#45 – Dec 8th 2007

Genocide and Ebola…

The last weeks of November ballooned with study session all-nighters, congratulatory end-of-exam celebrations and the anti-climactic CHOGM (Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting). The guesthouse was chaos, the boys’ home crazier, the city of Kampala a tornado of preparations, construction, and panic. The capital prepared for foreign dignitaries from across the globe by hiring hundreds of rookie security constables and arming them with assault rifles, throwing up statues, splashy new hotels, and street lights, and dipping into the pockets of the Ministries of Health and Education to pay for such crucial expenditures. The African Hearts boys juggled class, band performances, and late night cramming. Band practice followed by endless revision into the early hours of the morning, not a space in the house free of books piled high, calculators, protractors and faces awash with deep concentration. At the guesthouse we said a teary goodbye to Grandma Hilda and welcomed two additional guests from Canada, bringing the house total to six and the noise and commotion level to an all-time high. There was no relief from pandemonium, no quiet corner to turn.

Amidst the clamor I realized my passport visa would expire in the first week of December and I would have to leave the country and re-enter in order to extend it until March (when I will be returning to Canada). A quick discussion with Austin and Owen, the twins from Canada I’ve been living with these past few months, and it was decided we’d drop everything and venture into Rwanda for a week. We boarded a Jaguar bus at 9am last Friday morning, paying the equivalent of $10 for the nine hour ride between Kampala and Kigali. We chose this bus specifically because the word “executive” in the adverts led us to believe it would be a moderately safe, well-paced journey. That may have been a slight miscalculation. Austin and I sat in the seats directly behind the driver, able to distract ourselves with discussion for the first few hours, the remaining time spent with teeth clamped, death grips on our seats, eyes wide and stunned. The greyhound-sized behemoth screeched past petrol trucks around blind corners, the ancient speedometer not able to register the speed of the maneuver. We contemplated begging the driver to slow down, we discussed getting off in a random Ugandan village and hitching. We prayed for our lives and promised not to tell our parents. Sorry Mom. Somehow, by sheer luck, we arrived in Kigali with nothing but shaky legs and tension headaches.

While the Rwandan countryside was only slightly different from Southwestern Uganda, with more tea fields and endless towering mountains lush and emerald green, the capital city of Kigali was a striking contrast to Kampala. Where we expected dust clouds, traffic jams and crowds upon crowds of people, we found a modern, clean, well-organized city devoid of the hordes in K’la. No garbage, beautifully manicured lawns, boda-boda drivers wearing uniforms and helmets (unheard of in Uganda). We hesitated in disbelief as cars actually stopped when we approached a crosswalk. Unlike Uganda, laws were put into place and actually followed. Thousands of pedestrians die each year in the city of Kampala alone; I’d be willing to assume the figures are far lower in Kigali.

Austin and Owen were able to converse with the locals in French while I was continually asking people if they spoke any Luganda (Central Uganda’s official language). Not surprisingly most Rwandese could speak upwards of five languages, including English, French, Kinyarwanda, Kiswahili, and Luganda. Generally I found the Rwandese very friendly and approachable, although they appeared to be less open than Ugandans. In Uganda Muzungus are definitely given celebrity status but in Rwanda I felt a little less “white”.

Our first few days were spent exploring Kigali, tasting the delectable French and Rwandan cuisine, pondering the source of the development we saw springing up all over the city. We explored the sobering Kigali Memorial Centre for several hours; a crisp white building perched atop one of the cities looming hills. Surrounded by a labyrinth of gardens and trails interspersed with the mass graves of the genocide’s 800,000 victims, the Memorial Centre is a somber remembrance of the horrific 100 days in 1994 when Rwanda was reduced to a bloodbath of hatchets, bodies, and ultimate suffering. Inside, the three-story building is divided between Rwanda’s history and a lead-up to the atrocities, a vivid and disturbing recollection of the events themselves and various attempted explanations, as well as a dark, respectful room presenting victim’s bones and clothes, a documentary viewing room, and an entire floor dedicated to other genocides that have taken place throughout our history.

I sat alone in a shadowy pentagon-shaped space filled only with wire lines and hanging photographs; pictures of the victims donated by their families. Glancing at each photo I noticed time and time over striking resemblances to my boys; I thought of them, of the what ifs. At the time most of them would have been taking their first steps, saying their first words, but what if it happened now? Is it so improbable that this situation could arise again? Eyes welled I pictured children so innocent, as they always are, experiencing things we can never imagine, and I do mean never imagine. You try, I try, but we can’t. My boys live in helpless, death-gripped poverty; they live in a country just as easily swayed by mass hysterics, just as persuadable, manipulatable. Rwanda and Uganda are divided by a border, but little else. What happened in Rwanda, what is happening now in Sudan, could happen here. The sheer horror of the genocide; of the bones, the bits of ripped clothes, the blood-stained school bag and guiltless eyes sickened and repulsed me. From Canada I cannot fathom these events. From the memorial in Kigali images of my friends’ hacked limbs were too crystal clear, the potential far too near.

Questions with no answers abounded. The three of us ran through the gamut; International leaders failed to act, why? How could the situation have been avoided? Should the U.N. have sent in the troops Dallaire requested? If in a positions of power how would we personally have handled the situation? And the issue that really got me: if it happened in Uganda would I run? 257 Americans were evacuated hours after the violence began, only one remaining to hide his Rwandan co-workers at his residence. If Kampala erupted into a massacre of the Buganda (the dominant tribe favored by the British) would I risk my life to protect the boys? Of course the response is yes, I would stay, but the reality is who knows? Who really knows how they’ll react in any given situation until directly presented with it.

Interestingly, or perhaps frighteningly, I’ve been presented with a similar albeit much less drastic situation recently. Although I believe there is not yet cause for serious alarm, there has been an outbreak of Ebola, a highly contagious virus spread through bodily fluids (such as saliva), in Southwestern Uganda. Within 14 days of contracting the virus the victim is overtaken by hemorrhagic fever (i.e. internal bleeding). Of the hundred or so people who have been diagnosed, 24 have died in the past two days. The Canadian consulate has been keeping us informed via text messaging and has sent warning that we should not venture into other districts for the time being. This information came to us as we were one hour outside the Rwandan border passing through one of the affected towns. As we contemplated our luck at having made it through before borders and towns were sealed off the questions previously asked about the genocide were reiterated. Should the Ebola virus spread to Kampala, would I run? Would I risk my life to protect the boys? The point was brought up that the situation is different, that my ability to protect them is limited in the case of a rapidly-spreading virus.

The internet connection here is terminally slow and thus the remainder of my Rwandan adventure will have to wait until next time.

~Nicole