Nyanchera - on the path in Rwanda

"I have been accosted by two curious children
- Perpetua Nyariki and Hikdah Nyariki"

December has been a sea of visiting people. The waves envelop, expand and distort your expectations and attitudes. I've been lucky enough to be embraced by a Rwandan, Ugandan and Kenyan family in turn, enjoying their hospitality and warmth. Even at this moment, having returned to Kenya, I have been accosted by two curious children - Perpetua Nyariki and Hildah Nyariki - demanding their name to be written and put into black and white on the computer. Hildah's face lights up with a cheeky smile while her eyes glare at the moving cursor on the screen. Perpetua, on the other hand, is reading out every word in a robotic fashion, desperate to understand the meaning, although unsure of the hidden intricacies. I am left feeling like an exhibit in a museum, a piece of interest, yet something too foreign to completely connect with. The process of writing becomes an active mechanism to engage. They cling onto words that they understand and write:

lizzy nyanchera is  working     in  the  bed 

I am certainly not in the bed; instead I am sat at a wooden table in a living room adorned with maps of the world, calendars and thermos flasks of chai tea. Yet I can't help feeling a pleasure in their determined wish to share the process. Their inclusion of my Kisii name, "Nyanchera", suggests a level of acceptance into a life which, until five years ago, was completely unknown to me. I was given this name by an enthusiastic Physics teacher - I only later realised the implications of its meaning. Apparently I am "a girl who is born on the path", a stranger on the road who is intent on travelling and perhaps someone more comfortable moving on than staying put. So how does this reconcile with my intentions of staying in Kenya?

Inevitably I have to intertwine travel with my aspirations to build a life here. How better to start this than in the month of December when I flew off to share a Rwandan wedding with the Rusagara family and a good friend from the UK, Jodie.

The beginning of our 'Bisoke' trek
in "the land of a thousand hills"

Rwanda is a magical country, laced with fast-running streams meandering along lush green pastures, which peak like bulbous mounds, reaching hopefully to the sky. It is commonly known as "the land of a thousand hills" - a tourist phrase which does not do justice to the endlessly changing views that switch with every step up and down the sloping landscapes. Jodie and I decided to broach the second highest peak, Bisoke, on a day's trek of utter pain. Our bravado at the beginning was soon banished, to be replaced by weary legs, which were desperate for a break from the tedium of walking through slippery mud, damp air and jungly terrain. Soon, having separated from Jodie (with our different paces), my only company was the silent presence of John - a non-English speaking, surly guide. Yet his outstretched hand was a much needed support, offering stability and direction to an otherwise lonely walk. Never before, have I felt so much comfort in the simple, silent touch of a stranger. Looking back now, this quiet reassurance seems to represent the attitude of Rwandans. They certainly do not have the cocky confidence of Kenyans, nor the elegant beauty of Ethiopians, however their unwavering support, seemingly given unconditionally, is a rarity not often found in Africa. One can't help feeling that this warmth is a beautiful by-product exuding from the ashes of their fiery past.

"The genocide appears to be a cloaked figure"
even at a Rwandan wedding!

The genocide appears to be a cloaked figure, often hiding behind the corners in conversation, unwittingly appearing at moments where you least expect it. Watching the stunning figure of a bright yellow clad bridesmaid, gliding down the aisle at the wedding, I was informed she was an orphan whose parents were both slaughtered during the atrocities of the early 1990s. Our host figure, while munching on delicious food, explained how Rwandans feel a privilege in eating as they have lived through times of uncertainty where the next meal on the table is never guaranteed. As a back-story to a nation, the genocide is truly frightening yet I cannot help but feel an admiration for a country which now, less than twenty years later, appears to be knitting together its wounds and channelling the energy of this healing into creating a country of unity.

Not until my visit did I realise how arbitrary the tribal groupings of Hutu vs Tutsi truly were. I.D. cards introduced by the Belgians in 1932 identified people based on their socio-economic status. If you owned ten cows, a sign of wealth, you were the Rwandan elite (often from the north of the country with the characteristic pointed nose and tall figure to match) - the Tutsi. Alternatively, if you owned less than ten cows, you were the Rwandan mass (often seen as Bantu farmers with the characteristic wide nose) - the Hutu. These unnecessary distinctions were avidly studied by the colonial powers, who seemed desperate to underpin the continent with boundaries, definitions and categories. Soon the categories took root and began to stick. Between 1959 and 1973 ethnic cleansing occurred, with over 700,000 Tutsi deaths. This led to an exodus of Tutsis from the country, for example the father and mother of my host family had spent most of their formative life in the confines of Congo as refugees, with no official status or citizenship.

"We are coming to live by force with those whom we have robbed everything". A picture depicting Kagame leading the RPF over the coffins of Hutus.

Despite knowing about these precursors to violence - the "rehearsal" of genocide - it seemed the international community were unprepared (or unwilling) to act until it was too late. The  frightening truth of ingrained prejudice brought about by social groupings was demonstrated by terrifying acts of violence. "We... say to the hyenzi (cockroaches) that if they lift their hands again, it will no longer be necessary to go fight the enemy in the bush. We will start by illuminating the internal enemy. They will disappear". "Disappear" seems tame in comparison to the truth: fathers killed their Tutsi wives, in fear of Hutu reprisal; children were subjected to watching their parents die, with their own torture soon to follow; Tutsi and Hutu neighbours who had lived together as brothers resorted to violence as the only option. This blind carrying out of orders is described in psychological terms by Milgram (1963), who suggests that perpetrators are seen as 'agents' of authority, devoid of responsibility as they act as automatons, simply following instructions. A child survivor of the genocide reflected this when discussing the death of her parents, she stated "Tutsis were no longer human beings then". Victims became faceless and acts of violence consequently seemed meaningless. While Kofi Annan, the (then) Secretary General of the United Nations admits the international community were "guilty of sins of omission", this merely scratches the surface of the level of responsibility that should be placed on the shoulders of Western powers. The Belgians created the distinctions. The French supported the Habyrimana Interahamwe militia. The UN watched a massacre happening, withdrawing all of their forces. 

So travelling through Rwanda became a truly humbling experience. We only received kindness in a country previously torn by hostility. Rwandans seem intent on independently sorting out the mess of the past. The Rwandan Memorial Centre is a beacon perched on top of a hill in Kigali, housing over 500,000 Tutsi remains. While the building itself is a reminder of hideous behaviour which has the ability to ensnare a country, the people themselves also recognise this too. Now, to even use the tribal categories "Hutu" and "Tutsi" in Rwanda is seen as a social misdemeanour. Instead, people classify themselves as "Rwandan", proud to stand under the president Kagame, the past-leader of the Tutsi rebel group RPF, who fought for the acceptance of his people. Hearsay suggests he occasionally wanders the streets of Kigali, in commoner clothes without a presidential entourage, engaging with his people (and, rumour has it, telling off Westerners who are wearing revealing clothing). It is only recently he has been censured by Western powers for his actions in war-ridden Congo. Instead of kow-towing to the sanctions, he has stated strongly that Rwanda will attempt its own economic development, without the purse-strings of the West.

I admire this independence. I admire a country who knows what its policies are. I admire people who are able to stand up for their beliefs.

I am equally apprehensive to be living in a country unable to do these things. With the New Year comes a Kenyan election and a new Kenyan president. I can only hope Kenya aspires to have the steadfast honesty attempted in Rwanda (that will be another entry for another time....)