Setting the Tone: On Teaching My First Course in Rwanda

The American girl in me was antsy because I certainly did not want to make a bad impression by being late on my first day. My director wanted to personally introduce me to the class I would be teaching.  When we finally arrived, some of the class was waiting outside while others trickled in one at a time. The Director instructed them to go and get chairs for the classroom so that they could sit. This was new to me and was just a quick reminder that I had to be prepared for things to be a bit different.  Don’t get me wrong---students are students everywhere and are always subject to being hot mess; that doesn’t change. However, there was a new set of challenges presented to me on that day. Even though we had been forewarned of the challenges we might face in the classroom, it doesn’t become real until you enter the classroom. I was ready to enter the battlefield of white dust, also known as chalkboards and chalk, but fortunately, we have whiteboards at my school. We were told that the likelihood of having books to work with was slim to none. Thus, I prepared a lesson plan with tiers in case I needed to escalate or de-escalate depending on their levels. Thankfully, I hit it right on the nose.

While some students missed the customary first day of class speeches, on the second day more showed up of course and when I asked why they were absent, some had the usual college-kid-i-had-a-problem-clears-throat-excuse. Others, and most, had real life excuses, like being chronically sick, or having to take care of a parent, or issues with their passports since many cross the border from Goma town in the neighboring Democratic Republic of Congo. Even though I had planned to be a bit firmer than I usually am because of the closeness in our ages, I had to readjust my approach because of the nature of the challenges.

Not too long into the course, I asked them to write a biographical essay so that I could learn even more about their lives, while gauging their level of writing fluency and assessing what holes we would need to focus on during the course of the module. As my eyes perused their notebooks in the way that teachers do the infamous casual teacher stroll, I read snippets of their essays. No matter what the structure of the sentence was or what grammar lacked, the message was clear: that some of my students were without parents because of a terrible event that many of us only remember because of a film. Even though I studied African politics and conflicts extensively during undergraduate, there is never really any talk or advice that can prepare you for the feeling that engulfs you when you read, in an essay, that it took you 10 seconds to explain, that your students do not have parents because they were tragically killed in 1994. Some referred to the year 1994 that has a clear connotation in this cultural context and others wrote out the word ‘genocide.’ The word is the same in French and English; no matter the grammatical errors, that word and that reality are clear.

I encouraged them to talk, but I also expressed to them that they do not have to share anything they do not wish to share.  In the two weeks, however, they have been open with me and our classroom has the warm embrace of a family at a dinner table. I have looked forward to sharing ideas with them every day and to challenging them to speak even when they are feeling self-conscience about language errors.  We have bonded over lessons, conversations about each other, debates on hot topics, and have laughed at jokes that occur while learning. They are my first class in Rwanda and probably the smallest group I will ever have in a module, so they will always have a special place in my heart. Even more, something about this group made me feel like not only their lecturer, but also, a nurturer, friend, and sister. I can imagine that they see a piece of me in them, as I see a piece of them in me.

Their humble demeanors, shy smiles, eagerness to learn will be etched in my heart.  I am grateful that they let me in and allowed me to impart just an ounce of knowledge on their already brilliant minds. 

Preparing their arguments for a group debate on technology

The boys and their lecturer

One of my three special girls :) #girlpower #powergirls 

:) Business Information Technology Year 2 Students

Outspoken and passionate about everything he does

The next social entrepreneur---more on this later :) #girlpower #powergirls

A leader amongst leaders

Turn to your partner and talk because language is produced and not memorized!

That moment when your point is so critical

When she talks, we ALL listen

The Honorable himself

Because pictures are necessary

Break time and we still want to be together!

*This blog (Bee's Backseat) is not an official Fulbright Program site.  The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.

Adios, Panama and Muraho, Rwanda!

From feisty Panama in Central America to soothing green hills in Rwanda, East Africa, I welcome you once again to Bee’s Backseat. Or should I say 'Muraho," which means 'hello' in Kinyarwanda. Less than three months ago I hauled my two overweight suitcases and hoped that my oversized carry-on and way-too-big personal item would fly. Pun intended ;) I was moving all of my stuff back to my hometown, the DMV, but I was also headed to a very important orientation in Washington DC. This year, I was awarded a J. William Fulbright grant to teach English in Rwanda. It is no secret how I feel about Africa, education, youth development, language and cross-cultural exchange, so you must know already that I am still trying to grasp how big of a blessing and dream come true this is for me.  Because writing is more than a hobby, because I can’t wait to paint this picture through my words, and because I couldn’t imagine taking anyone else on this journey, I invite you to come along on this ride. This time, we are journeying through a small country nestled in East Africa with lush greenness overflowing. I can’t wait to pour out my experiences in Rwanda, onto my keyboard, and to deliver the goodness of this blessing unto your browsers where ever you are. I have made a pact with myself to journal more and blog at the same time. This is bigger than me now J Mama, I’m a Fulbrighter!

 

the best thing ever! vinaigrette filled avocado was simply the best thing ever. i dipped my fries in it, although the fries were not pictured! beef brochettes are yummy here. (roast beef, suya, kabob. you pick your name!)

peace

this is Rwanda.

a typical lunch. more to come on food! for now the basics: stewed meat, some type of greens, and green plantains.

standing somewhere in between Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo :) pretty cool being in between two countries!

these women are walking across the border to buy and sell goods. My new home is a business/trading area!

I encourage you all to subscribe as a passenger on Bee’s Backseat. I don’t want you to miss out on this journey in the Land of 1,000 hills! 

On River Crossing and Love of Sierra Leone: Last Days

As the water from the Sierra Leone River (yes, it’s actually called that) rushed to my feet, I realized quickly that I would not leave this experience, without some sort of trauma. The ferry had not been docked appropriately and the tides were high. So while we had just run trailing the mob of men that held our suitcases above their heads, we were now faced with treading in river water barefooted to enter the ferry in hopes of making it both dry and alive to our Brussels Flight. If this were a movie, this scene would have been filled with the type of music symphony they play when there is chaos going on and the immediate future is uncertain. Before I had the chance to protest, a young man scooped me up, slumped me over his shoulder and ran up the ramp with me. Who was I to complain; I had been sliding down the ramp while attempting to walk up with my black, Old Navy thong sandals, that apparently weren’t made for ferry catching attempts in Sierra Leone. When he put me down and extended his hand, waiting for me to pull out Leones, because “nah e tote me kam up,” I realized that I was remiss in one important factor when travelling in Sierra Leone. Ah nor been get ‘small tin,’ for gi, which translates to small thing, which are tips you give to people along the way as bribery or for general assistance. I had given all of my Leones away to my cousins figuring they would make better use of it, than I would in Panama. I imagined that he damned me all the way down, the narrow, winding, metal steps of the ferry. Even though, I gave him a remark that was laced with my general frustration of the country’s situation, I felt a deep sense of effed-up-ness; I was overwhelmed. 

---As if the last few days hadn’t been emotionally jarring enough for me just preparing to leave, there was the long a%&$^%# ride to East End, which us West Enders dread. There was the traffic where my mom and aunt complained about the lawlessness of the people. There were the liberal attempts I made to justify why there was such lawlessness and thieves. There were the memories of my mother and aunt as we passed Bishop Johnson Memorial School, where they attended. There were the comments about how poor the roads were, how they used to be able to walk around with their heels from end to end. These damn roads in modern day post-war Freetown, don’t allow for that, they grieved. They saw it and rebuked it with a sense of disgust. I saw it from the lens of a future development worker, of a liberal-minded and Western-educated, Sierra Leonean enthusiast. I saw the possibilities. But that’s that. As I write this even, I realize that my lens is different. That my mom or aunt, or many people can’t understand why I would be willing to leave all of my comforts to go and work and live in sweet Sierra Leone. I would simply tell them, it’s my journey. It’s my odyssey, and this is an affair of the heart. Our sweet Sierra Leone awaits us. If not us, then who? 

In my last days in Freetown, besides the East End experience, there was Ibrahim. Ibrahim who touched my heart in an uncanny way for someone who doesn’t say much.  Ibrahim who wore his hood from his oversized jacket to protect himself and soul from the harsh, dry Harmattan breeze. Ibrahim who never showed late up to his nighttime security guard post in his boss’ compound. Ibrahim who takes care of his two brothers after his older siblings died. Ibrahim who watches for any potential risks to the compound with his WASSCE (West African Senior Secondary School Certificate Examination) study guide in hand. Ibrahim who needs to pass this test with flying colors so that he can have any chance at providing a better life for his nephews now turned sons. Ibrahim who pays his own lesson fees for extra practice, feeds his nephews before himself, takes care of them before getting his rest and studies when he should be sleeping during the day. Ibrahim who we told to come upstairs. Ibrahim became the security guard who was afraid when summoned by his boss. A sometimes arrogant, mess-with-your-mind type of boss, but a boss who recognized the struggle, because he lived through it and never forgets where he came from type of boss. Ibrahim who didn’t know what to expect, walked up the steps and took his seat on the balcony that extended above his post. Ibrahim who answers his boss with a “yes sir,” sat there, eyes wide preparing for the worst when Bossman said “I want you to go home.” Bossman wasn’t firing him; Bossman wanted him to take his time to study. He promised to pay his salary and for his lesson fees, without Ibrahim having to come to work, stay up all night, blue WASSC book in hand, trying to study with drifting eyelids, all while listening to the sounds of the night, thieves not being his biggest concern. Ibrahim, who now has a better chance at making something of himself because now he can actually sleep adequately, study effectively, and generate income, things so basic, is the one who brought the single tear to my eye on this night in Freetown. The only difference between a boy like Ibrahim and say my little brother for example, is that my parents somehow made it to the west, hustled, worked odd jobs for status, lots of 12-hour shifts to afford us comforts, and ended up in the right place.  People would say: you are so blessed to have had this opportunity. Another might say to him: you are so blessed to have gone to school, to have income, to have survived. Blessings, you see, are relative.

 Den say salone nah di only place usai u get for take three modes of transportation for reach di capital city: plane, car, and boat-all in one journey. The truth is, it’s all worth the hassle.  What awaits us on the other side of the journey is the warmth of a place we call home: fry fish wit casada brade, plantain, akara and peteteh, with gravy, roasted peppeh chicken, cassava leaves made over a coal fire in the yard with palm oil, white okra and fufu. Obiata if you nah Fourah Bay J. Vimto. Malta and ginger beer that your aunty’s friend has brought for you. And above all, the familiarity of a people that remind us of our roots. I would do it over and over and over again if God wills me to do just that.

The networks, the potential partnerships, envisioning myself being a part of the expat community, or the diaspora,excitement to plan events---I just saw myself in a way that says I could do this in the future. Who’s to say when this will actually happen? That’s what makes this an odyssey of the heart; one never can really tell how love will end for there is so much uncertainty.

Odyssey of the Heart: Girls and Goals

Just a few days shy of my departure from Sierra Leone, I was invited to talk on a Sports Talk radio show on Kalleone Jams. I will admit that I avoided the offer a few times, because at this point, I was burned out from the constant going and coming of family visits, and wanted to spend my last few days wallowing in love, food, and immediate family. I wanted to put up a sign that said “Come back later---after my plane leaves.” But the guy who invited me to the show was none other than Mohammed Sesay, aka Medo, a soccer player, law student, avid supporter of youth initiatives, and of course, a brother to me. I gave in to the invite. And today, I am grateful that I did, because my speaking on that radio show opened up the door for me to reach 20 more girls and in a unique way, that I could have never imagined before coming to Sierra Leone. God (and the universe) really does conspire in your favor.

“You know say we nor get freedom of speech nah yah,” Medo warned. He was reminding me to beware of what I said on the airwaves as the last time several students were arrested for airing their grievances on a radio show. Shortly after the show began airing, police arrived to arrest them. I took note of this, as I would have hated to close out my amazing vacation by being jailed for offending the government. Albeit, I really had no intention of speaking on politics anyway, as I am not well versed in the layers of the current political situation.

The show’s host welcome his listeners to the show, gave them the latest news on sports happenings, and then peaked their curiosity by telling them that he had a young lady in the studio. People called in, asked questions about my background. They asked mostly about how an American-born child could be so fluent in Krio; I myself don’t know how I pulled that one off because even when I was on the radio in the DMV, I couldn’t speak on serious topics in Krio. Oh and for the record, I did ask if I could speak in English, but they reminded me that maybe some old woman in a village upline would be listening in and wouldn’t understand me. So I made it through...all for that old woman upline. *upline = provinces

I spoke a bit about my background in youth development and sports program development and how I believed that sports are in fact an effective approach to positive youth development. So now the people wanted to know WHAT my plans were for sports and youth in Sierra Leone, what I came to do, what I would do and more importantly, if I would move to Sierra Leone to do these projects and more importantly, WHEN. I assured them that I do intend on going back home to develop some of projects I have in mind; however, I emphasized that there should be no rush in this process and that they should move away from the notion that anyone and everyone abroad can come home, jump start projects, and solve problems. It takes time, I told them, and the last thing I want to do is stick my hand in the pot, without assessing how hot it is. I want to have a plan of action that will come only after truly assessing the needs of the populations I want to serve. It will come.

And just when I thought I could relax and enjoy what little time I had left, or prepare for the nostalgia that I knew was to follow, I was called in again by Medo because of the response to the topic on the show. No radio show this time. This time they wanted me to address an all-girls football (soccer) club, FC Mahmoud. To this, I said a big, fat yes, because, of course, girls work---that’s just what I do! J Only problem was I only had two days left in Sierra Leone. So we agreed that I would meet with the girls on Thursday morning.

I was told that I would be picked up by a guy named Fred Claye, also known as the youth ambassador. He happened to live in Goderich so I needed nothing more to head to my getaway spot also in Goderich ;).

On the way, Fred Claye asked that question, the magic question: how are you going to help them? I told him that I wasn’t. I told him that I was going to listen to them. Teach maybe. Give some words of advice maybe. Positively affect one, maybe I would do. All I wanted to do was to hear first hand what girls and women believe are the most pressing issues for them in Sierra Leone particularly as female athletes, in this case.

 The team of about 20 girls had been summoned to the Yhosven Hall. They had been told to arrive at 7am because they would be playing a match outside of town. They wouldn’t have come if they had been told they were having a meeting. I entered aware of my presence with my clunky, funky, very-foreigner like wooden-wedge heels, wondered what impression I was already making, and said a quick prayer to the public speaking Gods (in Krio as I needed the Krio language Gods to answer this particular prayer). I was introduced, and then the language Gods came through because I was able to address those girls in Krio and in a motivational tone. This was a first for me. I was able to tell the girls a little about myself, what I do, what I want to do, and ask them questions about themselves. 

 The pressing question from me to them was what they felt their challenges were as female soccer players in Sierra Leone. Some spoke up, gave issues, examples and I appreciated that. The girls said that they would like more encouragement and support from their families, to be valued as soccer players. From a western standpoint, one would imagine that would be an easy fix, but when you grow up in a house of immigrants, you realize that emotional and verbal encouragement isn’t always guaranteed, though it can have significant impact on youth. I can attest to that. There was always power in my mom showing up to events where I would be speaking. I would always look for her and even as she strolled in late, I was always elated by her mere presence. I still look for my parents’ support and approval in many aspects of my life, so I can totally understand where these young women were coming from. It is the reason I still send my daddy my blog posts first.

But Fred Claye knows more than I knew in this moment; he, without a doubt, recognized the importance of the women getting support from their families, but he also understood their reality in ways that I did not in the moment.  So he moved to do something that exemplified why in fact he is known as the youth ambassador. Cognizant of the fact that the girls had withheld some of their biggest challenges and plight, he picked on them.  One by one, he called on the girls to step up to the front of the room. One by one he questioned them in a way that only a keen observer and someone who is truly, deeply, dedicated and passionate to a cause could do. The questions he asked, forced them to stand face to face with their biggest challenges. Those questions also expanded my own thoughts, challenged my idea of their plight, and gave me much needed cultural insight and scope of the situation in Sierra Leone from these young women’s perspectives.

Fatmata, Haja, Messi.

Fatmata, what do you want to become?  A lawyer. Why do you want to become a lawyer. Explain your passion for law. Why do you want to become something like a lawyer. What skills do you have? What do you do to show your dedication to this field. This young woman could barely speak to any of these questions. Although, she was the first picked on, she had a difficult time answering where her passion or interest for law had developed. Fred Claye wanted her to see that in order for you to become something, you have to start with a plan, and start by taking action. By prioritizing. Taking what you want to do seriously. It was evident that for one reason or another, she couldn’t do this.

Haja. How does your family feel about you playing soccer? They strongly dislike it. How does your father feel about you playing soccer. He often forbids me to. Why doesn’t he want you to play soccer? I am a woman and he doesn’t want me to be travelling around boys. We are from a tribe that is associated with a certain religion that has strict rules on interactions with men before marriage. Haja have you tried talking to your dad about your desire to play soccer? Haja tell us how you would do that? She hesitated. It was extremely difficult for her. And thus this would be difficult to do in front of her father.

Messi. What have you noticed since you became one of the star players? People all over the streets recognize me. How do you behave in public? Do you realize why that matters? I notice that both boys and girls say that they want to be me. What does that mean to you Messi?

The final interrogation of Messi and her response triggered something within me. I recognized on the spot that one of the areas in which Sierra Leone lacks is positive youth development, which would include teaching youth how to set goals with respect to their environment. Many of my sisters have dreams, yes, but do not know how to create steps to achieve their dreams. I do not claim to be able to do all. But I do know that I know how to set goals, work towards them, and that I can teach something as simple as having goals and setting them. So Godwilling, I promised the girls, I would be back. And that this time I would come with a small workshop on a Saturday, where we talk about what they would like to accomplish both on and off the soccer field and how to accomplish those things.

The hard reality for these girls is that for many of them, soccer cannot be there end-all-be all. It is important for them to view their abilities, skills, passion, desire for soccer as the first step to a better tomorrow. We asked them this:  in 10 years, what will you stand in front of 20 girls sitting in the same chairs which you occupy today, and say? What will be your legacy as someone who has been gifted with the ability to score goals, run quickly down the field and to defend your team? What will be your contribution to girls like you?

That encouraging them to develop plan B is not to discourage them from playing and loving soccer, but for them to figure out how they will take their talents a step further.  That they should use their gifts to uplift is what I left them with. That a female soccer player today, will become the first female president of Sierra Leone, is what I left them with. And my whatsapp contact information, of course.