It has been over 20 years since I undertook this mission in Rwanda, which marked my last healthcare project in Africa. What took so long to record this project? Perhaps it was the sense of futility that engulfed me when I reflected back on the savagery and brutality that had occurred there in the recent past with 800,000 people murdered in less than 3 months and me being able to offer so little.
The 6 Hour drive from Kigali to the rain forest village of Kibagora nestled near the banks of lake Kivu which separated Rwanda from the Congo was grueling. Driving through the rainforest at 2 AM exposed what life is like in utter darkness. An occasional torch or candle, would identify human beings in the forest, but other than the reflection of their eyes, we could not make out bodily forms. Handling each crisis as best they could frantic shadows could be seen moving panic stricken in the brush carrying the sick on bamboo stretchers to what was more likely than not a witch doctor.
At sunrise, we finally got to meet the inhabitants of this tragic country. The two tribes that had made up Rwanda were the Hutus and the Tutsis, who harbored, a deep-seated hatred, or at least distrust of each other. A century ago Belgian anthropologist divided, Rwanda into groups based on physical features. The taller, thinner-framed with narrow noses were designated the Tutsis and invariably considered the superior clan, most likely, because their physical features more closely aligned with those of the Europeans. The Hutus on the other-hand were short and stout of stature, with wider noses and relegated for the most part to blue collar or underling positions. When the genocide broke out the Hutus slaughtered 800,000 Tutsis and their sympathizers in less than three months, which meant that everyone who survived had been either a murderer, or the member of a family that had been victimized by savagery. Since the revolutionary war, the Tutsis regained power and abolished the tribal designation of Tutsi and Hutu, and regarded all people as Rwandans. It was with this back-drop that we approached our work. Everywhere we walked we passed images of the fratricide with bones of the massacred strewn throughout the shallow waters of Lake Kivu, as well as the monuments of thousands of stacked skulls, many displaying signs of machete cuts.
Unlike in other projects, Kibagora had a dentist who had a small operatory near this outpost hospital meaning that my clinical services were not as much in demand as they had been in projects where I was the only dental surgeon but, nonetheless, he and I complemented each other with our work.
Every day was marked by prayer with there being an early morning service and an evening service in the basement of this remote country hospital. Hymns would be sung and somber prayers would be offered for the healing of this country’s scars. On one of our last days in Rwanda, some of the hospital workers wanted to give a retirement gift to one of the hospital gardeners so they prepared a little reception which included a soft drink, a biscuit, and some upscale music. The gardener took a seat on a stool in the front of the little room, and they bestowed upon him the gift of a rabbit, a basket of vegetables, and a small sum of money. He sat very somber during the whole event, and merely stared at the floor. This disposition was characteristic of many of the Rwandans who could not separate themselves from the massacre of a few years hence. The musical group and choir, which usually sang sober religious songs at morning service now began to play upbeat African music which prompted all the ladies in the choir to shed their inhibitions and begin dancing with abandon. One of the ladies spontaneously reached out and took my hand and drew me to the dance floor, where her nimbleness was on display… as now was I. The only time people in this remote jungle enclave saw white people was when they drove in and out in a jeep. They would jokingly question whether or not white people could actually walk, but now they were about to be exposed to a new phenomenon… watching a white man dance! I started off with very subtle and measured moves, but the infectious rhythm and the gyrations of my partner seduced me into using some of my best western style rock ‘n’ roll dance moves. As I began to dance the mood shifted from controlled hand-clapping to uproarious laughter so much so that the rows of wooden benches began to shake and starting tipping over like dominoes as the audience laid on their backs, waving their hands and feet in the air in uncontrolled laughter. When the music stopped and I was able to take a measure of the room, I was astounded to see that almost everyone was on the floor cheering on this most unimaginable event.
After the little party was over, I began walking across the hospital grounds alone, reflecting on the little man who stared emotionless at the floor while receiving his pension, the suffering these people had endured, and the fact that I did not feel as though I had achieved very much clinically. Within moments, one of the staff who had been in the party room began calling my name, and chasing after me until I had reached the road. He had a quiet and reflective smile on his face, then reached up and patted me on the shoulder and said, ”I watched you dance at the party today, and I can only say that this is the first time in 10 years, I’ve seen any of my people laugh. Thank you. “
His thoughtful comments, actually boosted my own morale realizing that as much as I was disappointed that I had not left behind one of the usual sustaining projects like the pig farms and “gers” in Mongolia, the chicken farm in the Philippines, the water wells in Ecuador, the fluoride program in Antiqua, Mozambique and Vietnam, the earthquake disaster relief in NEPAL, the sewing school and women’s shelter in Cambodia I reasoned that this is one of those times when just showing up might actually have been enough. I was then momentarily overcome by a quick flashback of the predicaments I had encountered over the years notwithstanding being attacked by elephants in Swaziland, detained at the airport in Mozambique, escaping unscathed during the earthquake in Nepal, endured an police interrogation in a basement room in Vietnam, dodged a potential assault after dark on a remote dirt road in Swaziland,
avoided a terrorist attack in the Philippine island of Mindanao, hike down a mountain path at sunset in the Andes in Ecuador after our vehicle got stuck in the riverbed, survived the habitat of crocodiles, piranha, and anaconda as we waded through the tributary‘s to the Amazon in Peru, steeled myself against the nighttime wailing in the jungle village in Rwanda, attended, and reported on the Khmer Rouge killing fields and genocide trials in Cambodia as well as the the last Nazi war crime trials concerning the atrocities in Auschwitz.
It caught my attention that through all these years my access to these remote places had ben achieved by way of single engine aircraft, helicopters, river boats, and barges, and horse drawn wagons, scooters, and all-terrain vehicles. But, having now retired from foreign (clinical) service I find myself reflecting on that
lone stranger in Rwanda who drew my attention to peoples laughter and because of him, it is with a sense of comfort that I step away, harboring the notion that “Once you’ve made someone laugh… Your work is done!”