The Lucky Seat

Do know how exciting it is when you get a seat on a bus in Rwanda and only your thighs and shoulders and elbows are involuntarily pressed up against at least two other people? And your neighbors elbows are not, in fact, poking against your side? They are busy texting. And for some odd reason there's plenty of leg room. Perhaps the windows are left open because there are not sensitive souls who don't like wind.

You feel even more insanely lucky and privileged if you get a window seat on a sunny day and the person who strikes up a conversation next to you is genuinely interesting. "Where are you from? America?" I am asked on such a day when the extra leg room and lack of infants makes me want to answer. I say, "Israel" because those conversations are more interesting. And I get the usual, "Oh, so you believe in Jesus Christ?" "No," I answer, waiting for the fellow passenger's unbelieving laugh and "but he (He?) was from Israel!" On one particular extra-leg-room and open window day, a Sunday morning when most people were at church, the girl politely nodded to my answer and asked what Jews believed in. I told her that, officially, according to religious Jews and tradition, we believe in one God and the eventual coming of Messiah when there is peace on earth. "So you believe in God?" I told "sometimes" but that the official, or at least easier, line for Jews Incorporated was Yes.

She asked if I knew what Muslims believed in, and I said I was pretty sure they believe Jesus was a prophet, though definitely not the son of God. Her openness throughout the conversation was impressive. "What do most Jews in Israel believe?" I told her that some did not believe in God. "Oh, so they believe in science - they are scientists, like me," she said, laughing. "What is your religion?" I asked, and she replied that she was a religious Christian, but that she wanted to learn about all the religions in the world, because it was important to be knowledgeable about the world. We exchanged numbers before she hopped off near the Kigali Institute of Education where she is studying something sciencey. Specifically, something Chemistryish.

Comfort-on-bus-wise, the biggest lottery win of all is if you are the lucky someone to get - and this is absolutely huge - the front-row window seat. Laws mean they cannot stuff in more people than the number of front-row seats, so you buckle up (also required in the law) and feel like your friend is driving you home, if your friend likes really really really loud radio. These are incredibly competitive seats to get, the airy, luxurious room literally protected by Rwandan laws despite the Capitalist urge to stuff another five people in this space reserved for the honorary bus royalty of the hour.

When leaving Rwanda, do you know how long it takes you to forget how awesome leg room is and open windows and not touching anyone at all on a bus? And there's the specialness in many developed countries of your fellow travelmate's polite shift in the direction of the window when you sit down on the isle seat - that half-a-centimeter shift your fellow customer gives you, sometimes only a symbolic nod to show s/he is literally or in spirit assuring your minimal personal space is secured to assure minimal potential awkwardness. The time it takes to forget how awesome isles are? There are no isles on Rwandan buses so when you need to get off exactly ten other people need to either get off the bus or pretend they are small enough to let you pass them by even though the rows of "seats" are about one or two feet apart. Sometimes I look at an especially large passenger with a look of "you have absolutely got to be kidding me if you think I can squeeze by you on absolutely no extra space" and they give you a look back of "This is your particular problem, which I, to, will need to face at my stop, when I am going to get the same look I'm giving you now."

All of the joys of space on public transport take about five minutes to forget about on an inter-city Egged bus in Israel - absolutely phenomenally comfortable buses by even American and British experiences. You get on the bus, and stretch out your legs in the isle, sigh in happiness, and then the mundane nature of transport takes over you, and I tried - I really tried to appreciate the comfort. But I couldn't. It was just another bus.

The ups and downs of the place you get on a desperately uncomfortable bus has it's perks. It is an absolutely inflated happiness, magnified by fantastic views only found in Rwanda.

A flatly perfect and uneventful bus ride is still preferable. But I suppose I will never get back the rush of getting the front seat.

Kigali City has introduced modern buses - the kind with isles where most of the customers stand up and need to not fall down by holding on to the worst invention the developed, Euro-centric world has offered: plastic loop thingies created for giants. Short people hold on with their arms completes outstretched, the double-jointed among us feeling their elbows about to pop out of their sockets, occasionally a sharp bus turn swinging our bodies in all directions, forcing us to profusely apologize for being short, before knocking over someone's coffee and rushing off the bus, strangely missing the types of buses where everyone sits.

Those are the buses Kigali City has introduced. The standing room does seem to make much more sense than sitting in discomfort. Luckily, nobody has hot drinks on public transport in Rwanda.

No one has quite figured out how to change the electronic moving text that tells us where the bus is coming from, going, and stopping. It's pretty fancy electronic boards, and Kigali has an international vibe when Arabic, Mandarin, English, and other languages I don't recognize slide across the buses side, that could say anything, really.

Maybe eventually numbers will be used.

And everyone will forget about the days when sitting like sardines was the only option, and a front-row seats by the window was a cause for private, contemplative celebration.

Moving Ambiance

I have left Rwanda for other adventures, but have a fantastic backlog of wonders.

Starting with some sad news.

There is a cafe called Chocola. Er, "Shokola." It is fancy, expensive, but a place I wholeheartedly object to calling a "Mzungu" place, and not only because over half the customers aren't. I like to think of it as art. Universal Art. Every light, window, bookshelf, and chair is placed perfectly, with the colors and artwork and counters and cookies all lined up in a way that makes you feel privileged to be able to sit on the comfy chairs surrounded by leafy greens, tropical birds, and a perfect playlist. You sigh and don't mind waiting the usual two hours it takes for food to be served in Rwanda. Food served by waiters in fantastically bright colored – but not to brightly colored because that wouldn't mesh well with the opaque color tone – uniforms.

And they have great ginger cookies.

The original branch in Kiyovu, however, is residential, and new zoning laws mean that ShoKola needed to go - at least in the upscale residential neighborhood it is found in.

Back in Israel, getting off the plain to Obama's voice on a Palestinian state and the a female head of the Labor party being elected, most of the protest tents which mostly concerned housing and rent prices are gone. But the memory of zoning laws in Kigali, and zoning laws of the past in Israel, spring to mind as I inquire on rent prices.

Zoning laws that limit where people can sell things, including selling atmosphere and ambiance, seems unfare to everyone who needs to move – both residents moving away from new commercial zones and business owners moving away from new residential areas. Laws that limit noise seem to be a lot more effective. Or, if those are laws are difficult to enforce – at least it means cheaper appartments from landlords that are willing to stay put in a commercial area. Plus businesses get loads of customers who live nearby, an impossibility with seperate zone. This, in general, generates income in the town, and means landlords have an easier time finding tenants, even if their rent is lower. A lot of new immigrants to Israel from developed countries (me eleven years ago) complain about the lack of "city planning" in Jerusalem - apartments seem to be on top of loud bars and I can't tell you how many awkward "hellos" I exchange with lawyers unlocking their fancy glass doors as I leave my apartment, next door, in pajamas to grab the paper. But there is always a job to be found right next to your home and always a beer to buy right under your nose - so things are hectic, but at least never stuck in one place. You literally save over two hours of commuting for a lot of jobs, and those two hours can mean a lot of you are a student, have another side business, want to spend time volunteering and getting to know your neighbors, or just like sleeping in.

I suppose warm cozy Kigali coffee and cookie feelings - on comfy couches (I'm on a role) can be shifted to the appropriate zones, so I'm sure the other Shokola, in a commercial zone, will do just fine. Maybe the zoning laws will increase property value and, somehow, income will indirectly go up as a result. I just hope the strict zoning laws are not widening the gap between what people make and what they can afford to pay in rent.

The other Rubona

I spent this weekend in Gisenyi, specifically in the other Rubona in Rwanda, the one that appears on the map. I walked passed the Bralima brewery where Primus beer is brewed, and a half hour leisurely walk later I came upon little kids in a pile of blue, a meter high, on the side of the road leading to the center of town. I squinted, because I need new glasses, and crossed the street to see blue Primus wrappers, meters high. They lay a midst broken Primus bottle glass that the kids were walking on, barefoot, collecting the glass in bags.

I don't know the story behind this. It was a Sunday, so maybe the kids go to school. But I really wish they had shoes.

The area is an odd combination of mud houses and budding mansions. In Kigali you see this to, but Kigali has defined neighborhoods with more mansions, and so many houses, often seemingly on top of each other, that the difference seems less stark to an outsider. The store fronts are also an interesting combination of newly built store strips with decorative pillars and older metal shacks. All-metal shacks is actually nicer than Rwamagana District shops, which are almost all mud and stone except the roofs. Metal's expensive.

Speaking of expensive metal. I met up with a VTC student in Kigali during vacation. He is from Kigali and in Rwamagana District's Rubona to study because the VTC is public and cheaper here. The house he lives in was having it's metal roof, which by law must be metal in Rwanda, painted red and the windows filled in with glass, two other characteristics required in local Kigali law. The cost of doing all of this was less than being fined, though there are certainly many who have yet to fulfill these requirements.

Ok, back to the other Rubona.

I saw a couple with matching outfits. It was. Urgh. Well, if they are on their honeymoon or something I suppose I will allow it. One very vibrant green material with flowers and swirly stems was cut in half and made into a tastefully tailored shirt and shirt with a matching head piece. The other half went towards her beau or husband's also, on it's own, lovely tailored shirt. And they walked down the street, smiling, holding bands, enjoying the moments of sunshine. I saw them multiple times all over the city, always holding hands in a serene stroll down the beach, around the shops and market, and past the forestry hills. Which also matched their outfits.

I have seen mothers and children wear matching outfits, but this is the first matchy matchy couple I have seen in Rwanda.

Numeracy, Chocolate and Cheese

In the market in Jerusalem, I was always impressed by the insanely quick yet accurate deducing of change by sellers. You give your veggies to be weight and within miliseconds you get the price and then the precise change so much quicker than a permanent store. After doing this for years I could figure out, pretty accurately, the price of the vegetables I bought simply by gauging the weight in my hands - it usually matched up to the price they gave me, and I would mentally gleefully squeal with excitement and mentally jump up and down when I was dead on. Based on this, I assume the price was pretty accurately and quickly deduced as well.

In Rwanda, I often stand there, hands on counter, for a minute or so, waiting to hear the price, as the store keeper counts, out loud, "one hundred," pointing to one item that is one hundred francs, "two hundred, three hundred, four hundred," pointing to another item that is three hundred francs, "five hundred" for another one-hundreder. It takes time, and sometimes they have to count again if they loose track. I have seen some need to write out seemingly simple arithmetic, such as dividing 1500 into three - something I assumed everyone did in your head.

Other times the prices seem a bit off from a marketing perspective, though there could actually be logic behind it. A 500 gram wheel of cheese cost 1,500 francs. I asked how much it would be if they cut it in half. They said 700 francs. You would think buying things less in bulk would make the price go up. I asked how much half of the half would be, and they said 300 francs. Perhaps people that want less can afford less, but I was tempted to ask for four halfs of cheese, and get a 300 franc discount. (I didn't. I didn't need 500 grams of cheese.) At another shop, 33 grams of chocolate cost 300 francs, but a 100 gram bar cost 1000 francs. Even at Bourbon, the swanky upscale expat location for real coffee, a grande cafe au lait, which is "freshly brewed Rwandan Coffee with steamed milk foam" costs 1,500 francs, yet a "freshly brewed Rwandan Coffee" grande is 1,200 and a separate order of "steamed milk" is 200, for a total of 1,400 francs. At least it was a few months ago - they raised the price of milk by 100 francs to make it the same. This is all being terribly nit-picky, I know - this happens in stores across all lands. But I see more of this than I did in Israel.

When asking small business owners what their profit and revenue are, I rarely get an answer. I am told the price they pay for food for themselves, their children, the store they run, rent for home and store and electricity - all in one figure, all mashed together. They know how much they spend a month, sort of, and maybe how much money in coins is found in their basket at the end of the day. Everyone, though, seems to pay the same 4, 000 monthly francs in taxes. "Is there some sort of flat tax in Rwanda?" I asked someone in Kigali - a university student in business with excellent numeracy. "No, if you do not make any profit, you are not supposed to pay taxes." I am not sure how true this is, but it could very well be that many small business owners simply end up paying a flat tax because they do not keep books. This is the price they pay for limited numeracy - a flat tax and never quite knowing if running the business makes sense.

Don't get me wrong - these aren't exactly the cream of the crop on the businesses world. Or even the average. The lady that told me the price of the cheese often falls asleep behind the register. Come to think of it, so does the lady who takes the longest in Rubona to give me a price. They are exhausted, perhaps. And in the better run businesses, you see the difference - prices are figured out faster and people know their revenue and profit. Sometimes siblings study accounting in high school while their sisters (usually sisters) run the shop. Kids are learning math at a fast pace, and I imagine, in another ten years, prices will makes sense, profits will be known, and taxes will be proportional to profits.

But for now, I stick to 300 francs chocolate bars and 1/4 of a wheel of cheese.

Art and other practical skills

It's the time of year when students in Senior 5 at ASYV and students at the vocational school down the road are thinking about what and where they want to be when they grow up.

Mark, the student who is living in Rubona, originally from Kigali, is excited about starting his internship in catering. He didn't quite make it into the Serena, the coveted fancy shmantzy hotel that expats go to all over the developing world because they can afford to stay there, or because they want to drink a beer near the pool and feel like they're in LA. He is starting an internship at a smaller hotel in Kigali, where he will be able to get experience in the hotel business outside of the kitchen, something that might not have been the case at Serena.

Florence, who is studying masonry at the same VTC, and who is sort of friends with Mark, is working hard to pay her school fees. She worked in the VTC's kiosk three weeks during the break, and made a sad 10,000 francs (less than $20). Florence walks over ten kilometers a day to study at the VTC, and she also walked this to work during the vacation. The kiosk, during the vacation, was frequented by elementary school students whose parents pay for them to get extra classes taught by teachers. Summer school. I drank some tea with her, and politely finished the whole cup, despite the insane amount of sugar she, like all Rwandans, put in their tea. How do they make all the sugar melt? Isn't there some limit to the percentage of sugar in the water that will still dissolve? This super-sugary taste is fine in spicy Masala tea, but that hasn't quite made it to the rural areas, though is common is swankier places in Kigali. Like in Serena. After the first sip of Florence's tea I exclaimed, "Wow! A lot of sugar!" and she nodded and said, "Thankyou."

There are three students at ASYV who want to become artists and they are improving freakishly fast in their skills. One young student, Jacky, has such a creative writing and art mind, that I am just blown away whenever she comes up with anything new. She has never been the best at realistic art, but what she comes up with is so insanely creative and interesting and also just makes sense - the way that really good art does. I can't really write about it, so I will put up some of her art and writing before I leave Rwanda. You can see one already on this post, but there are more to come.

The other two students are very good at realistic drawing and are also creative. Interestingly, they are working as a team.

They don't sign their art with their personal signatures, but just write "N.C." I am not quite sure what I feel about this. It intuitively feels wrong - I can't put a finger on why, though. I was always taught that what you draw is your own, that the whole point of a good piece is that it expresses something very personal that no other human can quite express, but that everyone else is supposed to somehow understand. But I suppose two people can work together. Rwanda is full of co-ops, and so working with another artist makes sense, a little - though the art galleries in Kigali still exhibit individual signatures. I can't think of anything wrong with the idea, so power to them. They may get more exposure, because combined they can produce more pieces, and they do bring different skills, both in the art itself and in the marketing. You can see their artwork at http://ncdreams.multiply.com/ There is a bit to much plagiarism in the text for my taste - you can copy and past into google and see for yourself. But the text is nothing special compared to what they drew, so have a look and enjoy.

Favorite Ugandan and now Rwandan English

Yesterday I sat next to an Australian and Kenyan in a Kigali coffee shop and I was so jealous of their perfect accents. I have decided that Ugandan accents are a close third in the English-speaking accent awards, possibly edging up to take second or first if I ever spend more time around Australians and Kenyans and their accent's mystique wears off. Here are the top three expressions/intonations in Ugandan English that make me melt.They are being adopted by Rwandans learning English, which is now the official language taught in more and more schools. Keep in mind that one or two may just be the funny expressions of the few Ugandans I talk to the most. In which case, everyone should adopt them anyway.

1) Are you sloping/going to slope? = Are you going down? (like when you are on the top of the hill, which happens a lot in Rwanda)

2) By the way - but said like by the way. But with "by" in a sort of sing-songy way, said at a higher pitch but with less emphasis than the "way." It's hard to explain, but it's fabulous. And used in debate speeches all the time, adding little musical touches to speeches.

3) "So" as interchangeable with "very" both in meaning and in intonation. This one's tricky to explain in written word. Usually when Americans are speaking and want "so" to mean "very" we change the way we say "so" to signify that we are not using it as a comparison. So we say, for example, "he was sooooooo handsome!" Rwandans/Ugandans say the "so" with a pitch going up towards the end, not so different than we would say "so" when we want to use it as a comparison, as in "he was so handsome all the girls fell in love with him." So when someone says, "The budget is so high" I keep on waiting for the dreaded, "...that we can't afford it." And that never comes, because the speaker merely wants to point out that the budget is very high, and I can relax.

4) "You people" - this one doesn't really count, because a lot of countries do this, when people really want to signify that they are speaking to more than one person, which you can't do in English. It sounds so offensive when I first hear it - it's like, what do you mean "you people"? But then I just exchange it in my head with "you" meant to refer to many people, and I relax.

5) "Me, I" as in "Me, I like ice cream." I think this is mostly Rwandan, because in Kinyarwanda you say "Me, I" rather than just "I." But if any of you can recall Sesame Street puppets or Barney, a lot of kids shows have fictional talking fluffy monsters or dinosaurs also say, "Me, I..." and so when I hear the students say it, I kind of subconsciously go, "awwww."

6) Ok, this one has nothing to do with English, and isn't exactly charming, but: the use of the word "Mzungu" for everyone who has slightly lighter skin, and not just white people. I used to think that when people were saying "mzungu" they were talking about me, but I slowly learned that when just want to refer to someone in the room, and that someone is Rwandan but has slightly lighter skin but no other particularly unique characteristics, because they're boring dressers or something, some people might say "mzungu" the same way we would say, "the guy with brown hair." I am not sure how common this is, because it feels really rude to jump into people's conversations all the time and ask who they are talking about, but I've found this to be the case a few times.

7) "Stapling machine" for stapler. I like this one, because I imagine a massive, industrial machine that fills up a whole room and stables lots and lots of papers at once.

There is always the question of how much to correct students. The above are expressions that don't really need correcting in spoken English, because it's perfectly clear what the intention is, and is more or less just a product of the local culture that jazzes up, rather than messes up, the English. Same for fiction writing. In some writing, through, it's another story: when people apply for jobs, and the decision maker for a job is not from East Africa, it may look less professional. So I tell students to keep talking as they do, but to make changes when writing anything meant to be professional. But it's all a game, really - the intentions are clear enough either way, it's just a matter of sending the signal of professionalism.

Repairing Traffic Cones

The local shoesmiths specialize in sewing anything up. Next door, around 30 meters away, is a local motorcycle testing school, or something - I see a bunch of riders riding between the orange cones carefully lined up outside of the catholic church, across the street from the school. Orange street cones crack, so the shoesmiths sew up the cracks before they are placed in their lines again.

Things like orange cones are as expensive in Rwanda as they are in a developing country, but shoe

smiths are cheaper, so

cones are fixed up.

In other news, sneakily tucked away in this post on traffic cones: some mamas came up to m

e and assured me that I was still getting fatter. Though I'm not. I checked the scale. They

pinched my arms and lower back (sigh...love handles...) and were truly impressed. I

like to think that this was an assurance, a confidence boost, just in case I was getting insecure about my not getting fatter.

Elementary School Textbooks

The elementary school students showed me their new books they waited most of the school year to read. Here are excerpts. Sorry they are so small.

The section on child abuse lists one cause of child abuse as "indiscipline among some children who may be stubborn." A bit disappointed with this, but it's balanced with an image a child being hit with a stick, meant to represent one form of child abuse - a tactic the school in Rubona most certainly uses, as I wrote about earlier.

There is a section on the importance of good roads, which is very Rwandan.

There is also a nod to women's rights and equality, though the use of present tense - stating that women are now equal to men, as if there is no room for improvement - can be frustrating. Women's Day in Rwanda seemed to be all about how Rwanda has reached equality, and the elementary school textbooks are similar in this regard. This may be a good tactic, though - kids might be more likely to act a certain way if they think others are already acting that way.

There is a nice picture of a modern super market placed next to a picture of a traditional market. The super market is Nakumat, and is one of only two in the country, as far as I know. It's looks very organized, though empty, in the photo, and everything looks so easy to find next to the photo of the rural market. There is no mention of the fact that prices are about ten times as high in the super market, but I suppose these are nine year olds reading the book.

I liked the sentence "peace is affected when people engage in fighting." A bit circular, isn't it?

But this is for elementary school children, so alright.

The photo of the girl and boy riding their bikes seems a little inaccurate, because girls almost never ride bikes and are even less likely to have long hair, as it's not allowed in school. Though maybe it's the image of a brighter future for girl bike riders. I have noticed that boys not only are the ones who can ride a bike without social stigma, but they also get to ride on the back of their friends' bikes. It seems so unfair that girls walk in groups and boys ride their bikes in groups, getting home so much faster - something that leads to them staying in school for longer. One girl who helped me translate at a local seamstress also likes to ride a bike - or so I've been told. This fact came up in the local gossip, because a girl riding a bike is a big deal. She also whistles, which girls don't do, and plays football. Sometimes I whistle and people tell me I can't, because I'm a woman. And not a male cowboy, the typical whistlers.

One Laptop Per Child in Rubona

Dativa's snack shop's table had two One Laptop Per Child laptops casually lying around in their plastic wrappers, with two small children sitting near them, munching on amandazis (donuts). It is really weird seeing children in rural areas, some with only one torn warn uniform they wear daily, carrying brightly colored laptops.

I tried to help some of the teachers learn how to use the laptops. This thing is, I'm really lost using Apples because they're not PC's, so forget about a totally different "user friendly" operating system. I suppose it may be user friendly, but Windows is just etched into my brain. So most of my "helping" was my usual, "oh no, what did I press? no, no, bring the window back, bring it back" followed by the teacher I am helping pressing a few buttons and bringing the window back, even though the teacher has close to no experience using computers, and then both of us realizing I am only there for moral support. And me also realizing that even with my 20+ years experience using computers, I am still about as good or worse at using them compared to a grown adult clicking away at the keys for the first time.

I did teach him how to save a text document. Yay.

Both of us could just not figure out how to find the flash on the computer after plugging it in. Which is a shame, because flashes are the only way to share anything around here, where internet non-existent or to slow for Dropbox.

The kids are supposed to get internet soon, and then they can use wikipedia. The teacher I was helping was extremely excited about this - the idea of being able to search for anything under the sun and get some sort of answer. I told the teacher he could even add information he knows.

I don't yet know how they are going to integrate the computers into the classroom, but I will keep you all updated. Maybe with a One Laptop Per Child laptop.

Theological Asides from Bank Tellers

For a few weeks I used my Israeli passport because my US one was on an adventure searching for a visa. "Ah, you are from Israel!" was the reply I got from workers in various public and private institutions. "So, you believe in Jesus and accept him as your savior?" they add as an aside, casually, sometimes before adding, "and how's the weather over there?"

I pause and say, "Well, I am Jewish, so...no" and I pause, knowing my answer may have offended them more than their question offended me, and add "butIhaveseenwherehewalkedonwater!" quickly, hoping the last statement will make up for any perceived failings on my part. Most of the time, people think it is absolutely hilarious and confusing that I do not believe in Jesus, but I think it's absolutely hilarious and confusing when bank tellers, school administrators, and shop keepers ask me this immediately after finding out I am from Israel.

After I give my answer, I am assured I will be prayed for and someday I will believe him (Him?)

Which I suppose, given the honest asker's theology, is the best answer I can expect.

I'm back to using my US passport, so now bank tellers just yawn and ask me to please sign here.

Chance to clutch

I went to two fabulous weddings, fabulous in their own way. One was of a colleague at ASYV and another was a cousin of a colleague at ASYV. I did not go to the traditional Rwandan dowry ceremony, so I will focus on the wedding bit - the part that is overwhelmingly influenced by Christian weddings in the West, but with nice Rwandan twists.

But first, off to the salon.

Before the wedding I was in a salon - or "saloon" as everyone writes in Rwanda - looking at all the pretty ladies and gents get all dolled and Kenned up. And it dawned on me: every stylist in the world, when not attending to celebrities or women over forty, does the Prom Look for at least half their clients attending some event. A friend in Jerusalem warned me about this before my brother and sister's weddings. Don't-get-the-prom-look. The prom look is the ten bucks hair style where you straiten out the hair one lock at a time, then curl it with a curling iron, then put all the hair up, and then spray half a bottle of super-hold hair spray. And it has reached Rwanda. One aerosol can at a time.

I think my favorite part about Rwandan weddings is that everything is a ceremony. When it comes to cutting the cake, the MC says, out loud, that the cake will now be cut, that the groom will now give a bite of the cake to the bride, that the bride will now give a bite of the cake to the groom, that the bride and groom, or someone, will now cut the cake and distribute it to guests.

The MC is very important.

One of the kids stories I read at ASYV had a scene where the groom wanted to thank the formerly evil step parents for everything they did for him, after they stopped being evil. He asks the MC, "May I now give a speech?" and the MC gives him specific permission. So he gives a speech. And reading the story, I'm thinking, "Really? On your own wedding day you need to ask the MC first?"

The dancing industry is quite strong in Rwanda. Many people who can afford it hire dance troops to perform at their weddings, including traditional Rwandan dances, and, in the wedding I attended, Burundian and South African dancers. There is no dance floor for the guests, so everyone just gets to watch dancers that know how to dance. No awkward, "C'mon, come dance, c'maaaaaan!" in Rwandan weddings. Just rows and rows of guests sitting, looking at the bride and groom who sit above everyone, importantly, and watch the dancers and speakers along with everyone else.

At one point in the speech of the preacher of one of the weddings, I was told that Europeans don't quite understand marriage, with their high divorce rates. Women, the preacher said, will divorce their husbands and still be supported by them, so women will get married many times to get supported by many men. This was a bit depressing to hear in a country where many women receive no support by the father of their children, but my offense turned into amusement when he noted that, in European families, the dog is more important then the child. But then I was offended again when he said that the child was more important than the woman, who was more important than the husband, and so, in Europe, all is backward because the husband, really, should lead. Ah - and I was not sure if I should be offended or incredulous or amused or guardedly apathetic when he said that men want honor but women want financial support. "Some women want honor, because some women are like men. But they are a small minority compared to the men who want honor."

Finally, a nod to Israel: the bride and groom were advised to take time off after they married. The bible instructs one to not go to war after getting married. In Israel, it is not possible to take a vacation after getting married, because there is always a war and so everyone must always fight, all the time. But that is not the case in Rwanda.

Huh.

And then, the last statement I feel sums up where Rwanda is right now: "Even when the woman has a higher salary than the man, she wants the man to financially support her." In a country with a strong push towards women's empowerment, many women do, indeed, have a higher salary than their husbands. I am happy that I am in a country where the qualification "even if the woman has a higher salary" is put before statements I wish were not said.

The bride's were stunning and the grooms hansom in both weddings. No prom hair. Beautiful.

As were the flickering Christmas lights coiled around the table where the bride and groom sat. I like them. I dunno. They're sparkly and flashy and, in a culture with lots of long speeches, a great diversion for everyone who doesn't really know the bride and groom. Maybe all wedding everywhere have seemingly long speeches if you don't know the bride and groom, and in Rwanda, you are more likely to be invited to a wedding of someone you don't really know.

I also got to use my gold clutch twice.

Ah, and my white stilettos because the owner of the shop where I left the white stilettos returned them to me.

As the father of the groom was given a very serious, moving speech, the pool party outside, in the same hotel, was playing songs my Ms. Jojo, Tom Close (if you miss N'SYNC) and, of course, Celine Dion, because Celine Dion has reached every single country in the entire world and every single country loves Celine Dion. And Beyonce.

Another nice diversion.

That's not nice.

But I couldn't really understand the speech.

All in all, as I clutched my clutch, I enjoyed both weddings immensely.

Crime: Inside versus Outside

Rwanda is one of the countries with the lowest rates of street crime in the world, comparable to Japan as of 2003, and still "really low" according to this (Ann Arbor Chronicle), this (UK government), this (Ireland's Department of Foreign Affairs), this (New York Times) and this article (ok, the government newspaper The New Times, which doesn't quite count). According to Interpol in one UNODC document, homicide rates are lower than in the North America. Yet Rwanda also has one of the highest rates of domestic violence in the world. The World Health Organization, which may be more likely to take into account unreported suspected murders committed in private, puts the homicide rate at four times as high as Interpol.

This odd combination of safety outside and danger inside is felt.

Street theft is incredibly low. Insanely low. People won't even let you let them steal things. As someone who loses things all the time, I have had strangers run after me, returning my wallet, cell phone, loose change that has fallen out, and an x-ray from King Faisal Hospital that I left at a small grocery store registry. Just four days ago, I had a fabulous outfit for a wedding in a bag that I left in a tiny milk shop, whose monthly profit is almost definitely not more than around 30,000 francs a month, based on the interviews I conducting with surrounding milk shops. The clothes and shoes in that bag, including white stiletto heals (yes, I brought those from Israel), a tailored shirt, and a nice black dress skirt, were probably worth the equivalent of at least one month's income for this man. As I got on the bus, the shop owner ran after me, just in time, to return the wedding outfit, saving me from social mortification inherent in being under-dressed in Rwanda. People yell "ssssssss!" to grab people's attention, and when I hear the familiar "sssssssss!" I usually end up looking back to someone who is waving my latest lost item, waiting for me to go back and get it.

Every time I lose something, the returner says, "You are very lucky, if it was someone else..." followed by a laugh reserved for absent-minded blonds. But it seems that I would have been just as lucky with everyone else.

Sometimes strangers will accompany me on the way home in Rubona. At first, I was sure there was some ulterior motive - money, hitting on me, curiosity, or maybe boredom. But I quickly learned that, if you are walking alone, people will just walk with you, to make sure you are not lonely or feel unsafe. They do this for other people as well, everyone from old women to young toddlers, so it is not just because I am a foreigner.

A few hours ago I did my daily accidental trip over a crack in the sidewalk. A lady walking by gave me a side glance and said, "oooh, sorry." Strangers in both the cities and the villages often say "sorry" when you trip, fall, or drop something. And nobody knows this more than me.

I am a woman who has always, throughout my life, taken the decision to walk home at night by myself both out of principal, impatience and a love for listening to Alanis and Mika while walking alone. After living in Israel, where I have been harassed and even assaulted a number of times, I can tell you that walking around Rwanda I feel as safe walking home as I do walking around at home.

I have talked to young women in Kigali and Rwamagana who like dressing up and showing a little skin, and they tell me that it's all about walking confidently on the street and ignoring the stares. "It's all about walking confidently" is something you cannot say in crime-ridden streets. Confidence, despite what Cosmopolitan tells you, is pretty useless in a lot of places, like East Jerusalem and Harlem in the 1990s. And when I considered walking confidently, at 5:00am, to a taxy fifty meters from my guest house in Entebbe, I was told that I absolutely would be mugged or worse.

In Rwanda, I have noticed that people even return small change to me that I have dropped, that I clearly will not notice is gone - a 10 franc coin, which is hardly anything even by Rwandan standards. Perhaps they return the small change because it hardly amounts to anything, anyways, and the large amounts to avoid being accused of theft. But even if this is the logic, the logic is the mechanism for a very admirable cultural norm.

In public, trust seems to be incredibly high. Neighbors help each other out, personal space on public transportation is non-existent, strangers return lost wallets, the money in tact, and women walk around, alone, at night. Compared to other countries, crime is low.

Outside the house.

Inside, it's a different story.

I have met numerous women who were sexually abused indoors, whether in their homes or indoor public locations, such as bars and schools. Child molestation, rape, and abuse is common. Some people don't seem to be aware that, when the boy is not an adult, it is still rape if the boy forces a girl to have sex. There are many cases of older men sexually abusing girls, including small children, that they financially support, as I wrote in an earlier blog post. Sexual abuse of students by teachers occurs, as well. One former teacher, who is now an unemployed alcoholic roaming the streets of Rubona, told me he needed to stop teaching when he got married because the female students "always wanted to have sex with him." The Light in Our Home project from the NGO Global Grassroots writes about the issue of sexual abuse in schools in Ruhango Sector. One excellent study published with UNICEF and the Rwandan National Youth Council discusses the attitudes of children and teachers regarding violence against children, both in and around schools.

On the first week in Rwanda I heard a child screaming out for help inside a bar that was located less than a meter in front of homes. The police came asking questions soon after.

The average night club seems to be as disturbing as the seediest clubs in other countries.

A man once shook my hand in a club, and refused to let go. He started tightening his hand around my wrist until I felt like it was literally about to break. I tried to pull away but he just tightened his grip until I protested loudly. The man next to him, an American businessman, started to laugh. I started to yell louder until others looked our way and he finally let go.

One club has a special drawer in their back room, reserved for passports that are discarded by thieves who steal wallets. The fact that there is a drawer for passports suggests that crime is not particularly organized. In Barundi on ASYV staff member had her passport stolen with the gang calling her up and asking for money. Passports in other East African countries are worth a lot, as they are manipulated and sold in an organized black market which does not seem to exist in Rwanda.

Some claim that low levels of public street crime is due to the tough stance of the government against crime, or the high quality of the police force. It is fear of the police, not exactly trust of others. This definitely is part of it. But I really think that not stealing in public and returning what is not yours is something deeply rooted in Rwandan culture.

There has been much discussion on the rising levels of theft and violence that occurred even before the genocide, which would suggest that the post-1994 government had something to do with the current low crime rate. You might have read Jared Diamond's take (you can read an excerpt from Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed here). He points out that "even before 1994, Rwanda was experiencing rising levels of violence and theft, perpetuated especially by hungry landless people without off-farm income." However, it may be that crime before the poverty that rose in the late 1980s was always relatively low. One Encyclopedia by from 1987 by George Thomas Kurian notes that, "Data concerning crime are not available, but law enforcement problems are believed to be minor." You can read a snippet here.

When the crime does not directly harm another person, such as narcotics, it's not as low. The Rwandan police reports have noted this: drugs use is on the rise. If crime is low from people helping people who want to be helped, then this really would not help those who are addicted to drugs. After two volunteers returned from Kenya and told me about the widespread glue-sniffing of street children there, I started to notice the street children in Kigali sniffing glue, the bottles up their sleeves or in brown paper bags. They were around the center of town, where there is a heavy police presence. Women still sell clothes illegally on the street, and have become excellent sprinters, running from the police, taxes, and potential fines and prison sentences. When I see police running after them, they need to run incredibly fast, and often can't keep up. If other crimes that don't directly harm others are still widely found, it may not be fear of police alone.

I hope, one day, the rate of domestic crime and violence is as low as street crime.

Quality Control in the Milk Industry

I cracked open another carton of Ikivuguto. Or butter milk. Or fermented milk. Either way, it was spoiled. The third time in a month. Despite the strong push to encourage quality-assurance through factory made butter milk, the cartons that come in matching colors and labels have proved a disappointment. Part of the problem is that apathetic store owners don't bother to take down the spoiled milk from their shelves. Small business owners who only sell milk in large jugs fermented at home, along with tea and donuts, will not hesitate to tell you, "I would serve you the milk, but it's gone bad." They know that, with strong competition and not much else to offer, spoiled milk can mean one less regular customer. Rwandan fermented milk shop owners may not serve with a fake smile, forced "how are you?" and top-notch customer service, but they will not serve you spoiled milk. It might be a bit warm at times, but still drinkable.

Walking through Nakumat, the multinational super market chain store that be found in other major East African cities, I came across ten cartons of fermented milk that were part of the same shipment that carried the spoiled milk I had bought two weeks ago. And a week before that. "How can I help you?" a store worker asked me. "This is not good, right?" I asked him, pointing to the milk. He did no understand me for a moment, and said, "Yet, it is milk," and started to hand me a carton to buy. I looked at the milk and looked at him with a nervous expression. "It is old, isn't it?"

He shook his head and responded with, "Yes, it is three weeks old. It is not good. We will get more later." He did not think to take the cartons off the shelf. After all, he only worked there. They lay there, ready for more customers to buy them and not drink them once they were opened.

One reason that quality assurance does not have such an added-value is that there seems to be, in general, a high level of public trust. Which I already wrote about in an earlier post. People who own shops will tell you if their milk is bad. Walking back home with my family, when they were here visiting, we stopped at a shop of a woman who had waved to us an hour earlier. She had a genuine smile and seemed happy when we came by her shop. I asked for milk. She nodded and told her friend, who translated from English, that the milk was a bit old and not fresh enough to be served.

If individual shop owners are not out to rip you off, then you can assume, to an extent, that the product will be decent, and quality assurance is not as necessary. If quality assurance was just an extra precaution, I would be all for it, but it seems to often be mutually exclusive with individual shop owners taking precautions to assure quality goods. If you have a brand you can complain to about spoiled milk, the buck is passed to a large company, and the individual shop owner is not blamed. Some small fermented milk shop owners also serve long-lasting milk, produced by one the two large factories, and their milk is sometimes bad. It's honestly hard to blame them.

With their own locally produced milk, you literally see them pouring the large jug into a smaller jug, and can see the texture of the milk, smell it if you try, and even have a taste, just to be sure. You can't "have a taste" with a closed carton, or even see if the milk is really chunky.

And no matter how much you think fermented milk is icky, it's nowhere as icky as chunky milk from a long-lasting milk carton that you just opened.

Don't get me wrong: I think the existence of long-lasting milk throughout Rwanda is excellent, and quality controlled factory long-lasting milk is necessary. I just don't see the need to have fermented milk, which lasts longer than non-long-lasting fresh milk, put under the same centralized quality control. The sharp competition, with ten fermented milk shops within a one kilometer radius is some parts, combined with general public honesty about goods sold, does the job.

Monocrops Far From the Main Road

I got on the back of a seemingly comfy pillowy mattress-like motorcycle taxi seat. Over ten-kilometers later, I realized the fluffyness was an attempt to make up for the most painful, bumpy moto ride I have had yet, down and up incredibly rocky dirt roads built by chance rather than engineers. I was bumping up and down, in the air at times. There was a miniscule bar in the back to hold on to with one hand, the only means of staying on the bike.

When I got to the other end, I met a woman who, nine months earlier, had given birth moments after riding such a motorcycle ten kilometers in the other direction to the nearest clinic. The baby had started pushing its way out as she was riding on the back of the moto.

She lives in a place where buffalo run around. We saw one being chased by a dog. The buffalo won, and the dog was seen slowly trotting back home. The closest neighbor is around fifty meters away, fairly far for Rwanda, which has a high population density.

Outside, the grass is mostly not green, but a light beige, in contrast to more fertile areas only kilometers away.

They live near a swamp. A recent law bans the growing of traditional crops, such as cassava and potatoes, in the swamp area. Instead, all plant rice in this area on the small plot of land, roughly 40 by 50 meters, allocated to each family.

Cooperatives of around six to ten members sell the seeds to the farmers, who grow rice and sell the rice back to the cooperatives for 230 francs a kilo, the price after the deduction for the seeds. Around 100 kilos is expected to be grown each month for a profit of 23,000 francs a month.

Nobody quite knows if the rice will grow and what they will do if it does not.

This is clearly a government-mandated, not market-oriented, approach. The commentary on this policy has been, in many circles, quite critical, such as this article by Manuel Milz.

The only defense of the policy I can think of: with very limited land resources, and a need to provide nutrition for the population to assure healthy people and lower medical costs for the government, it's necessary to utilize the land the best way possible. If there is a swamp area that can grow rice very well, and another area that can grow beans very well, and a country lacking in nutrition that only these crops can provide, it makes sense to require harvesting those crops in those areas. Healthcare is not market-oriented, it is provided by the government; so to cut costs in health, it is necessary to alter the market in favor of eating healthy things.

However, if rice really can produce a greater profit as the government claims, then farmers will choose to grow rice. If they do not choose to grow rice because of the risks, but the government mandates that the long-term profits and health benefits as a whole will outweigh any individual economic and health risks, then the risk should not fall on the individual farmers without their consent.

But this is all classic, old news: my biggest concern is with the cooperatives.

The cooperative purchasing rice in this area are registered for the government. I was told they needed to do this "in order to get the ok" to buy the rice. If there is any bureaucracy involved in creating the body necessary to sell seeds and buy back the products, that creates even less competition in the market. Cooperatives are an excellent way to promote transport and resale of goods, but if there are laws limiting what farmers can produce, there should at least be plenty of multiple buyers so the farmers have some sort of negotiating power.

The distance from the main road and the expense of getting there means farmers can hardly compare different markets and find the market willing to pay the highest price. Multiple cooperatives approaching the farmers could mean a more fair price. And by "fair" I mean enough to live on.

Because the distance also means additional jobs to supplement farming are difficult to come by. Primary school teachers also make only 24,000 francs a month, but if you are teaching and farm, the total income is more than the equivalent of 24,000 francs a month.

To make matter worse, the low population density and distance from the main road means there is no lower secondary school where students can improve their job prospects, and eventually leave the area.

This particular family has chickens. They wobble in and out of the house, attempting to squeeze their feathery bodies under doorways to reach smaller rooms where they can lay their eggs in private, with around ten eggs total laid each day. "ssshhhhhh!" family members yelled at the chickens until they ran outside the house, wandering back in moments later. The eggs, at least, provide some protein.

While the agriculture on the outside and prospects for the future are uncertain, the inside of the family's house had a sturdy furniture and the best interior design the family could come up with, given the circumstances. The floor, covered with a traditional straw mat, is very flat because the dirt is mixed with cow-dung, which hardens the ground. It also attracts thousands of flies, tempted by the cow dung only they can smell, but forever blocked by the straw mat. The flies fly upwards to the food at meal time.

The insects contrast sharply with the careful, almost Victorian set up, with a complete living room set of couch and three arm chairs with comfortable pillows, all surrounding a nice, wooden stylized coffee table. Over the back pillows lie little ivory-colored embroidered cloth napkins which match the curtains hung over every door way, themselves also embroidered with pastel flowers - nothing too bright, quite subtle, very tasteful. The coffee table has a matching cloth napkin under a vase filled with plastic flowers. The cow-dung really does create a very flat, hard dirt floor under the smooth mat. If you are wearing heals, they make a clicking sound.

If I took a picture and Photoshopped out the flies and multiple wasp nests in the corners, it could really be something from Martha Stewart. Or at least Ikea.

I put the baby almost born on a motorcycle on my lap. "No, don't hold it, he will urinate on you," I was warned. Just in time, I picked the baby up and quickly placed it on the floor. "Do you use diapers?" I asked. "They are too expensive. Soap is expensive."

Soap is expensive in the area because it is far from the main road, an extra 200 francs (roughly $33 more) so babies clothes are changed if they have an accident, rather than their diapers.

The motorcycles picking us up were late by three hours, despite calling to remind them.

"I will tell them we will take another moto."

That, clearly, did not speed things up because there are no other motos.

Even if children do find the energy in them to walk twenty kilometers a day to the nearest secondary school, the school is a private one, so most cannot afford the 300,000 francs ($500) a year school fees. The local primary school has no English speaking teachers so the classes are in Kinyarwanda. As a result, it is not possible to take the national examinations, which are in English, and which can mean a scholarship to a public secondary boarding school.

In the outhouse in the back there was an old English test, placed conveniently there for toilet paper. The marks were ok, but the level not much higher than grade 2, though the children were much older.

There are plans to create a more conveniently located lower secondary school in the area. I hope those plans are implemented as fast as the Crop Intensification Program. And I hope an engineered road and vehicles will some day connect them to the main road for easier access to markets, clinics, and more pleasant birthing experiences.

Cheap Chinese Clutches, Ice Cream and the Expo

I made my way to the Kigali Global Trade Expo 2011, which is where Kigalians go to spend way to much money on stuff from China. And Syria. President Bashir Al-Assad was staring down at me from a very large number of stalls that sold special Syrian herbal remedies for urinary tract infection and a slowed-down love life. There were some stalls that sold Iranian silver. The Rwandan stalls mostly sold stuff from Asia at twice what you would pay in New York. There was some Rwandan art stalls. Some stalls sold Masai crafts and Tanzanian trinkets.

If they can afford it, many people within Rwanda seem to be just as interested in buying Masai crafts as western tourists. When local salaries in Rwanda mean bus rides to Kenya are few and far between or non-existent, giddy and sometimes romantic excitement over rural African tribes can be just as poignant as the giddy excitement of western safari-goers. Maybe it has nothing to do with the price of a bus ride to Kenya. It could be that the Masai trend reached Rwanda via Europe, the same way the Palestinian (Jordanian?) Kafia reached Israel via Europe. I'll ask around.

I wandered the stalls with the daughter of a staff member at ASYV. As she was negotiating a price for a nice wall hanging with biblical quotes on how to live a deep, meaningful life. I was negotiating the price for a sparkly gold clutch. Which I paid $10 before realizing they cost $5 on every New York City street corner. $10 for this purse was considered insanely cheap for Rwanda, where ready-made anything is really expensive.

I walked past the Rwandan baskets and traditionally woven purses, that cost half the price, guiltily realizing I just really wanted a pretty gold clutch because I miss places with lots of pretty gold clutches on every street corner. When I return to lands of lots of pretty cheap Chinese clutches I will really want a Rwandan basket or traditionally woven purse. This is the problem with being for extended periods of time in places with decent traditional art: you don't appreciate it and end up buying stuff from Asia. Which is fine when you are in Asia.

I learned that getting dresses that are already made can cost three times the price of tailored dresses. Ready-made new dresses are a luxury for the super-chic, while tailored clothes is more, well, homely. Nicer than second-hand clothes, but nothing to write home about. Though I am. This funny reversal of fashion industry roles is due largely to the higher import taxes and transport costs on ready-to-wear imports from Kenya, Tanzania, and Dubai.

The food section of the expo was limited to sugary watery "ice cream" and very swanky mini-sandwiches that nobody could afford. In other words, there was no food section, really. Grownups buy ice cream and in a very big city Kigaliness they don't finish their ice cream. In Rwanda, outside of Kigali, I have never seen an adult who personally paid for their food not finish their food. It's very chic, isn't it? Not finishing your food? I remember looking at old oil painting from Victorian England at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, where aristocratic families of past showed left-over food in their still lives to show the world they could afford to not finish their food. In Paris they do that all the time. And in all the developing world. It's a sign of development and food security. Because nobody really needs to finish ice cream. At the expo, the two Rwandans I was with gave their leftover ice cream to kids passing by. It was a very fast hand-off, really. Not a cute display of affection for children who want ice-cream, just a hand-with-ice-cream held out until a kid grabbed it, as he was expected to.

I still can't get over how much people were willing to pay for plastic rings.

Though everyone was laughing at the Syrian herbal remedies.

Sexual Abuse and Rape in the Home

There is a phenomenon in Rwanda of children and young adults being sexually abused, often in their homes, by those they depend on for food security and education. As a A UNICEF report notes, increasing evidence "suggests that sexual abuse within the home has increased since the genocide." A paper by Siaens, Subbarao and Wodon for the World Bank note that sexual abuse is one of many problems orphans were more likely to face.

At the same time, numerous schools in Rwanda refuse to readmit any pregnant girls, regardless of the circumstances of their pregnancy. The result: girls raped and forcibly impregnated are expelled from school. This not only sends a message that being rape will result in punishment on the side of the educational institution, but on a practical level it decreases their job prospects for the future, increasing the type of dependency that can lead to further sexual abuse.

I met with a girl who lives over ten miles from the nearest middle school (lower secondary school). We will call her "Alice." In an earlier blog post I wrote about her experience taking a motorcycle taxi while in labor to the nearest health clinic, ten miles away. Her baby is the result of being raped by an older male family friend. After Alice completed primary school she stayed at home, like all of her seven siblings would do, because there was no public secondary school in the area, the closest primary school being over ten kilometers away. The man, in his thirties, asked her mother, "Why is she staying home? She can continue her education."

He paid for her school fees for a year, and she would walk, by foot, for over ten kilometers to the school and ten kilometers back. She finished her first year of lower secondary school and right before beginning her second year the man told her and her mother that he could provide a place to stay in his house near the school, near the main road, so she would not need to walk. In the middle of the school year, he came home drunk one day and raped her. She did not say anything to anyone, afraid of the shame. While she protested to him to stop, she did not scream, she says, because she was worried of how she would be judged.

When the man found out she was pregnant, he fled, I was told. "How do you know?" I asked. The mother of Alice told me they searched for him, and he was nowhere to be found. "He probably went to Uganda, where he was from."

"Did you go to the police?" I asked. They did not. Their logic was that they could not tell the police to arrest him if they did not know where he was. "Can you go now to the police, so they can search for him?" I asked. "It is to long ago." The assumed the police would not help, because they had waited.

The girl still nurses her son, a very cute, small, fidgety little nine month old boy who bravely sits on any lap and looks through any purse. He rarely cries, unless he thinks his mother is not around. He cuddles in the big, warm arms of his grandmother, who talks to him in the universal language of babies, mostly limited to "da da da da." He has a low, exited stutter when he is happy, such as when tasting the mostly-sugar pineapple juice I had in my bag. He stares at roosters, mesmerized by them, and is excited as his young uncles and aunts when an antelope runs by.

Alice wants to go back to school, her only concern being the lack of milk in their home. I am trying to raise enough money to help pay for her school fees and food for the baby, with the goal of reaching $2,500 to cover the first three years of school fees and some food.

Money is not the only solution - a better government policy is. The law must ensure that those who press charges are protected. And "protection," at the very least, should mean assurance that school is free and close enough so that girls do not need to rely on older male relatives and "family friends." Fear of leaving school, and not being readmitted due to lack of school fees and the pregnancy itself, discourages girls from pressing charges, encouraging more abuse.

Officially, the government supports some sort of re-admittance for all adolescent mothers. In this sense, those specifically pregnant from rape would have the right to return to school. Two governmental reports of the past five years have expressed strong support for readmitting girls into formal education. In 2008 the Ministry of Education Girls' Education Policy cites the Education For All (EFA/Education Pour Tous) policy as aiming, among other goals, to "sensitize women to go to school at all levels" which includes "facilitating girls who become pregnant to go back to school after delivery." (p. 7). In addition to the EFA policy promoting re-admittance of pregnant girls, affirmative action policies have specifically been discussed as needing to "place special emphasis for re-entry for girls who become pregnant during their education." (p. 15) The 2009 Evaluation of the Implementation of the Beijing Declaration and Programme of Action discusses the issue of pregnant adolescent girls. According to the report, in Rwanda "...no girl is excluded from school due to pregnancy." Another section of the report states that "In Rwanda, pregnant children are not chased out of school; besides, married women can attend school."

"Girls," the report states, "are readmitted in schools after delivery."

In some ways, this appears to be consistent with a growing trend in Africa as a whole, where legal protection of pregnant girls allows, at least officially, for their readmittance. As a World Bank report by Esi Sutherland-Addy comments, Botswana, Zambia and Malawi allow girls to go back to school after delivery. Closer by in Kenya, a "Gender and Education Policy developed in 2003 makes provision for the re-admission of girls who become pregnant while still at school, even allowing them to seek a place at a different institution to the one they originally attended." Eliud Kinuthia from the Kenyan branch of the Forum for African Women Educationalists (FAWE), which lobbies for girls education throughout the continent, noted that though the Kenyan policy was pronounced, the implementation was still "left at the discretion of the head teachers and school boards to decide whether to re-admit the girls or not. In the event that the head teachers or school boards do not value girls' education, then the girls seeking re-admission suffer."

However, there are key differences, on even a policy level, between Rwanda and Kenya regarding the issue of readmittance. The wording of Rwanda's policy suggests that girls may have the right to continue education, but not the same education they started prior to pregnancy. Assuring "re-entry for girls who become pregnant," the EFA policy wording, does not specify where they will be readmitted to. It is not clear if girls have the right to continue studying for the national exams in the subject they began, or for the national exams at all. While "no girl is excluded from school due to pregnancy" it may be that all pregnant girls are excluded from most schools. While Kenya, at least officially, allows girls to choose between staying in the same institution and moving to a different institutions, Rwanda's vague policy wording suggests that pregnant girls can return to some institution, regardless of whether this institution is anywhere near the home of the girl.

In Alice's case, there is no public school available, and the closest private school is still ten mile away. Boarding school is the only option and, in her case, because her mother is ready and happy to raise the baby, the only thing missing is money to pay school fees. But most will never find this money.

A lot of the rhetoric surrounding abuse is discouraging girls from giving in to temptation and encouraging them to fight against manipulation. Billboards throughout Rwanda show girls fighting temptation from "sugar daddies." The campaign, sponsored by USAID, is called "Sinigurisha" or "I am not for sale."

But what if the abuse is not about irrational, short-term weakness? It could be outward rape - forcing someone to have sex with physical force. More important, even if there is no physical force involved, there is a problem with the assumption that the girls are being manipulated into taking decisions that are not in their interest.

It is in the their interest, and public policy should be designed so that it isn't. These girls are smart and they are not weak. Many girls are rational, and not manipulated, as the bill boards suggest. They are strong, and their strength should be recognized by providing school fees and living expenses, and not public service announcements warning against dangers which everyone is perfectly aware of.

An article on IRIN, the humanitarian news site for the UN, hardly discusses the economic needs that lead to sugar daddies. Their only concrete example is one school girl who tells us, "When children can't get something at home, like a cell phone, they go to these sugar daddies and sugar mummies and get it from them." Another example is university students who finance their studies with sugar daddies.

Cell phones. That is the example given for "economic needs" of secondary school students. While food security is high, Rwanda is still a country where most struggle to pay for fees after primary school, and all I have talked to struggle to pay for upper secondary school fees. It is not only university age students, it is younger girls who are meant to receive the most basic of lower secondary school education for free, but who often cannot.

Don't get me wrong - I think the Sinigurisha campaign may be effective in decreasing cross-generational sex. As this article by Kristof rights points out, the campaign may save the most lives per dollar by decreasing the cross generational sex that leads to HIV. But it does not necessarily protect the most rights per dollar and prevent the type of rape and sexual abuse that has become so prevalent in East Africa.

It is good that there is a campaign to warn people against dangers, if only because if fuels public discussion on a topic that was previously taboo. But the discussion needs to shift away from warnings and focus on the lack of choices many girls have - both because they need to pay for school fees, and because many are raped by the guardians who supply the most basic necessities of food and shelter. One article on the campaign says that cross generational sex is "wrong, shameful and risky." And this kind of rhetoric prevents girls from speaking out when they are raped or abused: because cross-generational sex is "shameful."

From the same, Alice says she never left the house the entire time she was pregnant, and still rarely does, nine months after the child's birth.

I have seen multiple cases of girls who still depend on older male rapists even after it becomes clear that they are in danger. In Alice's case, her rapist was not someone she relied on for food and she has a mother who takes care of the baby and a rapist who fled, presumably, to Uganda. While I hope I can find the funds to assist her return to school, a government policy that recognizes the lack of choice, and not only bad choices, is necessary.

There are many girls who wish to return to school after giving birth to children the result of rape. For now, I am collecting money from friends and family and giving it to them, with monitoring done by the girls' reliable adult friends and family who are helping raise the children. School fees for one year cost $500 and food, clothes, and other expenses another $500. If you would like to help Alice or others in this specific situation, please send an e-mail to me at helpingalice@gmail.com.