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Community Corner

The Peace Corps Chronicles: Starting Over In Rwanda

Rosemount Patch's Peace Corps columnist reports in from her new home in Rwanda.

Editor's Note: Regular readers of Rosemount Patch might be familiar with the name Mackenzie Drutowski. She is a former Rosemount resident (and graduate from RHS), who has been writing about her experiences as a teacher in the Peace Corps. Her first pieces had been from Niger, where she was tasked with teaching English to local students.

She and the other Peace Corps volunteers in Niger were forced to leave the country in January after the level of violence increased in the country. She is now living and working in Rwanda.

I have now been in my new home for two weeks.  I live in a small remote village located on top of a hill surrounded by other rolling hills quilted with plots of corn, sorghum, cassava, cabbage, beans, banana trees, and avocado trees.  Every morning our hill is enveloped in the clouds, surrounded by white misty fog.  As the sun rises the fog dissipates and the town wakes up.  The daily downpours that feed our leafy landscape tap tap tap rhythmically on the tin roof of our little concrete house.  Not yet plugged into the electrical grid, the night is dark and the stars, finding no competition, shine with remarkable brilliance.

I live in my little concrete house with three other young Rwandan women, the housekeeper Jane and my two roommates, Emerthe and Clotitlde.  The latter two work at the local government office and have warmly embraced me into their little family.  They work diligently with me on my local language, Kinyarwanda, and have been helping me to integrate into village life.

While the landscape and my living situation are incredibly fortunate, like any new beginning, starting a life here is riddled with challenges.  Most people only speak Kinyarwanda and while my understanding of the language is rapidly improving, I can’t communicate anything beyond the most basic of thoughts.  I go to visit neighbors and I just sit there as they politely converse about what – I honestly
have no idea. 

I am the first foreigner to have ever lived in this town so people are shocked to see me.  When I walk just outside the door of our house people passing by stand up on tip toe, trying to look over our fence and get a peek.  This weekend I went to church with my roommate Emerthe and not only was I gawked at throughout the entire two hour service, the preacher welcomed me personally to Jesus Christ and thanked me for coming at the end of his sermon in front of the whole congregation.

Fortunately, the attention is positive. People are excited to see me and to have me around.  I’ve gotten into an interesting debate with some of my French speaking Rwandan friends about the term “muzungu” which means white person but can also refer to a wealthy Rwandan. Anytime I leave my house people are shouting “muzung” with such intensity it’s like they are warning the village that a lion hurling
itself at them. 

Many people also use “muzungu” in place of my name. To me, “muzungu” is a racist term.  I know they don’t mean it to be derogatory which is what people usually think of when we think of racism, but in using the term they deny me my individuality. They are addressing me by my race and with that label projecting a number of assumptions onto who I am because of my appearance.  The fact that a wealthy Rwandan is no longer considered black to me further indicates that the word has some troubling implications. 

I try to explain that in the United States if you yelled out “black person” to someone with black skin it would be offensive and they don’t get it.  I can understand why they don’t get it because I don’t think I ever really understood that I was white until I came to Africa.  Don’t worry, I don’t get red in the face or upset every time I’m called the term, I understand its cultural context and I know many people even seem to think its some sort of a compliment.  I explained my theory to some of my better friends and my roommates and now whenever they hear someone call me "muzungu" they respond in Kinyarwanda, "She’s not a muzungu, she’s a person!"

As my village is trying to figure out what to make of me, so am I.  In the U.S. I have certain characteristics I ascribe to “me” and most of the people around me have a similar concept of who I am. 

This U.S. "me" is smart, hard working, social, articulate, driven. She makes French press coffee every morning and buys arugula on a weekly basis. Here, I am not particularly smart.  I can speak less articulately than your average 4 year old.  I don’t even know how to cook rice!  Sure give me a stove and a bag of rice with instructions on the back and I’m fine but try explaining that to someone who’s cooked by feel over an open fire for their entire life. 

I try to be social but getting together with other adults to practice counting to 100 is only fun for so long.  I don’t even have work to prove my strong Midwestern work ethic.  Students are taking final exams so I won’t start teaching for another two and a half weeks.  Who am I without work, friends, practical skills, and even language? 

These past couple weeks I’ve spent a lot of time wondering around these rolling hills thinking about it.  In Niger I always had enough French that I felt like I was able to express myself and I had activities to do in my town and a solid group of American friends to fall back on.  Here I don’t have those luxuries.  In my town, people like me because I smile a lot and I am willing to laugh at myself.  I am making friends because I am willing to sit and just be with people and I am willing to try, to try to speak the language, to try the homemade sorghum beer that will later make me vomit, to try plowing a potato garden with a hoe.

Eventually the work, the language, and the friends will come but it’s been interesting getting to know not only Rwanda but also myself, without all the other stuff, for perhaps the very first time.

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