Inspiration isn't striking

I'm feeling enormous pressure to bust out something pithy. Indeed, there are developments abound (ha) here in Kigali, but many are a little tricky right now to discuss. And so I'm searching for something worthwhile to say that doesn't get me into a whole lot of trouble, and inspiration is failing me.

I hold the deep suspicion that the gang I kick it with doesn't want to hear about my meanders to Lake Muwahi, and though while the bit about our truck getting stuck in mud for two hours while 16 local men pushed it around as though it was on an ice rink while dogs vomitted in the back is mildly amusing, surely it's not going to buy me a blog.

I thought about talking about the tale of my first endeavour to cook beef brochette on the barby and how after cooking all day the Rwandan guests professed a love of goat. I'm pretty sure there was a message there. But the story ends a little lamely, as in that's pretty much the whole story.

Ooh, and there is the bit about my friend's security guard. His name is Theo. Theo has made it a relatively regular habit to come to work beyond blazed drunk. As in he passes out regularly and no amount of shouting or shining lights directly into his eyes seems to help. The hilarious bit is that my friend is actually concerned about security, as demonstrated by the installation of panic buttons throughout his house. And yet, despite a frequent attempts to either get Theo to try on sobriety whilst at work to firing Theo, my friend instead decided to buy theo a cap and jacket from the states that read "Security". He likes Theo.
Theo was proudly sporting said jacket and cap the other night at a party we threw, where he demonstrated his machete skills with a piece of wood and then proceeded to pass out. We grabbed a light and shouted "Qu'est ce-que vous faites!" very loudly, and finally after fifteen minutes he popped open an eye, grinned, and promptly passed out again.

Then I considered regailing you with the latest disarmament tales from one of my new favorite podmates, but we're back to the politically sensitive bit again.

I've just begun been reading "What is the What", a story of a man who, as a boy, was seperated from his family in Sudan's brutal civil war; who trekked across Africa's punishing wilderness with thousands of other children; who survived aerial bombardment and attacks by militials and wild animals; who ate whatever he could find or nothing at all; who considered ending his life to end the suffering; and who eventually made it to America, where a new and equally challenging tale began. (Direct quote from back of book). Frankly, in this shadow it's tough to fathom that I have a fighting chance of busting out anything worthwhile to say.

And so, I will say this. I have been learning an enormous amount during my time here. I'm very grateful that I get to have these wild adventures around the world. The winds seem to be changing at the moment. And we got a dog. His name is Sassou. And he has marched off with my Security tags and I'm either going to have to beat him or bring him onto my cause in solidarity and in an attempt to find them. Because I changed offices to the Tower, and I keep getting locked into the Tower without it. Its a bummer. That's the update.

Don't let the flame burn out

Fifteen years ago this week, former Rwandan President Habyarimana's plane was shot down by Hutu extremists as he flew into Kigali. Two hours later, Hutu extremists systematically began massacring Hutu moderates, and the next day began a genocidal campaign against the Tutsi population in Rwanda.

For those of us who remain relatively informed about international politics, you know how this story plays out. In the course of six weeks, 800,000 people were slaughtered in such a way that one cannot begin to fathom where humanity played into anything.

To remember the genocide, Rwanda commenced its week of mourning this Tuesday. In the morning, we went to the commemoration at Nyanza, the site where a UNAMIR ( the UN Peackeeping Force in Rwanada ) contingent was stationed, and where consequently some Tutsi had taken refuge in the days leading to the genocide, hoping to be protected. Instead, on April 11, three days into the genocide, with the refugees surrounded by Interhamewe Militia and the EX-FAR, UNAMIR withdrew and thousands were massacred along the road leading the way to Nyanza. The morning memorial was more a diplomatic event, attended by Cheri Blair (Tony Blair's wife) among other notables, with speeches from various ministers, songs sung by different groups from Rwanda and the broader East African community, and finally, a word from the President of Rwanda. It is clear that though moving forward is the proclaimed ultimate objective, anger and resentment remain crippling. I suppose as one would expect.

In the evening, we attended the memorial event at the Stadium,a ten minute walk from my house. The event started two hours late, but it was one of those moments where you realize you are involved with a moment in history. Technicians created an enourmous flame and the word "hope" spelled out in Kinyarwanda, French and English out of candles, which were lit by the President, other diplomatic representatives, and survivors of the genocide.

It is impossible to fully capture the feeling in the stadium that night. When a young girl who had been born in that stadium during the genocide and who's family had been slaughtered began to tell her tale, human wailing echoed throughout the stadium as red cross workers pulled people suffering flashbacks and repeated trauma out of the crowds. Messages from leaders including Desmund Tutu and Ban Ki Moon came in as candles lit up the arena. One young girl who had been sitting by herself in the row below me slowly made her way up to my side and burst into tears. She had lit a candle, and as I put my hand on her shoulder to comfort her, she crawled into my lap, shoved the candle into my hand, and began to sob. Red Cross workers came to speak with her to see if she needed to be removed, but she said she wanted to stay with me, so she stayed. And all I could focus on was keeping that candle lit in the wind-a small but symbolic gesture that allowed me to keep my calm and focus on being present for the survivors.

The next day, all UN workers in Rwanda met at our compound, the compound where Romeo Dallaire ran his crippled operations, to commemorate our fallen commerades.

There is too much to share in one post. The politically sensative nature of the week makes some of my observations difficult to post. I'm emotionally exhausted and having a coffee with my roomate, trying to focus on the weeks ahead.