On civic engagement

My sister and I were raised by two working parents, an attribute of our upbringing that I often reflect on as a critical to who I am and who we are as a family. Our parents taught us the value of hard work and commitment, and although I can remember many mornings crying as we “pushed mom out the door”, I am so appreciative of what their work ethic taught Claudia and me. Once in the third grade, I can vividly remember my new friend (we had just moved to Lafayette) telling me that because my mom was the boss of her company, that meant she must be really mean, “because all bosses are mean”. I wish I had told her to shove it.

Having working parents meant my sister and I had a lot of free time to ourselves at home. We walked home from school together, got to choose our own snacks (ice cream anyone?), and were expected to finish our homework, take out the garbage cans and have the dishes loaded by the time mom and dad got home. This often resulted in a mad dash to finish our chores to avoid truly pissing our parents off. I am not sure which came first – our independent natures or being given independence by our parents, but I am confident that having the space to self-motivate and push ourselves made us better students, workers, children and people. To this day, I rarely leave dishes in the sink while my parents are at work, for fear of their disappointment when they arrive home.

Having working parents also meant that Claudia and I had free reign of the TV during summer days. I’m sure my parents won’t be happy to know this, but I can vividly remember sitting on the couch all morning long, watching episodes of Jerry Springer, Maury and Dr. Phil. Throw in a few episodes of Wheel of Fortune and the Price is Right, and you have many of my summer childhood mornings (only when we weren’t in school or summer camps). I cannot speak for my sister, but I loved the trashy TV shows that grace mid-morning TV. The drama! The yelling! The tears! For a pre-teen with little drama of my own, aside from fighting with friends over God knows what and who slow-danced with who at the middle school dance last weekend, this drama was pure entertainment gold. I had to know – who was the daddy? Is Judge Judy going to rule in favor of the landlord or the crazy tenant? How much is the living room furniture set worth?

Last week at work, I attended a local cell meeting in our health center’s catchment area. Because of Peace Corps moto rules, my counterpart and I had about an hour-long hike to get to the meeting. I’m not complaining – Mike once told me that if he were to write me an acrostic poem of my name, the “E” stand for Extra Steps. On our long walk, we passed the market, a local school, coffee farms, and the most beautiful views of Lake Kivu I have seen since arriving at site. When we arrived at the meeting, he and I were given seats front and center, and luckily in the shade. I was told that the Health Center is given a short slot at these meetings to discuss local health issues. My counterpart, Emmanuel, was in charge of this and I was just going along for the ride.

Before Emmanuel could speak, there was official cell business to be taken care of. Constituents voted for new Community Health Workers (volunteers in each community who provide critical health services, such as family planning, malaria treatment and oral rehydration salts for diarrhea). Then, there was the issue of the cows. The government gives each cell 25 cows that are to be distributed to the lowest income residents to increase their income and improve their nutritional status. This is where things started to get juicy. People would raise their hands, give their case for needing a cow, and others in the crowd would either cheer and applaud and confirm their need, or boo and yell “Afite amafaranga!!!”. They have money! I couldn’t believe this is how government subsidized cows were being given out, but okay, as long as it didn’t take more than an hour, I figured I would be okay.

After about an hour of this, it was Emmanuel’s time to speak. Although I didn’t understand everything he said, he touched on cleanliness and hygiene, malaria prevention and the recent Ebola outbreak across the lake in the DRC. The crowd dwindled a bit for this part – I soon realized this was not what the crowd came to see. I was given the opportunity to introduce myself, talk about Peace Corps and what I will be doing at the health center. Every time I speak in Kinyarwanda, people are thrilled, no matter how little I really know. They made me feel like a rock star! A brilliant, almost Rwandan, public health rock star.

After the doling out of cows, Emmanuel’s health speech, and my introduction, I figured we would get to go home. I was hungry, thirsty, my back was killing me from sitting on a bench for the past two hours, and I have learned that equatorial sun makes you sweat in places you didn’t know possible. Unfortunately for myself, I sat on that bench, under an umbrella to protect from the shifting sun, for an additional three hours.

The next part of the meeting can only be described as Judge Judy meets Maury LIVE! Rwanda Edition. Local citizens were given the opportunity to stand up, air their grievances, and get decisions from cell officials. The executive secretary of the cell led this portion of the meeting, with a microphone, and easily could have been mistaken for a talk show host. The crowd, I kid you not, tripled in size when this portion of the meeting started. Standing room only. Emmanuel gave me a play by play – there was a couple requesting a divorce, women who were unhappily pregnant, people who didn’t follow through on contracts, and a woman who had her phone stolen and was accusing a neighbor of taking it from her. There was active participation from the crowd (cheering, yelling, hissing, even physical restraint), and tears from those presenting their cases who were, in my very American opinion, being harassed. Emmanuel looks at me with a huge smile and says, “This is the best part of the meeting!”.

Many Peace Corps Volunteers don’t write about this or disclose this information, but moving to site after nearly ten weeks of training with all of your friends is intensely difficult. As much as you can prepare mentally for living in a rural village where you don’t speak the language, don’t understand your role at work and stand out like a sore thumb, you literally cannot prepare at all. Overall, it is sad, scary, overwhelming, lonely and truly daunting. I disclose this, firstly because I assume that some people who read this blog are potential volunteers and they need to know that Peace Corps service isn’t all pretty dresses, beautiful music and “adventure” – some days it downright blows. Secondly, I disclose this because this meeting came in the middle of one of my hot mess weeks. My computer charger had broken the night before, the rainy season had started early and all I could think about was how the heck I could live in my village for two years.

The woman who had her phone stolen started crying, and I had to do everything in my power to keep the tears from flowing from my eyes. I was a weepy mess that week, and Rwandans do not take well to outward emotions such as tears, especially in public. Emmanuel, realizing I was starting to lose it and clearly wanted to go home, finally told the cell officials we would be leaving. On our walk home, he told me that he loved the last part of the meeting, not for the drama, but because it allows him to understand the social problems affecting citizens in our community. I personally think he also likes the drama a bit. This turned into a conversation about how social issues are handled in the United States versus how they are handled here in rural Rwanda – cultural exchange! I was doing my job as a PCV.

Honestly, I came out of the meeting totally shocked. I could never imagine getting a divorce in front of my entire neighborhood, while people cheered and shouted their opinions, or talking about something as personal as unwanted pregnancy in front of such a large crowd of people. Instead of being offended, or upset, or mad, I decided that I needed to change my opinion and perspective. I told my parents about this meeting, and my dad reminded me that not long ago in the United States, town meetings were prevalent and places where citizens could discuss their social problems. He also reminded me that although I told Emmanuel that Americans are much more private about their personal issues, in reality, many Americans use social media as a platform to share their most personal problems. How different is it really, he encouraged me to ask myself.

One of the things I have learned about Rwandan culture since moving here three months ago, is how community and family-oriented Rwandans are. There are no secrets in this culture, and everyone knows everything about their friends, family, neighbors and even strangers. Rwandans text and call each other constantly, and I receive daily texts from those in my community who have my phone number, just to say hello and ask how my day is going. I think that the cell meetings are related to this aspect of Rwandan culture, and while I don’t necessarily agree with this approach for handling social issues, I have decided to do my best not to judge this process and to look at it through a lens cultural exchange and mutual understanding. Rwandans in my community are highly engaged in their communities and are active participants in local government meetings. How many Americans can say that about their neighbors? The level of civic engagement in my community is astounding – they come for the cows and health talk (not really), but they most definitely stay to support and understand their fellow community members, and to get some good entertainment that they can share via endless phone calls and texts with friends and family.