This post goes out to all Peace Corps employees, and especially those from Rwanda. From the moment you found out we had to leave until the time we stepped foot on American soil, you worked non-stop, with little to no sleep, to ensure we reached America safely. I am deeply in your debt. I will never forget you all and look forward to the day we can meet again.
In Rwanda, when you meet someone for the first time you say “Muraho!” with a smile. You give them two hugs, one on each side of their cheeks. This is done with sincerity, happiness, and affection. Rwandan culture is tactile, loving, and affectionate. Once you are friends with someone, you greet not with a handshake, but a hug. Men hold hands with men as they go on walks. Women hold hands as well. Friends drape arms over their buddies’ shoulders. I love this about Rwanda. And I miss it dearly.
With any greeting, there is always, eventually, a goodbye. That is life. In Rwanda, when you leave someone for a long time, you say “Murabeho,” and you hug them goodbye. You may also express love and togetherness by saying “Turi Kumwe,” meaning “we are together.” It’s a powerful statement that Americans could use right now. Another is, “Komera,” which means “stay strong.”
Now, all volunteers around the world had just a few days, and in some cases just hours to pack up their lives into a few suitcases and say those goodbyes in their local language to those they loved dearly. At my site, many of my colleagues lived far from our school, making it impossible to say goodbye in-person. Not being able to do that tears at my soul to this day.
Goodbyes were infinitely harder in Rwanda because human contact was now highly discouraged due to COVID-19 and saying goodbye as one usually does was suddenly frowned upon. Despite this, I know many PCVs over the next few days who still hugged those they had come to love and consider family. How could we not do so?
After leaving our villages via motos, buses, or taxis towards pick-up points we had been assigned by Peace Corps, we all streamed into a hotel in Kigali. Those last few days were an exhausting blur of emotion and administrative tasks. We discovered initial plans to take normal civilian flights to our homes of record in the United States were no longer possible since Rwanda was shutting down all commercial air travel on Friday, March 20. There were fears we could be stuck in limbo for days.
It was announced on Thursday we would be taking chartered planes that would pick up volunteers in Uganda, then our group in Rwanda, then another group in Malawi, finally arriving early Saturday morning, March 21 in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia for a ‘layover’ at a hotel near the airport that was full of hundreds of volunteers from all over Africa. Murabeho, Turi Kumwe, and Komera kept ringing in my ears.
From this point onward, my experience of this evacuation will be told from my own, first-person perspective.
March 21, 6 p.m., Saturday night at the hotel in Addis Ababa.
Everyone is running around like chickens with their heads cut off. It reminds me of the scenes in Home Alone where they are late for the plane and everyone is freaking out. There is a Madagascar PCV who is gesticulating madly as he discusses whatever the latest frustration is. One hour ago he ran towards the hotel front desk and preceded to get into what to him seemed to be an important argument as he pointed his fingers accusatorially every which way.
We just heard the news a few hours before that Rwanda has effectively shut down. It is hitting us as we make our way towards that last plane to take us to America. Once a beacon of hope. Now a slow-moving disaster.
March 22, 1 a.m., Sunday morning at the airport in Addis Ababa.
Walking through the airport to get on our plane has been surreal. We’re surrounded by other travelers in masks and a small minority in full-on hazmat suits. I just walked by a mother carrying her baby son with a plastic bag draped over her head to attempt to somehow protect them both.
As we stand in security line after line for hours, we are deathly silent and beyond exhaustion. There are no words at this moment that need to be said. Many of us know how we feel.
Guilt, over having to leave so suddenly.
Shame, over not being able to say goodbye properly to those we love.
Privilege, over having the option to fly somewhere else.
Despair, over realizing we will not see our friends and family in Rwanda for perhaps years.
Confusion, over having no idea what the next hour, day, or month will bring.
There is a deep sadness that may never go away until we are able to return to our host countries.
I overhear a colleague mention the concept of time and our complete lack thereof. Is it daytime, nighttime, or breakfast time? We don’t know anymore. It’s all a blur of endless, backbreaking security lines with bags.
Throughout it all, transportation and airport employees continue doing their job with patience, persistence, and grace. I will never forget this day nor these images which have now been seared in my brain.
Leaving Ethiopia feels like leaving Rwanda all over again.
Meanwhile, Murabeho, Turi Kumwe, and Komera keep ringing in my ears.
If This Isn't Nice, I Don't Know What Is 