It's Sunday, so it's time to go to church. Can't think of a better way to spend time, after the day we had yesterday. We need the space, time, and peace of a Quaker meeting, with its wonderful silences and personal space, to process everything we saw and did.
However, this Quaker meeting is like none that we ever imagined! The seven Quaker churches of Kigali are having a joint service at a church on the other side of Kigali, so we walk down the hill to the 18 person van, and all pile in for the ride to the service. Seven churches mean at least seven choirs, each of gospel range and vibrancy, each dedicated to outdoing the others. We sit there in a sea of music for four hours (The service will go on another hour, but we have to leave to prepare a goat roast, so we have sat in the far back to sneak out early -- as if anything that we do as the only white people in the congregation can be called sneaking out!). Congregation members come over to sit with us and translate the service. Molly gets the French-speaker, Philip and I the English. Every seat in the church is full, and when yet another choir arrives and is going to sing, four rows of people who arrived quite early to acquire prime seating in the front middle of the church are asked to vacate their seats for the choir and retire outside for the duration of the service. Children are not allowed in, and hang at the windows to hear the music and stare at us mazungas in fascination -- and I don't help matters any by sneaking pictures of them, as an adult tries unsuccessfully to shoo them back. The music was rousing; the sermon would have done the AME churches proud!
We caught a ride to the town center, and took a group bus home to prepare for the goat roast, all the time praying that the water would come back on. When we had left, we had enough water for drinking only left in the small tank, and the large one was empty. This apparently happens at regular intervals in Kigali -- maybe two or three times a week, or sometimes for longer periods -- and Matt and Laura had an inordinate number of visitors using up their supply. About 35 were expected for the goat roast.
As background: The goat in question was a gift to the Levering family. Mary, Bob, and Jonathan have been paying tuition for a number of students to attend primary school. It costs $125 per year for a student to attend school, and few can afford this fee. (Hint: if anyone reading this letter wishes to sponsor a student, please let me know. It is desparately needed, and schooling is one of the things that can make a true difference in a person's life here.)
Anyway, one of the families whose child the Leverings were sponsoring had them over to thank them personally, and presented them with the goat -- an adorable baby goat. They took the goat home, and the minute they entered the yard, Jojo the dog came out to greet them; the goat escaped in a panic, and the great goat/dog chase occurred, with goat circling the house at warp speed, followed rapidly by Jojo, Jonathan, Matt, Laura, Bob, Mary, and Mma Fifi (the housekeeper), and whoever else was there at the time. Apparently many circuits were made -- sort of like a greased pig chase -- before Jojo was caught, placed firmly in the house. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief except Mma Fifi, who kept pointing to the back door, which was open. Jojo escaped, and the chase began anew. There is no way for me to do this story justice. It was the tale that Laura told us upon our arrival, and tears of laughter were streaming down our faces. Finally, Jojo was caged in the house with all doors shut, and the goat shipped over to Mma Fifi's for the duration.
Laura and Matt invited the pastors, the work campers, and all the neighbors to a goat feast Sunday evening, so we had to get home to peel potatoes (more than for Mark and Lauren's wedding, but at least these were large ones), clean vegetables, etc. The work campers and staff came over to help, bringing sodas and vegetables, and --- as proof that our time in church was successful and all prayers (except the goat's) heard -- the water was on when we returned and the tank happily filling. Laura particularly wanted all the campers and church personnel to get together because the campers were leaving that week, and it would make a lovely send-off. They had come to build some school buildings. We later in the week met other groups who came in from Congo and Burundi, who were working on similar projects there.
(Mary, read no further). We went over to the school to see the goat. The entire lawn was covered with clothing. Apparently the way you dry your clothes is to spread them out on the lawn. No such thing as a clothes line. We finally determined that if we went home and waited, the goat would appear -- which it did -- heralded by intense bleating. When we opened the gates, the goat hobbled in, tethered by a rope around one of its front feet, knowing that nothing good was going to happen to it. It was adorable. It bleated and hobbled its way around the house, pausing only to nibble the flowers as it went by. Bleat, bleat, bleat, nibble, bleat, nibble, bleat, bleat.
The men leading it in (truly a lamb to slaughter) took it to the water tower, which was up a steep slope at the end of the back yard, arranged to string it up from the tower, and proceeded to attempt to slaughter it with a knife that was too dull to do the job competently -- so, instead of one deft cut ending the agony, it went on for about three or four tries. In Philip's words, all of us meat-eaters were cringing in agony and sympathy, while he -- who had long since come to terms with the fact that this is why he is a vegetarian -- took hundreds of pictures of the entire butchering process: the skinning of the goat, the removal of entrails (all of which went home with the butchers, as reward for their good work). The meat was cut up for brochettes, a marinade made, and everything put on the grill.
While this was going on, Augustin, a very close friend of Gaston's was sitting on the back stoop with us, telling us his tale of his three years in jail. (Yesterday, as we drove past the jail yard en route to the churches, Augustin, who was sitting next to me in the van, said that he recognized a number of the prisoners scheduled to be released. I wondered about that, although since they were coming back to their home communities, people would know them. However, it turns out he had been there with them for three years. He had been in an automobile accident where someone was killed. He was not guilty of the death, but had attempted to bribe his way out of the situation (offering $80,000 francs -- $160, an unimaginable sum of money in this country where the per capita income is $260 per year-- for the charges to be dropped). It was the attempted bribery he was jailed for, and since his case was not important enough to be heard when there was a backlog of 100,000 genocaires pending ahead of him, he remained in jail without a hearing. Ultimately, someone at the church pulled strings to get him a trial. While in jail, he studied English. He said you could study anything in jail -- bank robbery, forgery (of passports, documents, etc). The former Interhama guys would control all the food, give it only to their friends and cohorts. He was lucky in that he is a musician, and this enabled him to develop relationships and be sought after for his music. Food would be delivered en masse, and people had to prepare it from raw ingredients.
At his triall, he admitted to the bribe, said he knew it was wrong and was sorry for it. He could have gotten six years of jail for this offense. He asked God for forgiveness. He was returned to jail after the hearing. Three weeks later, late in the evening, the guards called his name, said he was free to go, and threw him out of the jail -- at night, dressed in pink jail garb, with nothing to show that he wasn't an escapee, no money, no home. He managed to get to Gaston's home safely, and Gaston has been helping him ever since. His sentence was 6 months, plus a fine of $60,000 francs to get his driver's license back. Since he had already served 3 years, he was free; but has no way of paying the fine -- and his job prior to the incarceration was as a driver, so he is functionally jobless.
Gaston is an incredible person. He survived the genocide, but his parents were killed. His wife Joyce (who came with us to the gacaca court on Sat to translate for us) had been brought up in Uganda, where her grandparents fled when the 1959 killings began as the Belgian pulled out, having placed the Hutus in charge. Her parents were raised there as children, she was born there, but when Rwanda became safe, they decided to return. Gaston and Joyce have one child, three adopted children who were orphaned in the genocide, and have also taken in Augustin.
More on the prison: Augustin said that the government regularly sends informants into the jails to keep track of what is going on. Many of the genocaires do not want to come out. They have established lives in jail with some power and prestige, they control the food sources, and do not need to work. They know they face ostracism and a hard life, without power, prestige, or status, once they leave jail.
A further anomaly is that the people being offered trials before the gacaca courts are those admitting guilt and asking forgiveness. Those maintaining their innocence are not eligible for the court proceedings, because they are not showing remorse. Also, many who did lesser crimes (like Augustin) are incarcerated for overlong periods, because there is no time for the court systems to consider their cases. Essentially, the worst offenders are being offered the best deals.
Picture: We are all sitting together on the back stoop, companionably peeling potatoes, snapping beans, and hearing this story. For those who eventually access our pictures, once up, Philip took a sound bite of the end of Augustin's tale.
Finally the food was prepared and the party began. We adjourned to the front courtyard. Chairs and benches were arranged in a large circle, with people hauling benches from the church to seat everyone, about 35 people in all. The pastor greeted us, asked each of us to introduce ourselves. Laura welcomed all of us to their home. Asked us to each get to know someone new to us. Mma Eve, the pastor's wife, came over to me. She teaches school, lovely person.
Laura had mediated a problem between the work group participants and the pastors just before we came that had its inception in differing cultural norms, and the party was to insure good feelings among all. Two students had become romantically involved, and were demonstrative in public. The church reacted, put in draconian parietal rules -- which were rescinded after Laura's intervention and mediation. Apparently in Rwanda it is okay for people who are not romantically involved to touch in public, hold hands, etc. Men will hug men; a man can touch a woman. However, if there is a romantic relationship, this is forbidden. ie, Matt and Laura can not hold hands or kiss in public, but Matt can give me a hug or a kiss or hold my hand. Laura explained all this to the kids, and got general understanding from all.
There is great formality among the Rwandan people. They are exceptionally polite; shake hands formally when they meet you. They have great personal pride. There is no eating or drinking in public -- ie, you cannot get a coke and walk up the hill drinking it. I was pushing the envelope when I would sneak sips of my water bottle in the blazing sun, but since I was a mazunga, all was forgiven.
I almost forgot to share the church sermon: " God does his work throughout the world by day, and comes home to Rwanda to sleep at night."
May peace be with you.
Sarel and Philip