Family Has Nothing to do with Blood

Today I said goodbye to my Rwandan mother, Christine. It was the third time I saw her and she made a special stop at the WE-ACTx house bearing gifts on her way to night school. In Rwanda it is customary to offer your guest something to drink immediately. This typically ends in a Fanta request and man, Christine likes her orange Fanta! I ran next door to get her a "soda" (clearly there is not enough Midwestern influence here...) and when I came back, she was seated with a present, wrapped in beautiful flowered paper and a peach bow, sitting next to her.

For you, she says as she hands me the box. I smile, murakoze chani, as I unwrap the carefully wrapped gift. I've seen people on the sidewalk gift wrapping to earn money, in the market, as I walk through the streets. Shiny ribbons, hand looped bows, glittery paper. Gifts, no matter how big or small, always come expertly wrapped in Rwanda.

I open the box and pull out a handmade quilted purse. Something I would not pick out for myself, but truly, the perfect present. It's small made with a brown and tan patterned fabric. I love it, Christine! Murakoze chani! It's great! She pulls her purse onto her lap and struggles with a much larger gift. As she hands it to me, she says, for your mother, Christine too. This gift is wrapped with the same special touch. A pink and white bow in place of the peach one.

This all started a month ago when Dr. JMV was running late. Christine walked into the room and introduced herself. All I had to say was, Christine is my mother's name. We are forever family now. She was on holiday, but happened to stop into the clinic that Thursday to finish some paperwork. Christine is in charge of ordering ARVs for the clinic. That's the magic of Africa that I look forward to every day. Chance. Luck. As I reflect on my nearly two months in Rwanda, I think of all the things I've seen, and done, the people I've met, the moments that flash through my memory. Almost all, completely from pure dumb luck. The man on the bus to Nyungwe. Laughs in the kitchen, shared with Seraphine. Hiking through brambles looking for giraffes with James. Seeing the sunrise over the misty hills of Rwanda. Watching the children walk to school. Seeing the rainforest before the sun rose. Being punked by a monkey. Helping Candida with her English homework. Making biscuits with her. Hearing Alice's story on a bus ride to the mosque.

We spent nearly two hours sitting in a room together, speaking broken English and even more broken Kinyarwanda. She told me of her children, that she was a widow, also a student. When Dr. JMV finally arrived, she returned to her office and continued her work. Every time she entered the room, she held my hand or slapped my cheek. Hugs and kisses. Then I didn't see for a very long time.

I asked about Dr. JMV after she hadn't returned to work. The words flowed so nonchalantly. Her family was killed in the genocide. She knew they died closed to her home. She was digging a new latrine for her house and finally found them, thirteen years later. Her family. The people she loved. Hacked up and thrown in a giant toilet. People with these stories are too common here. She took extra time off work to file paperwork with the government, have the bodies exhumed, and reburied in on of the many memorials spotting the country. Thirteen years later and the memorials are still left open. There are still fresh burials.

She began telling me about the day of St. Christine, July 24th. In Rwanda, a common first question is, what religion are you. She is catholic and as most catholics here, their saint namesake day is celebrated. That's what the extra gift is for.

This name connection has come up multiple times in the short while I've been here. Christine was not the first. I was looking at the shops in the craft market when my friends introduced me and the woman started hurriedly speaking excited French, hugging me and kissing me. Turns out her grandmother is also Melanie. She held my hand and showed me around her shop as she told all her friends about me. We are family she said as she hugged and kissed me for the final time. Um, nice to meet you too.

I now have a Rwandan mother, brother, and another family member...granddaughter? When you are called family, you are. Its that simple. You are welcome in their home. You are loved. What if we loved each other simply for sharing a name? What if at home we welcomed people into our lives simply for a coincidence? What if, we truly loved others, strangers, for no good reason? Love is a powerful thing.