What Do You Bring With You?

Painted on the exit doors of the Catholic church in the village where I served as a Peace Corps Volunteer was a short phrase: "Utahanye iki?" In Kinyarwanda, it means "What do you leave with?" or "What do you bring with you?" The phrase was clearly painted to prompt churchgoers what messages they took away from the service, but with just a few more days remaining in Rwanda after living here for eleven years, I found the same phrase popping up in my mind. What am I leaving with? What am I bringing with me? 

As the days living in the Land of a Thousand Hills dwindle, I wish that I had left more of myself here, and wish that I could take more of Rwanda with me. It has been a good practice of non-attachment, realizing that I occupy such a small, insignificant part of this big planet, and that when I leave this country, it will continue on without me, and me without it. 

Still, the feeling of trying to grasp at the sand falling through my fingers remains, and this feeling of wishing I left some sort of a permanent mark here. I felt a similar feeling of trying to hang onto a place when I was graduating from college. The bittersweet recognition that I would never again be a college student, would never again live in a dormitory with many of my closest friends, would never attend another college class or SYR or spring break trip as a student swelled up inside me as graduation day approached. Determined to leave a small piece of ourselves behind, two friends and I carved our initials into the back of the Notre Dame boathouse before graduation day. It was a small gesture, and one that we knew would likely never stand the test of time, but it felt like a small way to recognize our time there. 

I have not defaced any buildings so far in Rwanda, nor do I intend to do so, but I feel a nagging sense of regret at not having left a "bigger mark" here, and a sense of longing to do so. I didn't build a house or a business that I could come back to, and I didn't even build any bridges across Rwandan rivers like my husband. There is no physical reminder of my time here, only places that I have spent time and hold memories. 

We have already sold or given away almost everything we own here, except for a few photos, and our shoes and clothes, which we we are currently attempting to squeeze into two large suitcases each (wish us luck...). The process of selling everything was more emotionally draining and difficult than I expected. It was difficult to let go of the bright, cheery yellow walls and sunny porch, the colorful rugs I got on a vacation to Morocco, carved picture frames from too many trips to Zanzibar, lamps that dance light around the room from a trip to Egypt. It has been my and D'Assise's home the past five years, my and Nico's first home together, and each room contains so many memories of our time here. 

As I pack yet another bag, I admit that there is still a deep sense of sadness, despite all the things I'm excited for about living in Italy. Rwanda has been so, so good to me these past eleven years, and I feel grateful that I was randomly selected to come to this small East African country. I've lived exactly one-third of my life here, and it's the place where I became an adult, adopted my son, and met my husband as a family. I've found what I'm most passionate about here, my vocation if you will, working in food security, agri-food systems, and nutrition. I have had friends give birth to new babies, attended baptisms, celebrated with friends at dowry ceremonies and weddings, had break-ups, fell in love, and cried at heart-wrenching funerals over the past eleven years, and these memories play through my head as I pack. 

A friend who recently moved to New York City after many years living in East Africa recently wrote that she had a hard time when people asked her where she was from not blurting out, "I live in New York, BUT I spent many years living in Rwanda and Burundi", and I imagine that I will feel the same very soon, that I am leaving a huge, important part of my life out when in the future someone asks where I'm from and where I live, and I will merely respond "I'm from Nebraska, USA, and I live in Italy." 

***

I'm afraid of losing touch with Rwanda in a way that I never was with past moves. When I left Nebraska or Boston, I feared losing relationships or growing apart from family and friends, but I was never concerned about forgetting where the T stops were or which pedestrian overpasses to get to the Charles River are usable with a bike or what a Runza is or what Aksarben stands for.   

I worry that I may lose my Kinyarwanda, that I've worked so hard to learn; that I may forget the best paths for seeing animals in Akagera safari park or my favorite spots to watch the sun setting over Lake Kivu in Kamembe or all the random agricultural knowledge I've stored away in a compartment of my brain or my favorite pizza on the way-too-long menu at Sole Luna, which Rwandan fruits and vegetables I like and which to avoid (intorgi and I were just never meant to be friends), the songs and sayings I have learned, the way I no longer can say just one "sorry" but always two or three, the random phone USSD codes that I have memorized that can save me a buck or two on data or long distance calls to other countries (super packs for the win!), how to adjust my management style to a country where upwards feedback can be difficult. Will I soon forget the smell of belle du nuit flowers floating on an evening breeze, the hand signals drivers make to say "slow down" or "police ahead", which months of the year I can find ripe amapera in the markets, the number of the ice delivery guy in Kigali who will bring a steady source of ice to your party late into the night?

Rwanda is rapidly changing and progressing; in the eleven years that I've been here, there have been new roads that have been built, new buildings that now tower over the city, businesses and universities that have launched, new cafes and restaurants that I frequent. This rapid development and sense of progress is one of the reasons I have stayed for so long: it's a beautiful thing to see a society develop in real time, before your eyes, and to feel that you are contributing (in a very, very tiny way) to that positive change. But this rapid change also means that the Rwanda I come back to next may be very different than the Rwanda I lived in the past eleven years, which is perhaps the reason behind my worries of losing touch with this place, that I haven't felt in other places. 

***

This is the first time in my life that I have moved somewhere and intended to be there for more than just a few years. It's the first time I have owned a home. In some ways I'm jumping into the unknown, and into a situation that is no longer "neutral" in my relationship. Rwanda was a second country for both Nico and I when we met and got married; we are both foreigners here. When we move to Italy, my husband will be moving back to his hometown; to the place he feels most comfortable and familiar, where he can speak his mother tongue and where many family and friends live within a 20 minute bike ride, while I can speak quite basic Italian and get lost driving around. 

Over the past couple of months, my emotions have been on a rollercoaster ride as I've seen the big move approaching on the horizon. Some days, when the warm equatorial sun glows orange on our back porch, when I roadtrip through the green thousand hills, or sip some delicious Rwandan coffee that I've become accustomed to, I have wondered if we should call it off completely, and just stay. In response, I started a note on my phone of all the things I'm looking forward to about Italy: wine and cheese, good olives, gelato, making our apartment a home, getting to know my Italian family more, getting to experience spring and fall again. I'm also excited for a new sense of adventure that has waned a bit as my familiarity with Rwanda has increased. I have visited 29 out of 30 districts (need to hit Nyaruguru before I leave!). I've lived in three different districts, in four different sectors. I have visited all the national parks probably a hundred times. I'm craving the sense of adventure that overwhelms you when moving to a foreign country. 

It is this sense of adventure that keeps me hungry and eager to meet the day and see where it takes me. I try to remind myself: that the unknown is where the growth is. I remember being a brand-new Peace Corps trainee and being utterly terrified a lot of the time. Everything was new and confusing, the food was unfamiliar, and I could barely communicate with my Rwandan host family (including many awkward gestures my very first night in their house when I realized I didn't know the Kinyarwanda word for "toilet paper"). I remember starting service as a Peace Corps Volunteer, and adjusting to the slower pace of life in a rural Rwandan village. I feel like I have learned so much every single year I have been in Rwanda, and that has been a real gift that I don't take for granted. 

***

After a little trip back to see my Peace Corps site and to see the nuns that raised D'Assise, a stop in Karongi to catch up with friends, we'll be catching our flight to Italy in almost exactly one week. I imagine that I'll be a bit of a sobbing mess, and then I'll wake up in my new home country, starting from zero, and will try to put one foot in front of the other, and string Italian nouns and vowels together to try to form sentences. 

The unknown is where the growth is: that's what I'm bringing with me.