Rejoicing and Mourning

"Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn."

Romans twelve, verse fifteen.

The phone rang and the news was in. Obama was winning. He was winning! I felt a bit overwhelmed and slack-jawed. This was really happening. The man was going to win! I was so happy for him and confused about what in the world (!) was going on. Here I am in Rwanda watching the election of the century on the BBC, talking on the phone with LA. It was all too much to take. McCain gave the best speech that I've ever heard and Obama spoke with hope and honesty about how these next years were going to go. He couldn't make change alone. It was going to be long, hard, and necessary for the cooperation of the American people to achieve it. I wanted a flag or something. BBC cut to a shot of Kenyans celebrating and I FINALLY had an understanding of what African partying was like. I hoped Rwanda would break out the drums soon. Kenya was declaring a public holiday. The apocalyptic facebook statuses were hilarious. Holy crap. I could feel the paradigm shift on that couch and the whole world celebrating. Oyee! Oyee!
----
I sat where a frightened person once sat. Sitting on the edge of a low, wooden pew in Nyamata sanctuary, I was trying to take everything in. A church. People had fled to this church for safety. In 1992, before the official genocide, muhutus practiced genocidal behavior by killing 600 of mututsis of Nyamata village. People fleed towards the church and the Interhamwe left them alone. Holy ground or something. Two years later, the Genocide began and people fled for the lives to Nyamata church and barricaded the doors. The Interhamwe came with machetes and tried to break in but couldn't, the refugees inside promising to defend themselves.
It was quiet in there. There were piles of clothes on every one of the pews beside me, in front of me, around me, and layered around the altar. People wore these clothes once--bled in them--died in them. Piles and piles of clothes lay moldy, brown, and decaying. The smell in the room was strong and acrid. This wasn't as sterile and pretty as the memorial in Kigali.
The Interhamwe couldn't break through but then the army showed up. With grenades and artillery, they shot into the church and watched the people inside fall one by one. The resistance stopped and they broke in, finishing the women, children, and men with machetes. Machetes created more suffering than bullets. The sanctuary was brimming to capacity:10,104 people. Not one survived. Not one. Bullet holes scarred the baptismal fount and the display of skulls, femurs, and other bones awaited downstairs and in the tombs. You could see the blunt trauma of a sharp object in these bones that were once people. Mother Mary looked down over the altar and clothes, praying. I wasn't sure if it seemed mocking or intercessional. In the house of God...for goodness sake. Where I was sitting, someone sat begging for their life; and no one answered. Sometimes faith hangs from a very fine string.

I couldn't stand to take a picture. Not in there. So I took someone else's picture, on someone else's blog to give you an idea. It was just awful. I feel like some of my innocence has been taken away. It was a big day today.

The Story about the Circumcision and Other Tales (I have to catch up on)

I don't know why blogging has been so DAUNTING for me. I have started and stopped this blog four times already, for real. You don't even want to know what a disaster trying to make a photo blog was. I will defeat you, back log!

Circumcision
It was my day in Bufukhula (buh-ffoo-hoo-la) village and at the end of my it, during a sponsor child home visit, drums could be heard in the distance. "A CIRCUMSICION! Would you like to see it?!?" A circumsicision? These are really big deals in African culture. My book said to attend a cultural function! At least it wasn't a female one. Uh.....sure, Paul! I climbed on his boda and we drove down the road where the crowds were gathering. It seemed like the whole African village was gathered, hoisting their sticks in the air, pounding drums, crawling slowly on bicycles down a narrow, rural road. Our boda and my accent stuck out like a....something that sticks out. Oh my god, I'm on my way to a circumcision.

Passing hut after hut, women were running in the brush in front of us, shaking their hips, gearing up for the party. A circumcision in Africa is a really just a big party. I wished I had those dance skills. Finally after an hour of riding with the mob, the mob broke into a sprint toward some large hut to receive the candidate. "The boy is 17, 18. Around there! The circumcisor comes and cuts. Without any injection. That would compromise his manhood," Paul beamed. I cannot believe I am at a circumsicision.

I couldn't get into the crowd to see the moment, but Paul squeezed in there and got pictures. "You MISSED! YOU MISSED! This is the boy. This is knife. This is the pain." Paul was SO proud to narrate it all to me. My grimace was becoming too hilarious to everyone, but I was excited with everyone else. No one parties the way Africans do. Finally it was time to go--i felt I had see enough--when Paul asked me if I wanted to "see him". Well, yeah. I'd like to see his face. But I didn't realize that Paul meant more than a portrait shot. He talked to the crowd of men around the boy in Liguisu and the crowd parted like the red sea. Oh god. I stepped forward, feeling the weight of my presence as (1) the only female and (2) a foreigner, and as I walked closer, the stone-faced boy opened his sheet. "They want to know if you can send the photo!" I nodded slowly, holding my forehead. Paul, they could have the one burned in my head too. The boy was so brave.

Foreigner

A man was staring at me really hard. "Hello. How are you?"

He walked closer to me and gave me a quizzical look that I found hilarious. I tried not to laugh too much.

"You're not....You're not.....African........." No, no. I'm not. I'm American.

"Obamamerican! A sister to Obama!?!?"

-sigh-. I've never had my ethnicity synomous to a person as much as I have had here in Africa [I'm really not even sure that clause was correct], but I've been associated with worse things. (^_^) shrug. Obama Oyee!

Sophie

There was a beautiful orphan sponsor girl that had seemingly been lost in the Child Development system. Social workers had been so busy and she had been moved around so much that no one even knew what school she was at now. When Livingston and I interacted w/ her in the principal's office, we couldn't get her to smile. Outside, I tried everything and she wouldn't break out of her shell. She seemed so morose but I loved her. I loved her with a love I just didn't understand. I wanted to honor her with everything that I had. I loved Sophie. And still can't explain why she's in my mind still.

Safari

A family of elephants chose to station themselves outside of the hostel guesthouse we were watching a movie in. A few wild screams later and surveying of the porch, a mother elephant ended up fake-charging three of our team members. That's what you get for intimidating a mother elephant's baby. Oh yeah, and Kyle jump kicked a scarab beetle as large as a frog.

and now we're in Rwanda! I'll post more about my overall experience of practicum today or tomorrow.