Kenneth, Rwanda and the holidays
Fortunate.
That's what I am, that's what you are, whether you realize it or not.
It took me a trip to Rwanda to realize it.
The land of genocide and Don Cheadle run hotels.
At least, that was all I knew of it before my trip.
For those who have lived in a cave on the moon with their fingers in their ears, 15 years ago Rwanda was the scene of one of the greatest crimes against humanity in modern history. Years of Hutu-Tutsi (the two “tribes” of Rwanda) struggles erupted in an explosion of violence that left between 800,000 and 1,000,000 dead (depending on what source you use). Hacked to death by machetes, raped and tortured, and some small children even smashed against walls.
This was my choice for vacation number one.
But, I can personally attest that the bloody, horrific and shameful chapter of Rwanda's history that was the genocide is truly behind them.
Smiling faces greeted me along streets and on the bus I rode on the winding roads across Rwanda's thousand hills (or, in French — and Hotel Rwanda fans take note — “milles collines”)
I was still a rarity, still a “mzungu” (Swahili word for white person), but I felt intensely more relaxed than I did in Kenya.
My relaxation gave way to humility after I met a young man in the westernmost town, Gisenyi.
I had heard about a young man named Kenneth who had started an orphanage on his own and was struggling to support all the kids but was the most optimistic spirit one could imagine.
I had traveled to Gisenyi just to meet him in hopes of arranging an interview.
As the bus came to a stop, I realized that perhaps I should've arranged this interview before arriving for a one night stay.
A combination of luck and a battery of text messages resulted in Kenneth meeting me at my beachfront hotel, giving me a big hug, and taking me to his “little project.”
As the sun set, we arrived at the Rubavu Transit Street Kids Centre, two modest buildings on a property that wouldn't hold a football field.
He has only been operating his centre for six months and already has 49 kids that depend on him for shelter and two meals a day.
Kenneth is 22.
He would love to rely on external donations but his project, like the kids in his care, are quite young.
Instead, he funds it almost entirely from the money he earns as a translator.
Kenneth speaks seven languages.
As we sit down for the interview, one of the kids brings me a plate and insists I eat with them. I say I'm alright, not for fear of the food, but rather, these kids need this meal much more than a husky Canadian reporter ever would and I know they're tight on supplies.
Nevertheless, their hospitality won the day and I took a few mouthfuls of ugali (a doughy maize flour dish) and greens (basically vegetarian stew with beans) as I interviewed this young man who seems to be wholly unaware of the term “negativity.”
Born in Uganda, his mother left when he was one year-old, leaving him to be raised by his father and stepmother.
He tells me his stepmother never cared for him much and took to poisoning his food, so he left.
The genocide had just ended and he knew his mother was in Gisenyi but had no idea how to find her but, given what's becoming a theme to this kid, he persevered and found her.
They were living in a small house until a recent storm blew the roof off.
“Oh my friend! I must show you my place,” he said as we ate.
Before we left I asked what the kids were saying as the chatter, giggles and stares hadn't stopped since I took my first bite. I was worried I was the victim of some elaborate prank. Punk'd: Rwanda-style.
Nope. Much more innocent than that. The kids, Kenneth told me, were shocked to see “a white man eating with Africans.”
Wow.
As Kenneth walked me up to his place I grabbed his wrist and put 20,000 Rwandan Francs (about $40) in his hand — enough for a sack of maize flour I had learned during our interview. I told him that was to buy lunch for my new friends since they gave me dinner.
Another big hug and showering of thanks, which suddenly made me feel guilty for some reason, and we continued.
We hiked up a steep slope past a few tin huts until we reached his place. A 10' x 6' concrete room with no windows, a tin door, and a bed and three rugs.
As we chatted about Rwanda and Canada, he said he wanted to give me something to remember Gisenyi but, having nothing else to give, offered me one of the five photos he had. I told him that I could not take such a lovely photo from his house and that I had dozens of photos I just took.
Instead, he offered to perform a short rap he had written that was in English and the local dialect Kinyarwanda.
In any other situation this would've made me feel awkward, but sitting on the small bed in a concrete room and having this 22- year-old kid keep looking for ways to thank me for giving him what I'd drop at Molly Bloom's in the first 20 minutes, made me feel humble, slightly guilty and very fortunate.
After the VIP rap performance which was also heard by a woman doing her wash just outside his door, I got up to leave.
Thinking again of how incredible the outpouring of generosity from this young man was, I felt like maybe I could do more, if only a little.
I found $10 U.S. at the bottom of my bag and gave that to him on the condition that it didn't go to the orphanage but instead went to buy the tarps he needed to cover the roof of his house so he and his mother could go home.
He has been pouring almost every penny into the project simply because he was tired of seeing little kids homeless in the streets of Gisenyi.
Don't take this story as a Sally Struthersesque preaching session about “for less than a dollar a day you can make someone's life better.” It's not that at all.
In fact, I don't want this story to make you donate whatsoever. If you want to donate to someone, do it because you want to, not because some article made you feel guilty.
I simply am trying to say, as we near the holiday season and students gripe about exam loads, Londoners moan about the impending snow storms, and the Leafs mope about their NHL standings, take a moment and just reflect on how fortunate you really are.
No matter how bad something may be, it can always be worse. And if someone like Kenneth, who has virtually nothing, can pour everything he's got to make his part of the world a little bit better, perhaps there is hope after all.
Rwanda, once a source of shame of humanity's ruthlessness is now a source of hope and inspiration.
Steve Bull is a recent graduate of the master's degree in journalism program from the University of Western Ontario. He was also a recipient of the IDRC International Development Journalism Award which sends the winner to a developing country to pursue journalism. He chose Kenya.
Editorial opinions or comments expressed in this online edition of Interrobang newspaper reflect the views of the writer and are not those of the Interrobang or the Fanshawe Student Union. The Interrobang is published weekly by the Fanshawe Student Union at 1001 Fanshawe College Blvd., P.O. Box 7005, London, Ontario, N5Y 5R6 and distributed through the Fanshawe College community. Letters to the editor are welcome. All letters are subject to editing and should be emailed. All letters must be accompanied by contact information. Letters can also be submitted online by clicking here.
That's what I am, that's what you are, whether you realize it or not.
It took me a trip to Rwanda to realize it.
The land of genocide and Don Cheadle run hotels.
At least, that was all I knew of it before my trip.
For those who have lived in a cave on the moon with their fingers in their ears, 15 years ago Rwanda was the scene of one of the greatest crimes against humanity in modern history. Years of Hutu-Tutsi (the two “tribes” of Rwanda) struggles erupted in an explosion of violence that left between 800,000 and 1,000,000 dead (depending on what source you use). Hacked to death by machetes, raped and tortured, and some small children even smashed against walls.
This was my choice for vacation number one.
But, I can personally attest that the bloody, horrific and shameful chapter of Rwanda's history that was the genocide is truly behind them.
Smiling faces greeted me along streets and on the bus I rode on the winding roads across Rwanda's thousand hills (or, in French — and Hotel Rwanda fans take note — “milles collines”)
I was still a rarity, still a “mzungu” (Swahili word for white person), but I felt intensely more relaxed than I did in Kenya.
My relaxation gave way to humility after I met a young man in the westernmost town, Gisenyi.
I had heard about a young man named Kenneth who had started an orphanage on his own and was struggling to support all the kids but was the most optimistic spirit one could imagine.
I had traveled to Gisenyi just to meet him in hopes of arranging an interview.
As the bus came to a stop, I realized that perhaps I should've arranged this interview before arriving for a one night stay.
A combination of luck and a battery of text messages resulted in Kenneth meeting me at my beachfront hotel, giving me a big hug, and taking me to his “little project.”
As the sun set, we arrived at the Rubavu Transit Street Kids Centre, two modest buildings on a property that wouldn't hold a football field.
He has only been operating his centre for six months and already has 49 kids that depend on him for shelter and two meals a day.
Kenneth is 22.
He would love to rely on external donations but his project, like the kids in his care, are quite young.
Instead, he funds it almost entirely from the money he earns as a translator.
Kenneth speaks seven languages.
As we sit down for the interview, one of the kids brings me a plate and insists I eat with them. I say I'm alright, not for fear of the food, but rather, these kids need this meal much more than a husky Canadian reporter ever would and I know they're tight on supplies.
Nevertheless, their hospitality won the day and I took a few mouthfuls of ugali (a doughy maize flour dish) and greens (basically vegetarian stew with beans) as I interviewed this young man who seems to be wholly unaware of the term “negativity.”
Born in Uganda, his mother left when he was one year-old, leaving him to be raised by his father and stepmother.
He tells me his stepmother never cared for him much and took to poisoning his food, so he left.
The genocide had just ended and he knew his mother was in Gisenyi but had no idea how to find her but, given what's becoming a theme to this kid, he persevered and found her.
They were living in a small house until a recent storm blew the roof off.
“Oh my friend! I must show you my place,” he said as we ate.
Before we left I asked what the kids were saying as the chatter, giggles and stares hadn't stopped since I took my first bite. I was worried I was the victim of some elaborate prank. Punk'd: Rwanda-style.
Nope. Much more innocent than that. The kids, Kenneth told me, were shocked to see “a white man eating with Africans.”
Wow.
As Kenneth walked me up to his place I grabbed his wrist and put 20,000 Rwandan Francs (about $40) in his hand — enough for a sack of maize flour I had learned during our interview. I told him that was to buy lunch for my new friends since they gave me dinner.
Another big hug and showering of thanks, which suddenly made me feel guilty for some reason, and we continued.
We hiked up a steep slope past a few tin huts until we reached his place. A 10' x 6' concrete room with no windows, a tin door, and a bed and three rugs.
As we chatted about Rwanda and Canada, he said he wanted to give me something to remember Gisenyi but, having nothing else to give, offered me one of the five photos he had. I told him that I could not take such a lovely photo from his house and that I had dozens of photos I just took.
Instead, he offered to perform a short rap he had written that was in English and the local dialect Kinyarwanda.
In any other situation this would've made me feel awkward, but sitting on the small bed in a concrete room and having this 22- year-old kid keep looking for ways to thank me for giving him what I'd drop at Molly Bloom's in the first 20 minutes, made me feel humble, slightly guilty and very fortunate.
After the VIP rap performance which was also heard by a woman doing her wash just outside his door, I got up to leave.
Thinking again of how incredible the outpouring of generosity from this young man was, I felt like maybe I could do more, if only a little.
I found $10 U.S. at the bottom of my bag and gave that to him on the condition that it didn't go to the orphanage but instead went to buy the tarps he needed to cover the roof of his house so he and his mother could go home.
He has been pouring almost every penny into the project simply because he was tired of seeing little kids homeless in the streets of Gisenyi.
Don't take this story as a Sally Struthersesque preaching session about “for less than a dollar a day you can make someone's life better.” It's not that at all.
In fact, I don't want this story to make you donate whatsoever. If you want to donate to someone, do it because you want to, not because some article made you feel guilty.
I simply am trying to say, as we near the holiday season and students gripe about exam loads, Londoners moan about the impending snow storms, and the Leafs mope about their NHL standings, take a moment and just reflect on how fortunate you really are.
No matter how bad something may be, it can always be worse. And if someone like Kenneth, who has virtually nothing, can pour everything he's got to make his part of the world a little bit better, perhaps there is hope after all.
Rwanda, once a source of shame of humanity's ruthlessness is now a source of hope and inspiration.
Steve Bull is a recent graduate of the master's degree in journalism program from the University of Western Ontario. He was also a recipient of the IDRC International Development Journalism Award which sends the winner to a developing country to pursue journalism. He chose Kenya.
Editorial opinions or comments expressed in this online edition of Interrobang newspaper reflect the views of the writer and are not those of the Interrobang or the Fanshawe Student Union. The Interrobang is published weekly by the Fanshawe Student Union at 1001 Fanshawe College Blvd., P.O. Box 7005, London, Ontario, N5Y 5R6 and distributed through the Fanshawe College community. Letters to the editor are welcome. All letters are subject to editing and should be emailed. All letters must be accompanied by contact information. Letters can also be submitted online by clicking here.
