Ethiopia: Lalibela

I have wanted to visit Lalibela for years. It was one of those mystical destinations that plagued me. Making it to the small, northern Ethiopian town filled with underground carved churches felt like such a gift from life. Sometimes we get what we ask for...in a totally different way than we could have expected.

My friends and I, the other female fellow in Rwanda, the fellow in Uganda, and a fellow from Ethiopia flew on a little propeller plane from Addis to Lalibela a few short days after arriving in Ethiopia. We decided on Lalibela as our destination because of the trekking possibilities (in another post) and the draw of the World Heritage site that houses 13 underground churches known as the "Jerusalem of Africa." Lalibela is Ethiopia's second "holy city," behind Axum, where the 10 Commandments and Ark of the Covenant are thought to be housed. Ethiopia is predominantly Ethiopian Orthodox Christian and the religious history is fascinating and ancient. We had to see these living churches for ourselves. 

We stayed in a hotel that conveniently had no electricity or water (dang, Africa!) but we made do by sitting by the pool and complaining a lot. Luckily, by the final night all was well and we got warm showers in our hotel rooms. Traveling in Africa has taught me so much about what I have taken for granted all my life. I am so glad to learn these lessons young so that I can have a more thoughtful life than I would have without Africa. 

Anyways, the morning after we arrived we set out with a guide for a half-day tour. A half day was all we really needed, a full day would have been total over-kill. We donned our head wraps in respect (though we were told white people aren't expected to wear them) and wandered around the churches, all 13 within walking distance, and ooo'ed and ahhh'ed at the grandeur. They were as beautiful and big and inspiring as I expected all these years. 

The churches are thought to have been built in the 12th and 13th centuries when Lalibela was the capitol of Ethiopia. 

What was most impactful for me was that these churches are still in use. The town relies on these churches as their home base. They are also seen as pilgrimage sites for the faithful. Each church that we went into had believers on their knees, being blessed by priests, and elderly reading from stained books that seemed to be falling apart in their use and age. We were visiting as tourists, and we paid a hefty fee to get in as sightseers, but besides the obvious use of the churches as money-generating tourism, there was a sense of honor and respect. Of diety. 

The faithful were there among us. 

It is an honor to sit beside believers and observe their traditions and ferver. I have felt this way at holy sites in many of my travels, in Myanmar and Thailand and India and China...sometimes the holy mixes with practical tourism and someone like me finds themselves sitting next to an Ethiopian man knee deep in prayer. It's humbling to witness fervent faith that has somehow lived through generations of change (and mayhem) in Ethiopia. 

Some photos of the churches and surrounding areas....

After 2 days in Lalibela, we set out for our next adventure....trekking....


walk slow. xoxo. 

Happy...Everything.

The reality of my job, working for the "Man," and life in Africa in general means that what is transmitted through normal communication avenues is not always what turns out to be reality. 

(Isn't this life?)

Thus was my experience the day after returning from Ethiopia last week. I was exhausted from 5 full conference days, emotionally drained, and just wanted to cuddle with my cat and drink tea. But alas, the english diplomacy show must go on. I was scheduled to be the token American for a U.S. Embassy movie screening at a girls school about 1.5 hours outside Kigali. Our email communication about the event went like this...

Them: "Jessica, will you lead small discussion groups about the movie Selma to celebrate Black History Month?" 

Me: "Sure." *plans small group discussion points based on non-violent leadership as portrayed by MLK Jr. in the movie Selma.* 

fast forward to the actual event*

School Official: "Jessica, it is so great you are here to lead a school-wide celebration of International Woman's Day!" 

Me: slightly confused...."Oh yes, I am eager to lead discussion groups on Black History Month." 

School Official: "Discussion groups? Oh no...the whole school is attending, 270 students, and they look forward to talking about woman's issues with you." 

Me: "Great, where's the mic? Let's do this." 

And that is how I ended up leading a Q and A session about women's issues and America in general with 270 bright, capable, interesting girls at the Gashora School for Girls in Gashora, Rwanda. I was so impressed with the girls. The aim of the school is to give the girls an even playing field with international competition for scholarships in the US. The school is a boarding school, so the girls have a safe and comfortable place to live and are fed wholesome, nutritious food. These two factors give the girls the edge that they need to thrive. Their character and smarts are intrinsic, but it is the environment that so often holds girls back from reaching their true potential. At Gashora, the girls have their physical needs cared for, are respected, and are held to high standards that they are very capable of reaching. Over 90 Gashora graduates are studying on scholarship in the US today...and more and more will be joining them in the years to come. How fabulous. We must let girls learn. 

I was so surprised when my plans turned out to not be what was expected of the school. But in the end, talking about girl power was such a crowd pleaser and motivator. I got another experience in "going with the flow" and was inspired by such fabulous women who have a clear goal and are going for it.

Go girls! Happy International Women's Day, or Black History Month. It's all good. 

walk slow. xoxo. 

Morning Thoughts: On Faith and Fairness.

This morning while my eggs simmered over the gas stove in my new Kigali kitchen, I looked out the window into the pouring rain and saw my neighbor’s newly hired guard. He was sleeping on his back on pieces of cardboard outside my neighbors door. Surely, he is being pelted with rain, I thought, poor guy! I scooped up my bright yellow eggs, poured my coffee with coffee creamer bought at an American Walmart many months ago, and sat on my couch next to my Chinese cat, whose imported food probably costs more than an entire Rwandan family's monthly food budget. 

And then the thought hit me again. That aching thought that has haunted me since nearly the moment I landed in Africa. Why am I in here and he is out there? 

The answer in reality is simple, I live here, this is my apartment that I pay for with the job that I have. He is working, sees no pity in resting on cardboard, as I do, and is happy to be employed and to have a leisurely job. 

But there is so much more to the answer. 

If there is one thing Africa has taught me so far, it is that life - the lot we are each individually dealt - is incredibly, incredibly unfair. The dialogue of my conservative Christian upbringing would say that God created us all, placed us within our families, and has a “plan” for us. But what about my students whose families were slaughtered in front of them by their neighbors? What about the farmers who fear growing new crops, as instructed by foreign NGO’s, because they fear growing too much yield and being accused of witchcraft by their neighbors? What about the children who follow herds of goats each day after kindergarten and will never see a playground in their entire life? 

In Africa, I have clung to my faith, even when it is unpopular in vagabond circles to do so. I do not doubt that God loves me, loves all of us. I do not doubt that divinity is alive and working. But the role that God has in our lives…that belief base of a God with a “plan”  has been shattered and is being rebuilt. (Not that I will ever find a true answer, as a fallible human being). If I praise God for success, what about those who suffer?  This takes us down a path of discussion of free will, divine intervention, etc that is perhaps too deep for my baby blog, but you get my point. 

A few weeks ago after my class at Women for Women I was escorted by Eugenie to the side of the road where I would await a mini-van bus to take me to the large bus stop in town. Eugenie is a genocide widow and mother of 5 sons and one daughter. She has done well for herself, she works at the Opportunity Center as a secretary and is able to converse with me in basic English. She wears full gowns of colorful kitenge fabric and has a smooth, sweet face. While we stood by the road, I asked her about her children. She proudly informed me that all the boys were in school. And the girl stayed home to help in the house. Deciding to avoid the topic of gender equality, mostly because I was tired, I told her she must be so proud of her children and encouraged her for doing a great job as mother. “Jesus took care of me,” she replied. She pointed to her heart and said again, “Jesus.” 

My guts shook with a mixture of anger, true understanding, empathy, and awe. 

Your husband was hacked to pieces with a machete and you think that Jesus has taken care of you????

I took a deep breath, looked into her eyes, and I felt it. 

She’s right. He has. 

If you take away the belief that every singular act is caused by God, or divinity, then perhaps you can accept the good, the bad, and the ugly of life and learn to rely on God’s provision throughout. 

I don’t know. I’m still mulling through this. Surely there are books and articles by religious scholars on this exact topic. But have they sat in a room of women whose husbands were brutally slaughtered? It’s easy to repeat rhetoric and say the world is broken and full of sin, but these culturally-manipulated sentences have real-life implications for humans. Real people. Who live through shit. Who sleep on cardboard. Who eat only beans and bananas once a day. 

I am thankful my faith remains, through the questions that arise when faced with other realities. And also thankful for a broadening worldview that includes people and cultures that are vastly different than my own. Finding a faithfulness that includes all people, that allows for a world-wide God, who acknowledges the mini-van mommas in America and the baby carrying mommas in Africa, is my mission.

I want the world to be more fair. 

I want Eugenie’s daughter to go to school and for countries to stop killing their own people. 

I want to not feel guilty when I eat eggs on my couch with my spoiled cat. 

Perhaps this is the price of exposure. Exposure to other peoples and cultures, exposure to poverty, exposure to unspeakable acts. 

I guess all this is to say… I felt guilty and sad while eating breakfast today. And I needed to write it down. 

walk slow. xoxo. 

Ethiopia: A Preface.

"There are many kinds of love in this world,

 but never the same love twice." 

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Almost two years ago, and what seems like 6 lifetimes, an Ethiopian man broke my heart.

The aftermath was difficult and dramatic. And to be honest, a flame for this person (and the pain they inflicted upon me) has always burned in my heart. Perhaps that is how our deep loves stay with us after they are gone, in little vessels of fire in our depths. 

When I arrived to orientation for the fellow program in Washington DC last summer, I was clued-in that our mid-year African fellows conference might be held in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. This news caused me stress and instigated the patience of my friends who had to listen over and over to the dialogue of, "What do I do?" I was unsure of the wisdom in reaching out and questioned my ability to keep it cool and stable. 

Luckily, that question was answered for me. While on a bus one morning from Kibungo to Kigali in early December, I received a message of heartfelt repentance from the Ethiopian man who had stolen and then discarded my heart many moons ago. Thus began a journey of forgiveness, love, and ultimately - redemption. 

Against the advice of my dearest friends and family, I informed my former lover that I would be in Addis Ababa in March. Slowly, over the months that followed, we shared our new lives, re-built smidgens of trust, and decided to meet again for the first time in what seemed like centuries. My ultimate reasoning: healing and closure. I booked my ticket to Ethiopia for almost 2 weeks before the conference, giving ample time to spend hiking with my friends and spending time with him in his homeland. 

What resulted was one of the greatest, most redemptive and serendipitous (though quite emotional) experiences of my life. I am lucky. Not everyone has a chance to face their heartbreak head-on and redeem past pain. Not everyone gets the chance to sit down with someone who rejected them and be told how valuable you were to their life experiences. I truly believe this experience was a gift from God. 

I'll be blogging the Ethiopia trip in a few parts: work and play. But, it seemed fitting while sitting here in the Entebbe, Uganda airport on an ungodly long layover from Addis to Kigali, to open the dialogue honestly. Going to Ethiopia meant the world to me. It meant closure and healing and discovery and adventure. It meant realizing that I am not a replaceable piece in another person's puzzle, as I have believed for so long. It meant traveling to Ethiopia because I have a kick-ass job and not because I was following someone who couldn't love me properly. I was there for me. There was so much power in that fact.

I realized that sometimes love doesn't go away, it just changes. Burning forever in a cavern of the heart, tucked away to remind us of our humanity. Of our capacity to feel and evolve.

Ethiopia gave me a great gift of redemption, of evaluation of the past, and a clearer vision of how I want my future to be (more full of grace, more full of self-value).

I will be forever grateful. 

walk slow. xoxo.

Women For Women.

“Gender equality and empowerment of women is key to the success of the Millennium Development Goals. Not only as a specific target, but for the goals in general. Women bear a heavier burden of the world’s poverty than men, because of the discrimination they face in education, health care, employment and control of assets.”

-Johanna Siguroardottir, Prime Minister of Iceland. 

Meet my girls. 

It's taken 5 months to get these classes aimed at empowering marginalized women started, and I am so, so happy/proud. Two weeks into the sessions, I am feeling tired and fabulous. I have two days a week at the Women for Women Opportunity Center, about 1.5 hours from my home in Kigali. On Mondays, members of the community who were vetted based on interest, goals, and poverty level come to the center for class On Wednesdays, genocide widows who have been selected by the center to train in handicraft skills such as weaving and basketry come for lessons. The two groups are very different. On Mondays we discuss sentences and ideas. Though a translator I explain cultural nuances of English and can get them to laugh. On Wednesdays, my ladies are illiterate even in their native tongue, kinyarwanda, so we drill the alphabet and numbers and recite simple dialogues...over and over. Most of the ladies don't know how to hold a pen or write their names. 

My first week I found myself wondering, "What is the point?" I am riding the public bus 3 hours round trip to drill the ABC's with women whose husbands were slaughtered in front of them 21 years ago. It is easy to slip down a rabbit hole of, "Who really freaking cares about the ABC's at this point in life?" These women have seen so much. Lived through so much. Accepted so much. So much that I don't understand and will never ask. They have continued living after unspeakable tragedy in a culture that proclaims equality and yet has culturally ingrained injustices against women that are visible even on the surface level. They've raised kids, lost kids, managed a home, and just...continued.  And now, some redhead chick from Florida has shown up with flashcards and a flipchart. What's the relevance? 

Empowerment. 

Self-pride. 

Self-worth. 

Dignity. 

These women get a free english class with a native speaker once a week. Once a week, they can sit in a circular room together with an American and have an experience many have not ever had - proper education. For the first time my teaching objective is not a standardized test, or university admittance, or job acquisition. Now, our goal is empowerment. By adding an activity to the weekly schedules of these women that focuses on their own wellbeing, their minds, their creativity and individuality, we are giving them a safe place for expression. A place to challenge themselves and learn something new...like how to write their names, how to introduce themselves to foreigners, how to count and spell. I find that I have been tasked with the most meaningful (and challenging) work I've ever done. 

Please send some uplifting thoughts our way, if you find the time. 

walk slow. xoxo. 

5 month switch up.

The story is long and dramatic. But the blog post won't be. 

Last week, at the 5 month, half-way point of my fellowship, I was granted funding and permission to move from the goat field to the city. Several of my superiors masterminded and worked to grant me this funding and approval. I am thankful for the kindness and understanding of my bosses, who understood that my situation was unique in its crappyness, but also recognized my true desire to be here and keep going. 

Mushu and I have a one bedroom apartment in a wonderful and convenient part of town. I have a kitchen. I have tile floors. I have a hot water heater, a flushing toilet, and electricity 95% of the day. 

I'm so pleased, and relieved, and guilty. I feel so guilty for being happy having creature comforts. 

But for now, I am resting in my bedroom. Safe, comfortable, and surrounded by conveniences that make me feel better prepared to do my job. 

Kibungo will be one of those things that I am really, truly glad it happened. 

And really, truly glad it's over. 

Photos of moving day:  

the boys and mushu having a final pow-wow

goodbye, goat boy! we love you! 

the last ear scratch 

Mushu throwing a fit 

We both will miss our yard! 

buddies

best friends saying goodbye

Cheers to 5 more months of a fellowship in Rwanda, without evacuations and commuting!

walk slow. xoxo.

Little Pen Pals: A Teacher Collaboration Story.

I know some awesome teachers. 

One of those incredible teachers lives in New York and spends her days teaching little minds. (A job I envy! My pre-school assistant days many years ago were fabulous.) 

My friend Jennie and I decided to have a pen-pal program with her little people and my big people to give American students and Rwandan students a chance to ask each other questions and create a platform for curiosity and understanding. Her school's culture theme this year is Africa and lucky us...I live in Africa. 

Around Christmas I received my first batch of letters from the little souls, describing their Christmas holiday traditions ("We eat a big dinner" and "We have a Christmas tree with lights") and asking questions of my students ("Do you celebrate Fourth of July?") The hand written letters accompanied by drawings are sweet and show my friend's dedicated teaching. 

As things would have it, nothing in Africa really goes as planned. The english club I helped to start at my university is defunct (nothing can be sustained if students don't care about it themselves) and I knew any random students I could muster up would not have the english skill set to read questions and reply. So I wrote back myself. 

Last week the students received a care package containing a Rwandan flag and a traditional cloth doll. I answered their questions, ("We don't celebrate American Independence Day, but we have our own rwandan national holidays, etc.") Perhaps these items, a show and tell from Africa, could be more sincere of an exchange than letters from students? I don't know, but it was the best I could do in my weird educational arena here in Rwanda. 

Seeing photos of the little dudes playing in New York with a doll I bought at a market in Kigali made my heart all warm and squishy. Seeing the Rwandan flag hoisted by an American preschooler made me feel that perhaps if we start international exchanges early, than we can create a generation of curious and open souls, and combat misunderstanding of Africa in general, (that it is a poor and/or dangerous place - which is in general not true). 

One of the lesser discussed benefits of fellowships like mine is the exchange that happens with people back home. That perhaps Americans and educators/students in America, more specifically, can benefit just as directly from my being in Rwanda as a Rwandan student or educator. There are benefits on both sides of the ocean. 

I love knowing so many great teachers around the world. Collaboration is one of the best ways to be a successful educator; no one can be great at this job alone. We need each other for facilitation of ideas, support, and implementation of activities like this one, however small. I believe teaching to be an incredibly noble (and often thankless or misunderstood) profession, one that extends back into my family for generations. This little activity gave me great satisfaction and joy. As I hope it did for our little friends in New York! 

Thanks for playing teacher with me, Jennie. You da best. 

walk slow. xoxo.