From the “Hardest Job You'll Ever Love” to the “Hardest Decision I’ve Ever Made”

Back during training I vaguely remember hearing some crazy statistic that only 1 out of every 3 Peace Corps Volunteers actually complete their entire 2 years of service. I also vaguely remember thinking that it was all rubbish and that I would in no way be included in the group that goes home; I’d make it through, I’d accomplish what I came to do…and more. And yet, here I am, almost 13 months to the day after I arrived in Rwanda, writing you all to tell you about how my story has taken a completely different turn, one I never quite expected.

As some of you know, I was sent to Washington, DC in early February to receive treatment for a few mental health issues that arose during my service. They call it “medical evacuation”, which sounds far more ominous than it actually is. Basically I needed support and services that just weren’t available in Rwanda. At the time, I was shocked to leave, but also welcomed the opportunity to get better so that I could get back to Rwanda as soon as possible. The past six weeks have been filled with good days, bad days, worse days, self reflection, and a WHOLE lot of talking about me, my thoughts, my feelings, my past, my dreams, my experiences, my reactions, my…well, you get the idea.

While I’ve been here so many friends have said to me (rightfully so) “I had no idea things weren’t going well for you, your blogs always sound so upbeat and happy!”. Ah ha! I fooled you! Ok, ok, all joking aside, so many things were happy and upbeat about my life in Rwanda. And many things weren’t. As a writer though, I decided to keep my blog positive, telling the funny anecdotes and introducing you to the never ending hilarious cast of characters that entered my life. And yet, there was another side to my life in Rwanda. There were tears and anger, fear and frustration. And I’m ready to be honest with you all.

First off, it’s impossible to be anonymous in Rwanda. And unfortunately that was something I could never get past. You can’t just walk down the street. Instead, life stops as you approach. You’re a mixture of a celebrity, zoo animal and circus freak. People stop, they stare, they point, they laugh, they talk about you behind your back, they talk about you to your face, and they constantly call out “Muzungu” and/or “give me money” and other things I’d rather not type here. Living in a town as big as mine, it was impossible for everyone to know me, so I made myself a comfort zone, found myself a community. At the market, I had my Mamas. They knew my name, what I wanted to buy, what I was willing to pay, and how hard I was working to learn their language. They appreciated that I came to the market to buy my own food, interact with them, and ask them about their families. At work, I worked to build relationships with my colleagues, spend time with their families and gain their trust. In my neighborhood, I made myself a home. There, I was just Amy, a neighbor, a part time baby sitter, part time librarian, and part time health center worker.

But despite all this, I was still a white, single, female, living alone in a post-conflict developing African country. The hardest experience I went through happened in July. I was hiking with some friends near Lake Burera and was threatened and almost attacked by a mentally disturbed lady in the middle of a busy town center. While I’d rather not go into the details of the incident, the majority of my immediate and long term mental health issues stem from this incident. What bothered me the most at the time, and to this day, is the fact that as I walked away from the incident the Rwandans who had witnessed what happened laughed. I could not understand their reactions; in what culture is it appropriate to laugh at someone who has been traumatized? What kind of a human being thinks that is amusing?

During the following months I struggled with an at times paralyzing mix of anxiety and depression. I dealt with panic attacks, hallucinations, days where I couldn’t get out of bed, let alone leave my house. I was sad, I was angry, I was irritable and worst of all, I lost all motivation to go to work or socialize with anyone. Yet, throughout all this I somehow managed to have days where I put on a happy face and went to work when I needed to; I wrote happy blogs with funny stories, went on a crazy vacation adventure with my family and friends, and most surprisingly opened up the library.

But eventually I had to listen to myself and my friends, and approach Peace Corps for help. Within a week I found myself in DC, having daily counseling sessions and in essence attempt to find myself again. When I arrived, I didn’t think twice about the fact that I wanted to go back. It wasn’t even a question; I WAS going back. But over the past month and a half I’ve been forced to acknowledge and face so many things about myself and my past, and honestly I haven’t had enough time to process it all and get back to an emotionally stable enough place where I feel comfortable to go back to Rwanda. The support I’ve received from family and friends and the Peace Corps staff has been incredible. While I’m utterly heartbroken to not be going back and know that I will miss so many things about Rwanda every day, I’m feeling more and more ok about my decision, and look forward to the day when I can finally feel comfortable about it.

But I refuse to leave this on a negative note, because I want to look back on my time in Rwanda as one of growth, laughter, challenges, long nights of laughing and dancing, days full of fumbling around in Kinyarwanda until I made a breakthrough with a pharmacy manager, watching a child read their first full book in English, smiling faces, a daily alarm clock of goats and cows, and shouts of “Amy” as soon as I walked outside of my gate.

So with that, I’ll say:

I loved Rwanda. From the moment I stepped off the plane, on a muggy, rainy night in Kigali, I loved it. It is by far the most beautiful country I have ever laid eyes on. My favorite times were spent in the back of our white pick-up truck, Mboneza and Bertin chattering away in Kinyarwanda up front as we bumped and jolted our way on the dirt roads of Musanze, surrounded by plantain trees, corn stalks and towering volcanoes.

I loved my job. I met Jacqueline, the charismatic and smiling Director of Bisate health center. We worked together to find much needed funds to connect running water to the hospitalization rooms at her health center. I met Gertrude, a single mother who had lost her husband during the genocide, raising four kids while working full time as the pharmacy manager at Muhoza health center. We spent hours fumbling around on her computer, learning less about excel formulas and more just about each other. I met Bertin, my counterpart. With him towering above at 6’3” and me at 5’1” we made quite the comical pair walking into health centers and district meetings. But our differences ended there. He was my mentor, my cheerleader, my right hand man, my friend. And I had the privilege and honor to meet with and work daily with Gilbertine, my librarian. She showed up to the library and immediately made it hers. I realized that her true calling was as a teacher the day I walked into the library to find her reviewing English vocabulary with 20 eager schoolchildren. She put her heart, soul and time into the library, constantly learning, listening and improving. She was one of the strongest women I met in Rwanda; having lost almost her entire family during the genocide, she lived her life separate from her husband, who worked in Kigali, so that they could both provide for their two daughters. I’ll never forget the day she looked at me, grabbed my hand and said in Kinyarwanda “You are a Rwandan, you are my family”.

I loved my Rwandan family, all of them. My host mom, Jeanne, host dad, Alexis, and host brothers and sisters: Clement, Carve, Kevine, Karine, Jacques and Josiane. They taught me Kinyarwanda, I taught them English. I taught them how to blow bubbles, they taught me to dance. I gave Karine a bonbon (lollipop), and then another, and another, and another…. I loved my neighbor, Providence (aka Mama Sifa), and my go to gal-pal, Janviere. I loved Carrot Lady, and Egg Man, and Cucumber Lady, and my Banana Mama. I even loved the guy from the corner store who gruffly gave me bread, toilet paper and phone minutes, and most likely questioned why I never bought anything else. But most of all I loved my best friends. They may have all been under the age of 12, but they taught me the most about Rwanda and myself. There was Sifa, the mama of the group, always making sure that each kid got at least one avocado before leaving my yard. And Grace, the diva, who would sing and dance and pose as if she were constantly a contestant on Rwanda’s Next Top Model. Michaela, with a smile that could melt my heart; she started to lose her baby teeth and wouldn’t smile any more for pictures, until I figured out how ticklish she is. There’s Deniz, sweet and beautiful, but with a fire within, she was always the first to reach me as the children came running in a herd towards me. Shadia, the bully, who despite her antics managed to make me laugh so hard that five minutes later I couldn’t remember why I was mad at her in the first place. There was Jono, the boy with the gorgeous eyes who would often show up at my gate in an outfit that could only be described as Little Boy Blue. And Mugisha, the thug, who talked a big game, but would still grab my hand when no one else was looking. And Jackson, who honestly I could never find because his favorite spot was at the very top of my avocado tree, presiding over the entire land.

And I loved my friends (though they really should be referred to as family also). They were from Rwanda, America, Europe, Asia; drawn from all walks of life to do everything from teach to train to minister. We cooked food, we ate even more, we watched movies, we drank boxes of wine, we started singing groups, we danced until dawn, we took sketchy cab rides, we swapped clothes and stories, we spent hours at hotels staring not at each other, but at our computers, we would take walks and endure the calls of “Muzungu” (to which we would of course reply “umm, there are more than one of us, the correct terms is ABAzunugu”), and we would share everything: our life stories, our thoughts, our experiences, our ups and our downs. I know many of these people like the back of my hand. They’re in my soul now, and always will be.

I’ve written about all of this because I want it to be clear that in no way did the things and the people above contribute to my decision to leave Rwanda and Peace Corps. If anything, they are the reason that my decision was so utterly difficult. I feel blessed to have been given the opportunity to go to Rwanda, to meet those people, work at those places, open a wonderful, fabulous library, and make friends that will last a lifetime. I’m coming away from this experience a smarter person, a stronger person and full of memories and experiences that no one can ever take away.

So before I part, to my Rwandans I want to say:

Murakoze cyane! Nzabakumbura byose buri munsi! Muri abagwaneza. Murabeho kandi muri muri umutima wanjye.

Urukundo n’amahoro,
Umugwaneza (cyangwa Amy)

And to you, my readers, I want to say…this isn’t the end. I’m not sure what the future holds as I temporarily move back to Ohio to recover fully and spend time with my family. But I’m sure the months ahead will be full of adventures and stories that I will continue to share, if you’ll continue to read them. I thank you all for the love and support you’ve shown me over the past year (and beyond); I’ll never fully be able to express how much it meant to me. Murakoze!!