id, a person’s gestures or body language, a child’s smile. I especially like taking photos of people. The people are beautiful here – their skin, their bone structure, and especially their wide smiles. I hear Rwandans everywhere bragging about the “beautiful women” and the “strong men” and the “adorable children” in Rwanda. I believe them now – it’s true. I keep my camera glued to me and I try to capture the most striking memories in photos, but sometimes that’s not feasible or even necessary. Certain images seem to be permanently imprinted in my mind, so vivid that a photograph wouldn’t do them justice. There is one image in particular that I remember every single day. I’m not sure why this event stands out so much, because there are many things I’ve seen here that merit remembering. I can’t help it. I just remember it, even if for a split second. I’ll be working, or walking somewhere, or writing, or talking to someone, and the picture will suddenly appear in my memory and then leave, only to come back the next day.
It happened about 6 weeks ago. For 6 weeks now, I’ve been remembering it on a daily basis. I was sitting in the office working on something, and I suddenly heard the deep voice of a young man just outside the door a few yards away from my desk. The voice wasn’t familiar to me. He was speaking Kinyarwanda – loudly, quickly, with so much passion I had to get up and see what was going on. I didn’t think twice about dropping what I was doing – I just got up and did it. I knew the 85 street kids were in the backyard of the office, but they were strangely quiet. There was a low hum of tiny voices, some giggles here and there, but the young man’s voice was overpowering them all. I turned the corner and walked a few steps to the back door of the office. The door was closed, but I could see what was going on through the window.
It was amazing. I froze and watched, and admittedly, I cried a little. I saw a tall, strong, well-built 21-year-old young man. When the 85 street kids swarm the backyard of the office 3 times a week, there’s a handful of older guys and girls, all about 19 to 25, who help the staff feed the kids, take care of them, keep them in some kind of order, watch over them. These older ones live on the streets themselves, oftentimes alongside the younger ones. This young man, Emmanuel, was very familiar to me. His eyes are big, a beautiful hazel color. He comes to the office without fail every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. He runs around and works hard. He holds the kids’ hands, catches the energetic ones who won’t sit still, but he doesn’t talk much. I had never heard him talk before, just in a low mumble when I shook his hand and introduced myself one day some time ago.
There he was, pacing back and forth in front of a crowd of little kids sitting on the benches behind the office. His eyes were closed, his face lifted to the sky, his broad shoulders wide, arms outstretched. His eyes were closed tightly, his forehead wrinkled, his handsome face full of wisdom, full of desire. He was praying, and it was obvious he wanted badly what he was praying for. He was praying for the little kids sitting in front of him. His arms reached out in the air to them in desperation. Some of the kids were staring off into space, some were talking amongst themselves, some were watching him intently, some were looking around trying to find a friend to play with. He kept praying. His voice grew louder and louder. It ascended in volume, in speed, in fervor. Towards the end of the prayer, he slowed down. His voice grew quieter.
He stopped. He opened his eyes and lowered his arms. Jacqueline, a PFR staff who was there with him, opened her eyes, looked at him for a moment, and then stepped forward. She hugged him for a long, long time, her eyes closed, saying over and over again, “God bless you, God bless you.”
I’ll never forget standing there at the window, not being able to move, praying silently for those kids and for Emmanuel. I don’t know his story. I don’t know where that kind of devotion to those little kids comes from. All I know is, that was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
I met all of the street kids and youth on my second day in Rwanda. Most of these kids, ranging in age from 2 years to 23 years, lost both of their parents in the genocide or in events before or after the genocide. Many of them have survived the streets for 16 years. Some of them lost one parent and live in extreme poverty in one-parent, multi-children households, often forced to fend for themselves on the streets. Some of them are living with HIV/AIDS. Most of them are traumatized, abused, abandoned.
I remember observing their interactions. Immediately, I noticed the older ones keeping a keen eye on the younger ones. If a little 4-year-old came up to a 20-year-old and started talking to him, the 20-year-old would get down on his knees and listen intently. If a
little one got distracted and started wandering away, an older one would pick him up and put him back in line. If a little one started bullying, an older one would take him firmly by the hand, pull him aside, and scold him. After talking with the staff and others who had spent time with the children, I learned that the older ones really do take responsibility for the younger ones. They care for these children as if they were their own children. Little by little, I began to learn that these 85 street kids and youth are one big family. This is a beautiful thing.
Since I’ve been in Rwanda, I’ve thought hard and frequently about the significance of family, especially for a very young child. There are far too many children, adolescents, and young adults here without proper role models, let alone the guidance of a caring adult. Father figures for young boys are close to totally absent. Who’s going to fill this extremely necessary role? Who’s going to teach a boy about dignity, honor, integrity, respect for women, kindness, hard work? Who’s going to set an example? Similarly, will a young girl ever feel validated? Will she ever experience the nurturing she needs to show the same love to others? She’s prone to becoming a mother early, but does she even know what a mother is?
I mentioned the PLP guys in an earlier post. I received a lot of emails in response to that post, and I’m so glad that people oceans away are getting familiar with them. In so many cases, I’ve observed, they have taken on the fatherly role for so many children and youth. They are mentors in orphanages, speakers at schools, partners to major youth anti-genocide movements here in Rwanda.
Since that first mention of them, I’ve gotten to know them on a much deeper level. I go
to karaoke with Marc on Wednesday nights; I sit in the house and just talk to them; I Skype with the leaders who are studying abroad or bringing the movement overseas; I stand outside the circle and watch them plan; I read their passion-fired emails; I listen to their motivational speeches. I am so moved by these guys. All of them were privileged enough to get educated, to live “middle to upper-class” (by African standards) lives. They’re pushing hard for education in the youngest populations, in the illiterate populations. Several of them are studying in the U.S. All of them chose not to participate in the genocide, and for that, they faced consequences. Many of them are family-less, parent-less, or fled to other countries in 1994. One of them (name will go unmentioned) huddled in a church with thousands of other Tutsis, was grabbed by the arm and led outside to be killed with a machete, and was saved when someone told the killer “You don’t want this one.” His life was spared. Similarly, another one watched as his entire family was killed in his own home. They left him alone, convinced that he was “good for the nation’s future.” This is remarkable to me. Even the killers recognized the potential in these guys.
Just yesterday, I was talking to one of my housemates and fellow Americans, Kate, who runs a very successful basketball camp every year for over 100 street kids living in Kigali. This camp, called “UBUMWE,” meaning “unity,” teaches the importance of unity and peace through sport and discussion. All the photos in this post were taken at the camp. She works closely with the PLP guys to run the camp and to plan for other big awareness events. We
were reflecting on the sheer power of the PLP movement, how in so many ways it represents this nation’s hope for the future. It’s almost as if it’s bringing the notion of family back to Rwanda. Little kids and youth all over the nation look up to these guys like no one else. If anyone's the “cool kids in school,” it’s the PLP guys. It’s as if they are becoming the father figures for children all over Rwanda. They’re the role models. They are intelligent and articulate. Marc is completely fluent in 6 languages. In fact, most of the 9 leaders are fluent in at least 5. The co-founder and director of PLP (with Marc), Jean Michel, has 4,971 friends on Facebook. I really don’t care about Facebook, but seeing that number was definitely a “What in the world?!” moment. Like Marc, this guy has an extraordinary ability to rally people around himself. I mean, if anyone wears a “I’m Kind of a Big Deal” t-shirt, it should be Jean Michel.
A different kind of family is sprouting up here in Rwanda, a newfound sense that family can still exist despite the tremendous human loss of the past. Older guys looking after younger guys; people who aren’t related living as neighbors, accepting each other as family; women starting businesses together and caring for each other. Reconciliation, I’m realizing, coincides with the idea of “family.” Committing to forgive and then to go a step beyond that: to live life together.
There’s a beautiful expression in Kinyarwanda that has no exact English equivalent, and I wish it did. “Turi kumwe.” It means, “We’re together,” or “No matter how far apart we may be physically or what we’re doing, I’ll always be within reach – by thought. Because we think about each other, we are together and you can count on me.” I love it. It’s an expression of unity, of the meaning of family.
It’s my hope that you’ll see your family and friends in a new light this Christmas, no matter where in the world they are. I know I will.
Turi kumwe,
Grace
Your blog is always beautiful and incredibly inspiring. Have a very merry Christmas, dear.
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