Liberation Day, the end of the Rwandan genocide, which marked its
18th year, today on the 4th as America
celebrated its own 236th year of freedom.
In 50 years of freedom, Rwanda has
taken great strides. It has created its own democracy, created
national parks, put itself on the map for eco-tourism, joined the
East African Union, transitioned from a Francophone to an Anglophone
educational system, and dramatically increased the number of students
enrolled in primary schools across the country. But 50 years is
still just a short time in the life of a country. The class-system
first introduced by colonial rule has yet to dissipate entirely and
has the habit of making small appearances at the least expected of
moments. For a class assignment on traditional storytelling, one of
my students chose to write the story of the genocide of 1994. He
made no effort to soften his words, writing:
Long time ago, Rwanda was a good
country, but when the white people came in Rwanda they begun to
destroy the Rwandan culture. Before white men, Rwandan had the
culture of granting cows, eating together, visiting... All these
culture were ruined by the white men.
At a recent Kwita Izina, a naming
ceremony for all of the baby gorillas born in Volcanoes National Park
in the past year, foreign dignitaries were invited to join in the
celebration. They were given special invitations and sat in a
separate, shaded area of the field with seating, a view of the stage,
and free refreshments. They were allowed access to separate, better
maintained latrines, a fact we discovered when an African American
volunteer tried to go to the bathroom. Part of the price of catering
to tourists is not being able to cater to your own citizens. I
wonder how my student would have felt standing, packed side-by-side
with other Rwandans in the sun behind the barrier to the visitors'
section at the Kwita Izina watching white foreigners sit eating
chocolate-covered pastries and sip coffee while snapping picture
after picture on their high-end digital cameras and occasionally
relieving themselves in latrines painted in the colors of the Rwandan
flag, their right to do so hardly coming in to question as status
here can be assigned with more ease than it can be earned.
Things are changing with the next
generation and there is nowhere that change is more obvious than
among my students. Before we were even able to start printing, my
Media Club had managed to stir up quite a bit of trouble.
Unbeknownst to me, my newsies started drafting articles and reading
them out loud in front of the morning general assembly. One of my
students did a bit of investigative reporting and shared a story on
the unwashed potatoes in the school refectory. When he was
confronted by the school's cooking staff, he didn't ask for help, but
stood up for himself by walking into the kitchen and informing the
staff of the role and importance of journalism:
If you think you can do a bad thing,
like give us those potatoes that are not washed and we will keep
quiet, you are wrong. If something is bad, the media is going to say
something about that.
Later, the same student ran into more
serious trouble. He was called before his class by his mathematics
teacher who proceeded to call him a dog (the deepest of insults in
Rwandan culture) and tell him to stop writing because he was only
doing it to try to make himself look smart. When he asked the
teacher to take back his insults, he was suspended for three days for
talking back. Both my Headmaster and Prefecture seemed fully aware
of the ridiculousness of the situation, but the fact of the matter is
that a teacher is an authority not be crossed by a student here, no
matter what the circumstance. My student was forced to go and beg
for imbabazi (forgiveness)
before he would be allowed to write again. He had to accept the
authority of his teacher even when he knew it was wrong.
The term for this is ndiyobwana.
It means, I accept, Mr.
My teacher tell me this word is Swahili, but it applies just about
everywhere in Sub-Saharan Africa so just about every language in
Sub-Saharan Africa uses it. It means that you accept someone
because you have no choice, that it doesn't matter if they are wrong
or right, but only that they are above you. I am told that, even
now, authority plays a large part in local politics. It is unheard
of to state your opinion because it is something people still fear
they can be beaten for. When I casually mentioned that I would vote,
again, for Barack Obama in the upcoming U.S. Presidential Election
while chatting with my students at a football match, they all gasped,
looked over their shoulders, and shushed me. The fact that the crowd
of Kinyarwanda speakers around us were hardly likely to have
understood what I said, let alone cared, did little to comfort them.
I had to explain that it is not common practice for Americans to beat
each other over their choice of candidate.
Student candidates gave speeches in
front of the general assembly and each student was able to cast their
vote in the refectory afterwords. Students and teachers worked
together to tally the votes, making it clear that there was no
corruption taking place. Since students in S6 were not allowed to
run for office this election, I set my S6 journalists into motion
documenting the event. They used my camera to take pictures, sat in
on the count, recorded candidate speeches, and even conducted
interviews.
This is a new concept here, students
and teachers working together. My students informed me that last
year's election took place behind the closed door to the teacher's
lounge and that the students that were selected hadn't even wanted to
run in the first place. This is something I've determined to change,
starting with the newspaper. I insisted on having my students
prepare a meeting with the Headmaster to propose their ideas instead
of bringing them to him myself. I think they were somewhat blown out
of the water when he agreed to fund everything we asked for,
including a digital camera without even batting an eyelash. They had
never had the chance to ask for what they wanted so directly before.
With this and many other changes on the horizon, this year I am proud
not only to be an American, but also to be (however honorarily) a
Rwandan.
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