Murabeho

There is one word in Kinyarwanda that is used very sparingly: “Murabeho”. It means goodbye, or farewell, and is only used when you know you will not see someone for a long time. I think I can count on one hand the number of times I said “murabeho” while I was in Rwanda, and they all occurred as I left training for my permanent site in Musanze. As I left for vacation, and subsequently for my med-evac time in DC, the only words of farewell I used were “bye” (in English) and “nzagureba vuba” (my literal translation of “I will see you quickly”, though I’m sure there’s an actual verb or saying for that in Kinyarwanda). But why didn’t I say “murabeho”, you ask? It’s because as far as I was concerned, I was coming back. I would see them all again quickly. But as you and I both now know, that “see you quickly” turned into “farewell for possibly forever” while I was thousands of miles away from them all.

Over the past few months I’ve been plagued by guilt over being unable to truly say goodbye to people. I’m missing the closure that most Peace Corps volunteers get, regardless of whether they’re leaving at the end of their service, or going home because of medical reasons, or because they chose to. I had the option to simply leave. I could have medically separated straight from Rwanda, saying my farewells and being home in Ohio on February 6th, done with Peace Corps. But I wasn’t ready; I was barely ready to even admit what I was going through and seek the help that I needed. And I had convinced myself that my feelings were just a phase. So I said “see you later” and came home, leaving my belongings, my job, my friends, and a part of my heart in Rwanda. It’s been exactly five months to the day since I arrived back in America, and only today I was reunited with all of my wonderful Rwandan keepsakes and a large amount of incredibly smelly market clothing. But I still feel like a fraction of that heart remains in the house and community I left behind.

So, back to this guilt. I feel guilty for leaving without saying goodbye, for not finishing the projects I had started, for never fulfilling promises I had made. I wondered what my neighbors thought when I never came back to my house. What did my boss say when he visited health centers without his tiny white girl accomplice? Do they even notice my absence in the market, or at the library? My greatest fear was that they would compare me to the numerous other Muzungus who have come into their lives and then abandoned them in their time of need. I was swirling in a whirlpool of regret and self-doubt about my decision when I realized I might be being a bit overdramatic about the whole thing.

I was only there for a year, spent just as much time alone in my house as I did outside. I did some awesome work at the health centers and library and made friends with more kids than anyone else in my town. Without a doubt I know that I impacted a lot of lives while I was there. Did I change lives? Probably not, really. But I fully believe that the ability to change one’s self lies solely within that person. So “impacting lives” is good enough for me. “Making lifelong friendships” is good enough for me. “Having one heck of a kick butt vacation” is good enough for me. At the end of the day, maybe it was better to not have had to say “murabeho”. Rwandans are notoriously non-emotional people, so maybe it was actually right of me to allow them to avoid a possibly emotional situation. As well as letting me avoid what would have been, for me, an absolutely emotional situation.

So where’s this guilt coming from? Turns out, it’s just me. I feel bad for leaving, I feel bad for not seeing my service through, for not finishing my projects, for not completing what I dreamed about for so very long.

Then a few weeks ago, I got an email. It was from my librarian, Gilbertine. It was riddled with spelling and grammar mistakes, barely comprehendible at points, but the message was clear. We miss you. We wish you well. We think of you often. And we thank you for what you did for us. Honestly, that’s all it took. All I needed was for the person who I had worked with most closely in Rwanda on the project dearest to my heart, to say “thank you”. And just like that, part of the guilt disappeared. Not all of it, but such a big chunk that I’m really able to look back and see so many more positives. So many happier days and wonderful moments.

These happy thoughts gave way to thoughts of “living in the present” and “planning for the future” and ultimately, to one word: reinvention.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the person I am today. In reality, I feel more happy, more accomplished, more confident, more self-aware, and more passionate than ever before. And I without a doubt loved my time in Peace Corps. But coming back from an experience like Rwanda has given me this overwhelming sense of closing one door and opening another. To be extremely cliché, I feel as if I’m ending a chapter of my life and beginning another. Reinvention, beginning anew, improving on what’s already present. My brain started moving a mile a minute with new hobbies, new passions, new career paths, new friendships, new viewpoints, and an overwhelming number of new things to write about.

But, as I started to draft new blog entries, about the books I was reading, the trips I was taking, the design projects I was undertaking, something didn’t feel right. That’s when I looked at the title of my blog… “And then I moved to Rwanda”, followed by the URL… “Amy goes to Africa”. Well, I’m not sure what the future will hold, but at the moment neither of those titles seems accurate.

So, I think it’s finally time to retire this wonderful website. It’s played so many different roles in my life, and my PC experience wouldn’t have been the same without it. It’s been a friend I could tell anything to. It’s been a consistent venue for receiving encouraging words and support from all of you. But mostly, it’s been a canvas on which I’ve been able to create and share my story. I hope you’ve laughed, I hope you’ve cried, I hope you’ve thought “geez, Amy, could you please stop using so many run-on sentences and parentheses?”.

But, never fear: in true “opening a new chapter” fashion, I’ve created a new blog for your reading enjoyment, aptly titled: Rants of Reinvention. Click it. Read it. Bookmark it. Follow it. ENJOY it.

So, on that note, I guess this is my final Murabeho to some of you! But for others, especially those who follow me to my new blog, I’ll just leave this at…

Nzagureba vuba!

Until then, all my love and thanks,
Amy “Umugwaneza” Studenic