And the incomprehensibility begins...

The last couple days have been intense.

We had a get together at our house with a group of organizations and survivors, to talk about their experiences. Unfortunately, I was suffering from a self-diagnosed throat infection and took a nap/drugs while the visited. After I got up we were getting ready to head for supper, when another man came tour door. He introduced himself as Richard, and he was the happiest man I’ve ever met. He lost his family in the genocide, but has found a faith and strength that lets him continue to be smile. In fact, we commented on how young he looked and he said “it’s because I smile so much.” How one could continue to live, let alone smile, after such an event amazes me.

We’ve started the truly difficult days, and are heading into some of the hardest. We visited the Nyarubuye Memorial yesterday, where thousands were killed in a church. This is a common theme of the genocide, as in past violent outbreaks Tutsi who sought sanctuaries were safe as the Hutu didn’t follow. In many cases, the Tutsi thought this would be the same. It was not. In many instances, thousands of people packed into churches and were brutally slaughtered. The sites are visceral, with human remains visible at every site (we’ve seen, anyway). The Nyarubuye site had another interesting feature-- the statue of Mary had her lower arm hacked off with a machete. This was, apparently, because here nose was too narrow and long, like a Tutsi.

Today we visited Nyamata and Ntamara churches—very close to Kigali, but where thousands died. In the latter, mostly women, children and the aged. We also visited the Ibuka office, the kinyarwandan word for Remembrance. This story is relatively known—the Belgian troops who were guarding the Tutsi were recalled, and they left them to their deaths. Within minutes of their departure, the Interwamhe set them on a death march and eventually killed them after they were too tired to continue.

The most inspiring moment for me, thus far, was meeting Silas. Silas is a Hutu, who was in the army fighting the RPF. When he realized what was happening, he started smuggling Tutsi into Burundi. He saved 23 people in 3 days, before he was found out. He was warned that the army was coming after him, so he hid in Burundi until the end of the war. He is the equivalent to a Righteous Amongst the Nations, and risked his life to save others. This is, sadly, not a common story here.

The people Silas saved are now his family, as his own regards him as a traitor. The elderly women are his grandmothers, the children call him father. And he met his wife, amongst the women he saved. He has had children now, though hatred has not ended. Neighbours poisoned his children—one passed away from the attack.

There is more work to be done.

On a happier note, on the way out of Kigali for Ruhengeri (Gorillas!) we stopped at a Gacaca trial. This is the community court passing judgment on genociders. It was particularly interesting because a woman was being sentenced, and none of us had ever really thought of female attackers. Women frequently tortured, in brutal ways I have no desire to recount, and this one was sentenced to 30 years in prison. We also saw a long line, 2 by 2, of about 100 people cleaning roadsides with similar blue outfits on. These are genocideurs—perpetrators of the genocide who have been sentenced. 

We’re leave tonight for Ruhengeri—in the north of Rwanda. Finally—a sadness free day!

Happy Canada Day from Hotel des Mille Collines!

Today has been fantastic-- it started with a visit to Mille Collines, the famous "Hotel Rwanda" to talk with Zozo, the only remaining staff member who worked there before and through the genocide. Zozo recounted his story for us over a couple hours and some coffee. The genocide began on 6 April 1994 and by the 8th the telephone lines were cut and the only outside communication they had was that on the television--from CNN. The reporting was scant and just said Rwanda was in war, but it was all they had and it was on constantly.

Zozo said that when the Belgian Manager fled with the expats, he left the hotel to be open to whoever needed refuge there. Though there are only 104 rooms, over 1200 people were saved by hiding in Mille Collines. Many of the leaders in Rwanda today are survivors from that location.

Zozo's family was killed, but he survived and remarried a woman whose husband had been murdered. He now has 6 children and multiple grandchildren, and says that as awful as the world can be, "life does go on".

It was an honour to meet this man, and he was very friendly and kind. He is clearly very popular and well known in the community, and everywhere we walked multiple people would exclaim "Zozooooo!"

The horror that has occured here preoccupies our minds, but while these people do live with it, it does not preoccupy theirs. Zozo said it seems like long ago, and things have changed so much. This country is the safest in Africa, its people are beautiful and generous, and the society has come back from great division and terror. The resilience is inspiring.

One of the people we met, a 38 yr old who looked 25, said he looked so young because he smiled so often. After surving while your entire family died and you lived in fear on a daily basis, I cannot imagine finding the will to smile. These people are incredible.

for David.

I blogged yesterday about having visited Gisozi memorial museum—the AEGIS run museum based on Yad Vashem. I wanted to add this piece, as it was one of the most powerful for me. Things surrounding children are always the worst. For example, the museum has a children’s area with photos of murdered children and little plaques with their favourite things, best friends, last words, mode of death etc. listed. One 2 year old died by being smashed against a wall. The cruelty and inhumanity continues to astound me, no matter how much I think I know.

This child stuck in my mind because of his plaque, which I will transcribe below. Meet David:

David Mugiraneza was 10 years old.

His favourite sport was football.

He enjoyed making people laugh.

He dreamed of becoming a doctor.

He died from being tortured.

His last words were “UNAMIR will come for us.”

I was 10 years old when David died. If he had lived, he would be my age today, and he might be a doctor, or a father, or a teacher. He was denied his life because he was Tutsi.

It is a crime against humanity to be accused of being born.

Sometimes I find it difficult to explain why this project is so important—why genocide education is so important. I want to avoid the platitudes, like “if you forget history you are doomed to repeat it”, but it seems the best explanation I can give. “Never Again” has not proven to be a reality, and if we truly want to find peace, we must recognize that, as life, it is a process. It takes time. I truly believe this project is important, and with the right combination of luck and opportunity, we will have the chance to change the lives of many Canadians.

The Land of a Thousand Hills

Where to begin. Arriving in Kigali was par for the course—no bags, but at least someone did pick me up. A definite bonus. Raffi and Dan, Dan’s friend Yves and his cousin Conso greeted us in Kigali and we headed off to move into our house (I have a bednet!), which is rented for the two weeks we are here and is definitely a much better deal than a hotel—though, not my dream of staying in Milles Collines for a night…which is ok, since we are doing happy hour there instead.

We’ve already done a lot in Kigali, and it’s only day 3. Most of the genocide sites, the really difficult places, are yet to come. When we first got here, we tested out Rwandan mass transit with a “bus”—basically a cargo van that you hop on and off of for .30 cents. We also checked out the local Starbucks—called Bourbon Coffee. We are very lucky to have a Rwandan on our team, who not only speaks Kinyarwandan, but also is related to most people in Kigali and ensures we have lots of homes to visit. Our first was a visit to Conso’s house, where she fed us a fabulous African meal—sort of a casserole dish, made out of beans, eggplant and plantains (a banana-like potato). It was the best African food I’ve tried so far! And, it was free. Definitely a nice touch when everything else is so expensive. For breakfast, we bought some bread and peanut butter, and have been having those and some juice at home before heading out for the day. Peanut

butter is a fortune here, but was definitely worth every cent.

We have met some amazing people here. The National Commission in the Fight Against Genocide was one of the best—the Executive Secretary of the Commission met with us and discussed Rwanda, the genocide, the future, and showed a lot of interest in our programme. We also met with a widow’s organization, which offers counseling and medical services, amongst others, to Rwandan genocide widows and young women. They also have a business side, where Rwandan widows create items—dolls, jewelry, bags, baskets etc—and the organization sells them, providing income to the women. I bought a lovely doll, which I carried around all day, and who will live in my house forever as a reminder of the amazing women we met. Many lost everything—husbands, children, sisters, brothers, parents… one cannot imagine the type of strength it would take to even continue living after that experience.

Camp Kigali was another incredible sight. Anyone who has seen a Rwanda genocide-based movie will know of this story—and those who have read about it will know more accurately. Basically, after President Habyarimana’s plane was shot down, the Prime Minister received de facto control, but was killed with her family before having the chance to address the nation. She was being guarded by 10 Belgian troops, who had no idea that the Hutu

militia who showed up offering to guard the PM actually intended to kill her. They left her with the Hutu militia and returned to camp with other militia members. After they realized what was happening, they tried to fight back and were killed by a grenade blast and gunfire from the Hutu militia. The building itself is littered with bullet holes and signs of the horrors that occurred there. There are also messages written on a blackboard by family members, decrying Dallaire as blind and heartless for having done nothing. This is an interesting juxtaposition to the position in Canada, where he is a hero figure. The memorial itself is 10 pillars, each representing one killed Belgian soldier. The pillars have notches representing the ages of the soldiers-- one has 25 notches, etc.

We have also visited the Library and Info Centre of the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda-UNICTR, the Institute for Development and Research for Peace (poorly translated from the lovely French), and AEGIS, a British organization that does amazing work in Rwanda. The best experiences in my view were the Gisozi Memorial Museum and the Memorial service we attended. Gisozi is based off of Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, which I have also visited, and is a beautiful centre of remembrance for not only the Rwandan genocide but others as well-including the Hereoes, Jews, and Armenians. The museum also houses a garden-like grounds area, as well as the burial site for 50,000 people. Interestingly, the museum has been attacked by grenade 3 times in the past few years, most recently killing a police officer at the gate. The hatred isn’t dead—just as it isn’t dead from the Holocaust or any other systematic, cultural form of discrimination. But in Rwanda, peace is the only option. We were told by one of our speakers, “what other choice do we have?” Rwanda is so small and densely populated—peace must be found for the country to function. President Kagame has been instrumental in creating this peace, and people in this country appear to LOVE him. He has brought stability, peace, education, and hope to a people who had lost it.

The other experience, perhaps the best so far, was visiting a Rwandan memorial service. My friend from the March of Remembrance and Hope, and SHOUT, invited us to attend the memorial service for his father, a doctor who was murdered I the genocide. It was a celebratory service, lasting many hours, where people shared stories and music, memories and dreams of a man they all loved and continue to miss. They also expressed pride in my friend and his sister, and talked about how proud their father would be today to see their success. It is a strange thing—to attend a service in a language you don’t understand (kinyarwandan) and yet to somehow understand what is being said. The passion and love this man had for his family was so clear. And in knowing his son, who is one of the kindest, gentlest people I’ve ever met, I know he must have been all of this and more. And, this is only one story. One of a million.

I read today that the Rwandan genocide is not a genocide of a million. And the Jewish Holocaust is not a genocide of 6 million. Instead, it is murder—one after another—millions of times. It is millions of acts of brutality and evil, and we should not lose our conception in a number we cannot envision. It is one life, and then another, and another…

There are dogs howling outside…not sure what’s going on, but it doesn’t sound positive. Time to go to sleep, I think. A bientot.

And, I again have clothes!

Luggage arrived. That's the most important thing. This post is clearly for my mother, who is worried about me and my stuff.

Kigali is amazing. Can't wait to share it with you!

Happy almost CANADA DAY!

Kigali

I finally arrived in Kigali with Sara. We got in at 8:20am on 28 June, flying Kenya Airways--so I cant blame Royal Air Maroc for my lost luggage this time.

Yes, again.

Hopefully the rest of the day progresses well! Will update on the amazing city soon.

Tribute to MJ - Part II

For my last night in Cotonou, we hit my fav restaurant again—the fabulous Shamiana’s. Nate, Katharine, Shaloo, Nina and I had way too much food and planned to follow it up with karaoke at local haunt Chevalier.

We hit Chevalier a bit early, and there were only 3 other people there. We picked our spot and ordered bottle service for 4 – one in our party went home after dinner, so the 4 hardcore’s went out for the second weekend. A bottle of Gordon’s and 4 tonics later, and we were set to go. We didn’t realize, however, that karaoke here isn’t like normal karaoke where people actually sing. There are 5 or 6 staff who basically perform a concert to karaoke tracks. The songs were in French, English and Fon (local language) and it was amazing. All of the performers were really talented. There was a particularly rousing “We are the World” where the entire bar sang the chorus together and a Michael Jackson video played in the background. We decided after a few hours and while on the second bottle of gin that it was time to hit the club next door. There wa slots of dancing and fun times, followed by me almost breaking the gate at Shaloo's trying to get

back in, and being locked out of the house at 4am for awhile. But, we figured it out eventually.

After a fabulous sleep, I had a delightful brunch--Benson cooked me an omlette! I thought this was pretty fantastic. It's a rare day when a man cooks me breakfast. I took what I thought would be a quick run out to the store to get some food for a surprise supper (really, leftover maple curry pasta). Unfortunately, it was only 3 pm and the store was closed til 4, so I ended up buying Paul (the driver) a beer and talking about his life and how he was left heartbroken by a mean North American who had his child and left him to return home.  I grabbed more brie and wine at the store, and made supper for Shaloo, Nate and Katharine-- my last meal in Cotonou. Strangely, it was kind of sad.

Shaloo took me to the airport. We were both pretty exhausted, and when I got to the airport I

was physically ill. I had more anxiety from seeing that hell hole again than I've ever had before. I even tried to have a beer and relax a little bit failed.

After saying goodbye, I went thru security where the customs men asked me if I was ever coming back to Benin. They told me I should come back and get married. Had to get in one more marriage comment before I got out of the country.

Going through the metal detector and xray machine was fun-- they let me keep 1.5L of water, but took the batteries out of my camera and inspected my Blistex pot for 5 minutes. Someone else asked for my shoes-- I thought he was asking me to take them off an scan them-- but then I realized he was asking to HAVE them. I replied they were the only shoes I had. That seemed sufficient. It was a quiet departure from Cotonou--far better than my arrival. I had a great time with Shaloo and his friends and wish I was there for the parties planned on Tues and Thurs-- I expect Thurs will be epic.

Off to Kigali! Will post pics soon... my net connection is pretty lame as of now.

xo

Waking up to the news...

MJ has died. He may have been many things, but the most important of all was his iconic status as a brilliant musician. Sad, sad, sad. I had a ticket to see him in July, which unfortunately won't be happening now. But alas, so goes a superstar.

We are going out in Cotonou tonight for a MJ celebration, at the local karaoke bar. I don't even know if MJ will be a song option, but here's hoping. I have tomorrow in Cotonou, and depart at 11pm for Kigali, Rwanda, where the work begins.

Voodoo has nothing to do with dolls?

Ouidah is the birthplace of the Voodoo religion, and a centre of worship for practitioners. It’s about 40 km from Cotonou, and one of the few places where there are many sights to check out.

This morning I took Shaloo’s other driver, Herve, and after a quick ATM stop (my VISA works here!!) headed off for Ouidah. What an experience.

It is rainy season in Benin, so at any point it may spontaneously pour. This happened last night, so many of the roads were covered in meter wide puddles. Within the first 15 mins I had my first puddle run in—the driver had his window down and I was in the back passenger seat. A large truck went by and threw a liter of water into the car. The driver took most of it, but I had a significant amount of puddle water in my hair after the experience. What I have learned in Africa is you have to be flexible, and when things don’t go as planned just remember the mantra “ca va aller”.

First on the list in Ouidah was the Temple des Serpents. This is really a tourist trap as opposed to a temple, but it was formerly used as a Voodoo temple. In fact, a beautiful, large Catholic church is built across the road, and was paid for by the Voodoo religion leaders over a hundred

years ago. Apparently, they built it across the street to keep an eye on what was happening there. Now, the temple is used to house 40 pythons and offer fab photos to tourists. It costs 1000 to enter, and 1000 for pictures (about $5 in total) and the guide takes you into the python room for some pictures. Pretty much the scariest thing ever. The snakes aren’t slimy and gross as I’d imagined, but they move around and slither and look at you like they want to attack. Or, that’s what I perceived from my snake.

After this, we hit the Sacred Forest—I was pretty excited as I played Zelda as a child and thought I was walking in to find the Great Deku Tree or something. That pretty much happened, but with a lot more religious significance. Religion is an interesting topic here—in North America, it isn’t discussed a lot and it isn’t socially positive to question people about their beliefs. Here, people ask and talk about religion a lot, and though they may hold one set of beliefs, they are open to others and sometimes practice more than one. For example, people in Ouidah practice Catholicism in the day and Voodoo at night—probably one of the reasons Voodoo is associated in the west with evil and darkness—because when the slaves were taken to the Americas they were forced to practice Catholicism in the day and had to hide their

Voodoo at night. This practice has continued to this day. In the sacred forest there are many sculptures symbolizing a

multitude of Voodoo and animist deities and beliefs, my favourite being the Amazon woman.

Amazon’s are from this part of Africa, and they famously went topless into war to distract the foreign armies of men—before chopping their heads off. The forest itself is beautiful and lush—it just feels peaceful. It contains a huge and rare iroko tree that king Kpasse, the founder of Ouidah, is reputed to have turned himself into while fleeing enemies. None of the kings are ever said to have died—it is not allowed—instead, they have changed forms. When the king dies, there is a special drum which is beaten and it signifies to the people that the king has passed to a new consciousness. But, he has not “died”. There is a Voodoo cemetery, as they do inter their dead, but there is no service for their passing. I was told to place my left hand on the king/tree and make a wish, while leaving an offering for the king/tree. The highlight of this trip was when I heard a strange sound, like a tap being turned on, in the middle of the forest. I turned around and Herve, the driver, had whipped it out and was taking a piss. In the middle of the Sacred Forest. What a gem.

We went for lunch after this, at a restaurant of Herve’s choosing. I was told to order the chicken, which I was hesitant of, but there was nothing non-meat on the menu. I tried to order just fries, and the waiter wouldn’t let me. So, I ordered fried chicken (the safest, I figured) and french fries. Clearly, I only ate the fries as the chicken was definitely a track star and looked tough and deadly. Herve, however, loved it and licked the bones clean—after the slight let down that they

didn’t have rabbit, he had a good meal anyway.  .

We went back to the Musee d’Histoire d’Ouidah, which is open from 9-12 and 3-6. We had gone there at 11:45 and they told us to leave and return later. I was hesitant to go back, but I’m glad I did as it was very interesting and I met a great American guy who’s doing research on Voodoo and learned a lot. The museum is a reconstructed Portuguese fort from 1721, and houses exhibits relating to the slave trade and the links between Benin and Brazil. The slave trade artifacts are amazing—in a clearly horrific way. There were recovered chains and collars—the Portuguese bound the slaves 2 by 2 and marched them 2 km’s down the route des esclaves (slave route) to the Point of No Return. There were also paintings depicting slave experiences and how people were treated—over 10 million people were deported from Africa (this sounds really high… but I admittedly don’t know much about the slave trade) and were subjected to the worst possible conditions. Men were made to sleep face down, women face up—so the Portuguese could violate them if they so desired. About half of the Africans on each boat died before ever seeing land, and some jumped from the boats into the ocean off the African coast, as the preferred to die in their homeland than in a foreign one. The guide was the first I’ve had to speak English, and he even made a “joke”—when we went towards the souvenir shop he said we could buy anything and everything that we wanted—except “him”, referring to the counter attendant.  After all of that...definitely not funny.

The museum was quite good, but the real highpoint of the visit was the Route des Esclaves and the Door of No Return. The route starts near the Museum, and travels ~2km to the coast. Lining the route are different symbols and images—my fav was definitely the Tree of Forgetfulness, which slaves were forced to circle 5-7 times, to forget the land they were leaving. On the beach is a grand arch, a memorial Point of No Return—once the slaves crossed this line, they knew they would never see their home again. The front of the Arch, when walking through, depicts slaves in chains walking towards a boat. On the other side, once they have crossed and there is truly no return, the image changes to the front of the slaves, in line towards the boats. Between them, looking backs towards their homeland, is a beautiful tree. Trees are a universal symbol of life, but here it means even more—the tree is meant to symbolize that life is eternal, and when the slaves would die, their souls would return home to Africa for eternity. My pictures aren’t too great here, because I walked down to the ocean and suddenly, from a clear blue sky, the heavens opened up and dropped 20 liters of water on me. In about 10 seconds I was soaked, but it was a wonderful experience nonetheless.

This is a long post—but it was a pretty cool place and I learned a lot about the Voodoo religion and the horrors of the slave trade. It was clearly a horrific process, but I had never really thought about what it entailed or would have been like for those people.

Wine and Brie is Magic in any Country.

Yesterday, I went grocery shopping to attempt to MAKE supper (yes, actually cook) at Shaloo’s house. I have a classic Maple Curry Pasta recipe that’s always a hit, so I figured I’d try it out in Africa. We ended up getting home too late to cook it, so we postponed. This was probably for the best, as there was a massive thunder and lightning storm which cut the power for quite awhile and we wouldn’t have been finished cooking.

Note: whatever you may hear, I was not ‘scared’ of the lighting, I just don’t like it.

Cooking in Africa is an adventure in itself. For the groceries, I had to hit 4 stores and a market. Vegetable soup broth doesn’t exist here, but on my

4^th attempt I found bouillon cubes and made it myself. Curry paste is also impossible, so I bought curry and made a paste with olive oil that was a decent approximation. Cream cheese is also unheard of, but there is a cheese snack product called Kiri that made a good substitute. I also bought a 0.25 cent baguette and $15 in Brie in case this all failed and we had to eat cheese and bread for supper. Oh, and a couple bottles of vino. Clearly.

Paul, one of Shaloo’s drivers, took me around on my grocery store hunt. He’s very nice to me, and told me if he had enough money he’d come to America and ask my mother if he could buy me. I think it was complimentary. I told my mother a few hours after, and she requested that I relay the message that she is fully willing to sell me at any time.

We got home around 9 pm and started the process. I had onions, green peppers, garlic and carrots straight from some market, which needed disinfected. Benson, Shaloo’s

roommate, hauled out some chemical substance that was purple and we washed and set the vegetables in that for ~20 mins. The stove is propane (like, the type where you light a match and hope it doesn’t explode), so we had some fun figuring out the right temperature to melt but not burn butter and sugar on the stove. It took about 45 mins to cut all the vegetables and get a home for everything on the stove, but eventually it was going quite well. It was a hot night though, and I remembered being a child and my mother refusing to cook for me on hot summer days because it made the house so warm. On those days, I ate apples and sandwiches. I forgot that lesson though, and was dying of heat about 15 mins in. Eventually, it boiled down and I put the pasta and the sauce together

and…voila! It turned out very well, and was almost the same as home! We celebrated with more wine and brie and some Michael Jackson.

Benson washed all our dishes in the morning, after explicitly being asked not to, while I took pictures of the awesome house and washed my clothes, by hand, in the bathroom sink. I never realized how much I value a washer and dryer, but I think I’ll add it to the list of things I cannot live without. Aside from my brief encounter with a large cockroach outside the apartment, it has been mostly a nice place to stay, with everything I need magically appearing from the cook, Pascaline.

Supper was a success! This was the first time Shaloo had cooked in his house, and I’m pretty impressed that between us we figured out how to run everything. Though, much credit should probably go to Benson, as we wouldn’t have gotten past the “wash the vegetables” stage without him.