A preface on walking the line

Blogging is not my thing. I'm no writer-I don't aspire to be one. But it has proved to be a very convenient way to communicate enough detail in one shot to tell everyone what I want to tell about what is going on while I'm off and about.

It becomes very tricky, however, to edit the world in which I live to the extent that it needs to be edited. I did this before while I was in Cameroon. And to be honest, the blogs were more boring than anything else. I didn't want to tackle specific issues because there is always a risk in exploring controversial topics. Instead, I wrote about my day to day life, which inevitably became mundane.

That said, my work remains inherently political. Particularly now-working for the UN is about as political as one could get. And it is important to maintain decorum. There are legitimate security concerns, issues of containing classified information, and general good sense that need to prevail. But within this highly politicized context is the day to day politics of class, races, sexuality and religion that I think should, to some extent, be explored. I think it is both intellectually and socially irresponsible not to talk about some of this stuff. So, after great consideration, and nestled into quips about daily happenings, I'm going to touch on some of the stuff I've been confronted with on my different missions. This will include things I've thought about before, and things that come up as my life unfolds in this new country. I cannot say all the things I would perhaps like to say about some of these issues. If you are interested or want further clarification about something that may offend, please consider emailing me directly rather than posting. But with this in minds, I will attempt to more honestly convey and confront what it means to me to work in an intercultural and highly political environment.

That said, the first issue I've been confronted with is that of living as a minority in a new environment. In a country where I am white and woman in a region that is predominantly black, it is virtually impossible to go unnoticed. This means that as I am running, I get thumbs up, horn honks, the flash of headlights, and sometimes hordes of kids running along behind me as though I was the pied piper of Kigali. Artificial admiration simply because of my skin colour. Sometimes men also try to take a kick at running along beside me. Where to go with this? It's tough. I don't want to ignore people, especially in the part of Kigali where I live. It is important to me that I don't simply look, but actually see the poverty and politics that surround me. Willful ignorance does not suffice. I want to develop a rapport with the locals and have some sort of trust established. At the same time, there are moments when I put my sunglasses on, keep my head down, and try to avoid the onslaught of comments and stares. And there is always issues of security-I don't need any man thinking that I've given him an extra special smile that day and take that as an invitation to follow me home.

Though I therefore understand to an extent what it is to be a minority, I am also a white minority, and thus remain in a position of privilege. There is, of course, discrimination as people stare and make crude jokes, but largely its more as though I am the local celebrity. People often want to touch me. As a friend in Canada maintains, the colour of your skin and the class you are born into is inherently political and impossible to avoid. Thus while I am beginning to understand what it means to be a minority, I don't and won't ever understand what it means to be oppressed. If a political or environmental crisis occurs while I'm away, both my government and the United Nations will work to get me out. The same luxury is not afforded to the local populations-as evident during the genocide here where horrific acts occured and much of the international community turned the other cheek.

Being white in a black country, with the assumption of wealth trailing behind me, also leads to some problems. Take for instance this weekend. Work on Friday ended with Jovin announcing he wasn't taking me home. Oh cute, I think, I'm hostage in my own vehicle. But his eyes gleamed and he announced he was going to take me for a tour- a favour I'm to return in the event that he drops around in Canada. So he took me to the location where President Habyiarama's (the former Rwandan President in 1994) plane was shot down, the triggering event of the genocide. Not exactly happy stuff, but as an IR dork it was essentially the equivalent of letting me loose at Disney Land. We didn't have a lot of time to explore, but he assures me we will return. Friday evening was spent at the US Embassy screening a movie, Saturday spent at the Canadian Ambassador's gorgeous place enjoying an expat party. Sunday brought with it my houseboy banging on my window at 6am. A totally disoriented me hopped out of bed and ran to the door to find out what the trouble is. I'm told that his father has passed away and he needs money to head to the Congo.

And thus I am confronted with a difficult position. Wealth is relative. Though I am here working on a practicum for six months before I can be hired into the UN officially, I still hold more wealth than my houseboy. But I also have much greater financial responsibilities than he-student loans that need to be maintained, much higher housing and living costs while I am here, etc. etc. And though I'd rather not talk about it, Muzungo (white men) are often targeted with tragic stories in an attempt to score money. So I now have to decide whether I want to find $60,000 francs (the equivalent of about $150) for my houseboy to lay his father to rest. If I do, there is a good chance that the requests won't end there, that his other father will pass away next week, or that he could take off entirely and I never see him again. But I could afford him the opportunity to be there to bury his father. If I don't, there is the risk that he will steal my stuff. I have to live with him and I'm alone (asides from the other employees) at the house for at least another month. A tricky predicament indeed.

After much consideration and consultation with colleagues (one who mentioned that she'd given her cleaning lady the day off to go see a sick aunt, only to return home to a pillaged apartment), and after transferring funds to take the money out only to find they were seized as Visa is concerned with transactions in Kigali, I've decided not to give him the money. It is a huge amount to ask by local standards, and I'm told he could easily get to where he needs to be on 10,000 francs. We also pay him a very good salary by Rwandan standards. So my driver is going to come with me and try to translate that I don't have the money, and also to take his identification number and name in an attempt to stop any efforts to steal all my junk. I don't feel great about this option, but I don't feel great about any option. So we shall see where it all leads.
I leave you with some pics of my abode- they're not great, but I find I don't want to take a lot of photos when I first get to a new country. As I am not a tourist, I will be around and thus feel accountable to the people whose photos I take, and I would rather wait and make some friends before I march around taking shots as though they are animals at a zoo. So for now, voila. Enjoy.