Serendipity!

Today was an amazing day! First thing in the morning, I got an amazing chance to interview a government official in the ministry of disaster management and refugee affairs. He’s the official camp manager for the refugee camp we planned to visit. In this austere ministry environment, my professor got the serious giggle fits just before we met with the official because the sounds of Tina Turner singing “What’s love got to do with it?” blasted through the lobby at 8:05 in the morning. While we waited for him in his office (Rwandans start the day very early!!), we asked the other women there if any reports or documents were available about Kiziba that we could read to do some background research. The ladies informed us that these reports were “all in his head,” meaning the guy we were about to interview. True to their word, this guy was full of information and statistics that he spouted right from memory. We couldn’t find an open conference room, so we sat on some faux leather seats in the waiting room. The ministry official spoke softly so I had to lean in to hear him. As he revealed all of these amazing facts about the camps here in general I scooted a little closer, my rear end squeaking on the pleather and echoing off the marble floors and empty walls. And the camps hold 16,000 people. SQUEAK. The first of them arrived in November of 1996. SQUEAK. People arrive at the border by the thousands and we struggle to process them all. SQUEAK. In all seriousness though, I got a lot of great information from him and a detailed account of the governance structure of the camp.

From there, we got our official letter that would give us access to the camp. We jumped in the SUV and drove the three and a half hours to the Kiziba camp. Along the way, we saw a succession of three weddings walking down the road all in a row, and another one a little farther down the way. Apparently tomorrow is the monthly mandatory work day, and people like to get married just before it. I don’t know why. Mandatory workday is this really interesting Rwandan thing that I’ve always wanted to experience, so maybe I’ll fill you in on that later. Tomorrow we might get to go and explore this mystical last Saturday of the month…

If you don’t remember my original post about Kiziba, in a nutshell, it’s an enclave of 16,000 refugees from the DRC that have been housed away from the civil war on a picturesque hillside overlooking the lake that separates Rwanda from one of the longest running civil conflicts on the continent. The contrast between the tropical vacation feel of this resort town, and the idleness and misuse of human potential that embodies this refugee village is incredibly moving. Also, if you recall, the entry to this camp requires official documentation presented to a man with a binder that manages the “gate” (read old, tattered string) that keeps prying eyes out. We approached the camp on the terrifyingly jagged mountain road and passed through the “gate” without much concern, or reference to our official paperwork that required the desperate energies of my professor to get. As we drove in, I realized I must’ve been hopped up on adrenaline the last time I was here, because I remembered nearly every nook and cranny—and I’m not known for having stellar recall. We arrived at the administrative section of the camp, which is really a collection of cold, mud rooms with very little ventilation and only the light from the window to illuminate what happens there. Children gathered around us in hoards and were warded off by camp elders shaking sticks at them (not in a way that seemed particularly hurtful).

First, I have to preface this story with the fact that, in 2011 when we first visited Kiziba, we met a wonderful young man named Gaston who asked if we spoke any English and then proceeded to guide us around the camp for the next two days. We got his cell phone number and have called him several times from the US to see how he was doing. Cell phones in a refugee camp, you ask? Yes, but air time is only purchased when there is extra money, so occasionally phones go out or are replaced. Long story short, we lost his number and have been desperately searching for him ever since. At the ministry this morning, we put in a request to have a search for him in the registry, but we weren’t particularly hopeful. Back to the story…

Our SUV pulled up in the administrative alcove, and we got out of the car to find hoards of children and some interested adults moving in on us. I looked up, and a man walked around the corner. I mumbled aloud, “Is that…Gaston…??” And my professor shouted out, “Gaston?….GASTON?!” He turned around and, at least in my mind’s eye, my professor ran to him in slow motion and embraced him in such a way that it drew a crowd. We all hugged and shook hands (in the traditional Rwandan fashion) and hugged all over again. WHAT ARE THE CHANCES?! In a crowd of 16,000 a man we have been searching for during the last two years just happened to walk around the corner the minute that we pulled up? Seriously. It was one of those moments that really made me believe that I was where I was “supposed” to be at that exact moment.

We reunited and he told us his mother was working in the market. We wanted to meet her, but first had to meet with the Executive Council. I (with intense help from my professor) conducted a focus group about security concerns in the camp and was blown away by how honest and open these elected representatives were with information. Mind you, at this point they still hadn’t even asked for official documentation, which we had proudly carried into this camp. A teacher from the school who sits on the council (at the tender age of 23) turned out to be an awesome translator, and facilitated much of the meeting. I was on a high from the morning’s productive start! A reunion with a friend, and a gold mind of qualitative data for my research project. Holy cow!

We got all the council members names and titles (including the “president” of the camp), and took a picture to remember the moment. Outside, they made sure we knew we were not welcome to take photos of anyone without their permission (thank goodness we had free reign two years ago, so I’ve got all the pictures I need). And then began the bureaucracy. I don’t mean to paint a picture of the developing world as backwards, because I certainly wouldn’t describe this country as that. In fact, quite the contrary, I believe the systems in place are so orderly and so formalized, that much like some US systems I can think of, they render themselves ineffective. A close friend here later shared with us the idea that this is possibly on purpose to hide some deeper, maybe more covert activities. I can’t speak on that, but the rest of our day did lend some credence to that possibility…

Suddenly our paperwork became very, very important. We simply couldn’t walk the 1/8 of a mile down the path that we so freely wandered two years before to get to the small market, even if it was with the purpose of finally meeting our friend’s mother (she was away visiting a sick friend the last time we came). It turns out our paperwork was only good for a visit today. Our ministry friend only writes them for “workdays” and tomorrow is Saturday. Apparently no one external goes to the camp on Saturdays. So, the focus group we’d set up for tomorrow couldn’t possibly happen without a separate letter. And about walking down to the market, that can’t possibly happen because this letter says you’re here to see schools and education. The “president” (who camp administrators later said over the phone is not actually a president of anything) followed us closely and insisted that we have at least a phone call from our ministry friend that we visited earlier that morning. This guy proved impossible to contact by phone suddenly and we’ve yet to hear back from him.

Our friend Gaston and his mother – Photo by Dr. J

Ultimately, they were convinced through intervention of our friends to let us walk down to the market to meet Gaston’s mother. It was a big to-do in the market as we greeted this seemingly very old woman. My professor engulfed her tiny, frail body in the warm embrace that so epitomizes her love for others. The woman is only in her early sixties, but could easily have been mistaken for 80. Cataracts had engulfed the majority of her left eye and she told us she suffered from untreated diabetes.  We asked to see what she sold in the market, and she led us through the dense crowd that had gathered to watch us to the very back where she had small piles of charcoal next to other people selling small piles of charcoal. Apparently, when the WFP delivery of firewood to the camp inevitably runs out before the next delivery, local Rwandans come to the camp selling bundles of charcoal that refugees buy in bulk and sell for a small profit margin. It’s nothing to make a living off of, but enough to attempt to get a small amount of spending money. At the end of the tour of the market, we were allowed to take Gaston’s picture with his mother as long as no one else, and nothing else, was in it. We were escorted around to the back of the market and behind another building (followed by a gaggle of onlookers) to a secluded area where my professor was allowed to take their pictures together.

Night was falling, and storm clouds were gathering. There was a definite shift in energy as the camp began to prepare for its 6 pm curfew. Our friends escorted us to our vehicle and we all wished each other well, hoping that we’ll get the chance to meet again tomorrow. As the process stands, however, our pass has expired and we won’t be allowed in again. Security seems to have tightened all over the country, and Kiziba is no exception. Hopefully we can work some last minute magic. I have an interview with our ministry official’s assistant tomorrow in town. Maybe she can help us out. I just can’t believe that after all this time looking for Gaston, that we won’t be able to see him one more time tomorrow…

Storm clouds gathering – Photo by Dr. J

Despite the weightiness of the day, and my intuition that something’s wrong with me because I don’t feel the weight like others around me seem to, I’m feeling really optimistic. The serendipity of that moment, seeing Gaston just casually walk around the corner, is just too powerful to let all this bureaucracy get to me again.