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Ian Denhez |
I readily admit, I have never blogged before. Like many other first times - first time in Africa, first time traveling alone, or the first time on a motorcycle taxi - the experience is bound to be memorable, though preferably not dangerous.
I also admit, however, that I have often been skeptical of this bizarre phenomenon that is the ‘blog’. Perhaps for students of journalism, long accustomed to writing thoughtfully to a vast and faceless audience, the blog is but an extension of their daily lives in the media. When one reports faithfully on the ideas and actions of others, why not report one’s owns impressions as well?
As a student of public policy, however, doubts about this practice abound within my mind.
As much as we are encouraged to write clearly, concisely, and convincingly in the social sciences, to be entertaining is not, strictly speaking (and quite unfortunately), a requirement.
And yet, in my interpretation, in a blog, one is expected not only to have something interesting to say, but something exciting. I believe the reader should leave with something they consider valuable - no matter how small - whether it be practical advice, useful information, or simply a sense of having been properly entertained. Otherwise, what is the point of reading a blog? Moreover, really, what is the point of writing one?
In principle, just the concept of a trip to Central Africa is likely to be interesting to many readers. Throw in Rwanda’s notorious political history, the bountiful differences between here and Canada, and the often hilarious cultural misunderstandings, and you do have a perfect recipe for a great story. A sure success. Impossible to miss.
And yet… I hesitate.
This place is so…
complex
riveting
unbelievable
beautiful
unique
challenging
and so very, very human
And at times Rwanda almost seems to resist being understood. How does one write insightfully when one often feels isolated by political currents one does not, and perhaps cannot ever understand?
People are often secretive, their language difficult to penetrate
their emotions and experiences often more so,
and one’s skin immediately reveals you for the outsider you are.
Many people here have witnessed atrocities I cannot fathom.
Others may indeed have helped commit them.
The divide which sparked so much horror may not yet be fully healed, but has been made unspeakable.
Everybody has a story.
Everybody.
Absolutely everybody!
Unfathomable.
And there is just so much I cannot know.
We all have stories here now too. People we’ve met, conversations we’ve had, places we’ve been, sensations we’ve experienced. We are now a small part of this great tapestry of people that is Rwanda.
The thought is humbling. We have an influence here. Even if it is small, we will leave a legacy (of sorts).
What sort of legacy do we want it to be?
Last weekend, I had the fortune of meeting a kind, talkative, and highly motivated man from Burundi as I was returning to Rwanda from Uganda. He had recognised me from the bus ride we had shared the previous Friday from Kigali to Kampala. As the only visible foreigner on the bus, I had been easy to recognise. Unfortunately, I had not been able to pick him out in the same way.
Smiling shyly, the man said in French: “So, you are trying to speak ikinyarwanda”.
“Trying” is the operative word here. Although I have invested significant effort each day to learning the Rwandan language, I am certainly far from fluent. On the 9 hour bus ride from Kigali to Kampala, I had been attempting to learn more useful words and phrases, something which amused all Rwandans within hearing range, and often sent them into fits of hearty chuckles and incredulous looks.
Laughing, I replied to the man ‘Ndajerageza’, meaning ‘I try’.
The man smiled even more broadly. We began speaking about Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda, and the differences we perceived between the three. The discussion lasted for nearly 3 hours at the taxi park, speaking mostly in French and my limited ikinyarwanda.
Finally, towards the end, the man asked how long I had lived in Rwanda. My response of ‘less than a month’ brought an incredulous response. “You must be joking.” The man said seriously. “I thought you must have lived in Kigali for at least a year. You know too much ikinyarwanda.”
My ikinyarwanda remains, as I’ve stated, very basic. The man’s expectation was that any foreigner who knew any ikinyarwanda could only have learned it from exposure over time - like linguistic osmosis. He believed, in other words, that foreigners (ie. whites) do not normally learn this language voluntarily - the burden is on Rwandans or Burundians to learn European languages to communicate with us. Many people here seem to share this view. Comprehension is normal in only one direction - Africans seeking to understand, and possibly emulate, the West. It is unusual for a Westerner to want to truly understand an African in their native tongue.
And yet language is the key to everything.
It is the single greatest barrier to understanding.
I want to learn!
Without a linguistic common ground, one is confined to the language of gestures, facial expressions, indirect translations, hearsay…
How can one even presume to try to understand a culture without knowing what a person is actually saying, in their own words? Translation, and non-verbal communication can only convey so much. Phrases may have been carefully chosen by their crafters, thoughts delicately expressed… without language, one is often incapable of recognizing the subtleties that are the backbone of a cultural exchange. And one does not need to have been here long to recognize Rwanda as a country which thrives on subtleties.
Looking back at my Burundian friend, I redouble my efforts to speak this language. Like blogging, ikinyarwanda is not always self-intuitive. But perhaps, one day, it will give me a rare view of the forbidden, the unimaginable – and allow me a glimpse of the true face of this beautiful yet mystifying country.
