tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44033043224722612932023-11-16T08:56:21.580-05:00Tim O'Keefea white boy in RwandaTim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-91712467647999099762008-12-12T18:26:00.002-05:002008-12-12T18:29:36.214-05:00Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-2426531879869709882008-10-18T21:19:00.004-04:002008-10-19T20:19:05.356-04:00The ButterflyYesterday an amazing thing happened in our classroom. First the back story... Several weeks ago we planted some fennel outside of our classroom knowing that it is the larval food of black swallowtail butterflies. One corner of our room has a wide floor-to-ceiling window facing a sunny hillside and a pretty little garden. We could see the fennel easily from our pillow-filled reading area in the bay window. <div><br /></div><div>Sure enough, within a couple of weeks we spied some tiny larvae munching on the fennel. We watched them every day. They increased in size incredibly fast, shedding their skin regularly. They ate, and ate, and ate. We took seven of the caterpillars into the classroom and kept them on potted fennel plants in a large net enclosure. They ate and pooped and ate and pooped until the fennel plants were only nubs. We carefully lifted them off the old plants and placed them on new ones as they continued to mature. I unzipped the enclosure regularly to take photographs so we could record their amazing growth. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our class is so into animals that every single day someone brings in a dead bug, a snail, a feather, a cocoon. Our class walks to the library every few weeks. It's about a ten minute walk from our campus. Walking there and back can be a bit of a challenge since everyone is on the lookout for animals. My friend Geri, who walked to the library with us last time made the understatement, "Wow, you guys are really interested in animals." This after kids brought up dead bugs, pointed out many spider egg sacs, a dead squirrel and other roadkill. "Yes, I guess we are a little obsessed," I answered. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, the other afternoon we hear this shriek from the reading area. One little girl was backing away, eyes wide, pointing to the pillows. "What's that?!" she almost screamed.</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's a chrysalis," said another. Indeed, a beautiful khaki and dark brown chrysalis was attached to a US shaped pillow with two silken threads. It was actually attached to the map of Canada. The Northwest Territories. We photographed it and it became a shrine-like fixture on the bookshelf.</div><div><br /></div><div>On Tuesday morning, during our class meeting, a little boy said, "Hey! There's the butterfly!" Next to the pillow-map was a jet black, rumpled black swallowtail butterfly. There was a collective "Ahhhh," as all heads turned toward the sight. It was trembling and we could see its abdomen pumping slowly. Its body was covered with thick black hair and it was rolling its coiled proboscus (tongue) in and out. It was truly a beautiful sight. </div><div><br /></div><div>I asked the little guy who first spotted it to pick it up gently so we could release it outside. He put his index finger up to it and the still wilted butterfly dutifully climbed on. I snapped several pictures for our web page. There's this one picture of the boy with the butterfly clinging upside down to his fingers. The look on his face shows this incredible mixture of joy and awe, of magic and excitement. It captured how we all felt.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is one thing to talk about complete metamorphosis with my students. Even reading books with large colorful pictures and watching a butterfly emerging in fast motion on Youtube couldn't hold a candle to witnessing this miracle happen right in front of us in class. We ooohed and ahhhhed at the tiny larvae. When we first spotted them they were hard to see they were so small. They grew so quickly and we found their shriveled up shed skins behind them as they grew. When we brought them into the classroom we could smell the fennel as they gorged themselves. we chuckled at the size and amount of "poops". We watched the chrysalis thin almost to transparent and we were awed and inspired as the butterfly emerged as an adult. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was one of those miraculous moments that makes this year different from every other of my 30 years as a teacher of little kids. And yet, it is an ordinary sort of miracle that happens every day, right? Part of the joy of teaching little ones is that the ordinary becomes extraordinary because you can see life partly through their eyes. I have witnessed this before, but seeing it with a group who have never seen it makes it new for me too. </div>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-33732393296549889392008-10-10T22:11:00.002-04:002008-10-10T23:08:28.380-04:00What I'm Grateful ForI woke up today at 5:00 and thought I'd keep a mental list of the greatest parts of my day. Now it's 10:15 on Friday night. I'm looking at the sleeping form of my wife on the couch. She fell asleep watching the news. As I end this day, I think of Heidi, the greatest blessing in my life. We met in a college class in the winter of 1976. I have been deeply in love with her ever since. I remember the very day I fell in love (I cannot speak for her). I remember it clearly. <div><br /></div><div>Back to today's blessings...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Waking up. At all. Just waking up.<br />*Waking up to the beautiful sleepy face of my wife, Heidi.<br />*It being Friday.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Hawaiian coffee. Light roast, very strong. <br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*This new book I'm reading - <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Same Kind of Different As You</span>.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*The warm sleepy goodbye hug and kiss from same Heidi.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*John Fogerty's new album on the way to work.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*NPR, perhaps the only "fair and balanced" news on the radio.<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*This subtle, graceful, pale blue/gray sunrise. Overcast. Breezy. Early fall.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Time alone in my classroom. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*The anticipation of a great Friday with my second graders.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*The sounds of children through my door. Hearing their excitement at being at school. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*The first hugs, fist bumps, high fives and handshakes of my earnest children as they come into the classroom at the very beginning of the day.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Playing chess with a seven year old.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Helping kids understand some challenging math.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Talking about the news with little ones.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Learning about animals, addition with regrouping and place value, sharing a favorite book with second graders (The Prince of the Pond by Donna Jo Napoli).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Discussing writer's craft with young writers. Finding craft in their writing.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Talking about the election with an earnest group of learners. Watching history unfold with young children.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Lunch with my students. Making each other laugh. Sharing story.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Recess on our dusty field.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*The tears of a little one who has fallen. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Playing the best playground game ever. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Laughing, running and sweating with my new group of best friends.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Walking to the public library. Looking for animals all the way there.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Helping children check out good books.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Walking back to school. Looking for bugs the whole way. Finding lots. Gold.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Singing songs with children.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*My fingers which, however feeble, allow me to play guitar.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*My voice which, however creaky, allows me to teach these young ones to sing.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*The sense to stop singing when they have learned the song. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Listening to my best teacher friend, Tameka, read one of my favorite books (More Than *Anything Else) to my old class and my new class. 45 of the best people I have ever known in one room. Gold.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*The quiet school building after the kids and teachers have gone home.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Driving home. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Friday.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Music. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*The moon, rising through the hazy early evening sky.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*The early fall colors just now being revealed. The anticipation of another beautiful fall.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Pulling in to my neighborhood.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*That first evening kiss as I see Heidi.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*My dog's smile as she wags her entire body in greeting.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Our Friday evening together.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Sharing our respective days. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Remembering our own children when they were small.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Looking into the beautiful sleeping face of my true love as she snoozes on the couch.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*Knowing that tomorrow is Saturday.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*The anticipation of my sleepy boys waking up tomorrow (I'll probably be asleep before they get home).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">*My home.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The thing is, this is just the tip of the iceberg. The tip of the tip. Even as I sat writing this, </div><div>I knew that in a single day I have so many blessings that I couldn't name them all. We all do. Make a list some day. It feels good.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-60068803044007362672008-08-22T20:49:00.008-04:002008-08-23T10:59:01.641-04:00Tina - A White Girl In RwandaMy friend and traveling companion, Tina Robinson, emailed me recently from Rwanda. She went back. Rwanda is like that. The magic of the place, the people, that smile, the kindness and hospitality and frankness make it irresistible. Like Tina, I know that I will return to Rwanda someday. Her trip this time went beyond where we went together last year. She went straight to the heart and soul. She went to witness and to participate in the reconciliation that makes Rwanda such a powerful example for the rest of the world. While other countries are still trying to exert influence through violence and intimidation, Rwanda serves as the beacon of human possibility that we so desperately need.<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Hello everyone... Where do I begin?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Today we began by visiting the reconciliation village!!! When we arrived, the chairs were set up beneath a canopy and men and women with children gathered around. I wondered if the men were killers and the women victims. The men cradled babies in their arms and the women were shy. Occasionally one would smile and cover her mouth... Something I find many women do here. One by one, they stood up and told their stories. First, a very big strong looking man spoke. He began by giving his name and then sharing his testimony.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"This women I sit beside, I killed her mother and father... and this man over here... I killed six of his family members..."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">He talked about why and how and ended by saying, "Now we all love each other and my children play with their children and we are trying to heal what has happened."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Then a woman... the woman who sat beside the man who killed her family gave her testimony.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">I was in absolute amazement as to how and where these women and men got their strength. Twenty people all came together to share with us their stories. And how they are healing together... side by side... victims with killers!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Then we were off to the prison. I really had no idea what to expect... and tried not to think about it too much. I requested a month ago that I visit the prisons, not really knowing what I'd feel or even why I wanted to go. I just felt led... and this desire to see for myself... and so... today we arrived at the prison which was in the most beautiful place... hills and banana trees, a beautiful lake... and then the prison. I imagined seeing a few prisoners... and wondered what I'd feel when I saw them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">First, we went to the young offenders whose crimes were drugs and rape. Wow... they were just children! They were shy and many blushed. Pastor Deo them told them that I was there to speak to them. So, without warning I suddenly found myself talking to about 40 young boys. What I said I hardly remember but I will say that I somehow felt intense love for these teenagers... my heart was touched as they sung me a song and told me that they were blessed to have me there.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Then... the men. I did not expect this at all! We walked in and there were thousands of them - over 4,000. All killers... some in green were once high ranking government officials and had life sentences for their crimes. They made a passway for us. I walked without any fear with killers on either side of me until I came to the platform. And, once again I was asked to speak! How on earth did this happen? I can only say that somehow this is all part of God's plan for me. What it is I have no clue. But there I was, in the middle of Rwanda, in a prison with thousands of murderers... speaking to them without fear. I am still trying to make sense of what I was doing there.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Then the women. Yes, the women who killed in the genocide. We sat with them, cried with them... there were about 80 and about 20 babies and toddlers. They separate them from the mothers at three but they must be with the mothers to breast feed until they are three. They were the most malnourished babies and toddlers I had ever seen. Swollen bellies... just sickly looking and my heart broke for them. Again, I was asked to speak to the women. And I cried and they all cried. I bought their baskets and I have no idea what to do with them. Baskets made by hands that have murdered. Why did I even buy them? Am I crazy? Why this love and compassion in my heart? I am trying to make sense of all this. I am feeling God in my life like never before. I feel like I am living my life fully on purpose and I trust that everything is as it should be. I know I am being led and I know that I have work to do... my mind is too full though... </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Okay, so now I must go. But let me just say that today was just huge in so many ways. I have new perspectives and I am braver than I was yesterday...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Sending love to you all,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">xoxoxoxoxo</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Tina</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div>Tina has grown and changed for the better. It is so clear. Perspective. Bravery. Looking forward to a future bright with possibilities. God. That is Rwanda. That is how we all can be. I am so grateful to Tina for her message. Sometimes when I look back on my time in Rwanda, it seems like a dream. When I read over what I have written, it seems like someone else went there and wrote those words.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tina made it real for me again. When I read her words I cried once again. For Rwanda and all that has happened there. For Immaculee and Richard and Gonza and Aimable and Souda and Bishop John and the Women's Guild and all of the wonderful people there. I cried for the pain and suffering they have endured. I also cried tears of joy for how they have come back and continue to push forward with brave hearts and faith in a God who loves us <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">all</span>.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">God, please help us to learn from the tragedy and triumph of Rwanda. Help us to forgive those who have hurt us and to find peaceful solutions to our conflicts. Let us always be mindful of those who are less fortunate than us. Help us to live a life of service.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><br /><div><br /></div></div>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-23758786981264707572008-07-13T12:37:00.014-04:002011-05-17T21:11:54.093-04:00Questions<div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq7oSEGEJVHiC_t37HqO_iO2edZrFLMnCAhN1JzL9LJOZRojrmYWUKG-9FU2BkFpu1fiQC68Pu3MSiFLiP86PS_dba1DYAITvKcunwByFR8bgSa6S4OYa6ZUwGItr_hC_B9t61ELAk134/s1600-h/DSCF0376399_036.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222544678913960706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq7oSEGEJVHiC_t37HqO_iO2edZrFLMnCAhN1JzL9LJOZRojrmYWUKG-9FU2BkFpu1fiQC68Pu3MSiFLiP86PS_dba1DYAITvKcunwByFR8bgSa6S4OYa6ZUwGItr_hC_B9t61ELAk134/s400/DSCF0376399_036.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />I was inspired by my visit to Rwanda. Truly inspired. If I had gone there with a different group, or had different experiences it could have meant something else to me. Less. If I had not met some of the people I met along the way or traveled with different companions I would have simply been a tourist. As it was, I was blessed to connect with little Sophia at Sonrise School, the Mother Superior at Sisters of Mother Teresa’s, the man with no legs in Butare, the little Twa woman at Kibeho, Richard and the Bishop of Rwanda.<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/images/0849900522/ref=dp_image_0?ie=UTF8&n=283155&s=books" target="AmazonHelp" onclick="return amz_js_PopWin(this.href,'AmazonHelp','width=700,height=600,resizable=1,scrollbars=1,toolbar=0,status=1');"></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bishop-Rwanda-John-Rucyahana/dp/0849900522/ref=cm_cr_pr_pb_i"></a> <div><div><div><br /><br /><br />I have been asked since returning, “Where was God?” “If there was a God how could he have let this happen?” “How can you still believe in God?” My questions exactly. I have said that I am no authority on God. But I have read some remarkable things about Rwanda by people who are much more in touch with the answer to these questions than me. The book <a href="http://http//www.amazon.com/Bishop-Rwanda-John-Rucyahana/dp/0849900522/ref=cm_cr_pr_pb_i"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Bishop of Rwand</span>a </a>by John Rucyahana helped me to understand in a way that nothing else has. Bishop John started Sonrise School and has done brilliant work toward reconciliation in Rwanda. I have to quote him at length in answering these tough but thoughtful questions…<br /><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222542152170117026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP14_3o1sFp5i2U01fMBe2ClRQyBeHnjwlY7pfGQs5KbOIkCA3XRDDe8nsuthZxZP7j-gB_z4D3UDets9p94CW1VuaGyRQ0ZySSHHgac-kpUyZylM82ruHf3cV4TZQEDjCMX8vKm2_6Qg/s400/Bishop+of+Rwanda.bmp" border="0" /><br /><strong><em>Where was God when million innocent people were butchered? Where was God when priests and pastors helped massacre the people in their churches?</em></strong></div><div><strong><em><br />I’ll tell you where God was. He was alongside the victims lying on the cold stone floor of the cathedral. He was comforting a dying child. He was crying at the altar. But he was also saving lives. Many were saved by miracles. God does not flee when evil takes over a nation. He speaks to those who are still listening, He eases the pain of the suffering, and He saves those who can be saved… God has always used the broken, and he is using this broken nation to manifest his grace and power. He is taking the brokenness cause by evil and using it for a greater purpose – a great reconciliation in a nation that the world had not only given up on, but had given over to the devil, and its own evil… I know what it is to forgive through the tears. Like many people in Rwanda I have to forgive in order to live…</em></strong><strong><em> <div><br />The pain of Rwanda is not just in the survival of brutal acts or in those who lost someone dear to them. It is in the killers as well… It does not matter that the government pushed them to do it. It does not matter that the devil reigned for a time in their hearts and minds. The guilt came and the pain stayed. That is why I have seen so many prisoners burst into tears after they have repented and been forgiven by the very people who suffered at their hands…</div><div><br />I have seen people forgive those who killed their loved ones. I’ve watched survivors and perpetrators cry together and hug each other through their tears. Something like that requires the presence of God. I could never go to a single prison to preach without the power of God. Without God I would hate such killers with all my heart. But with God I can truly say that I love them. (p. xv and xvi)</div></em></strong><div><strong><em><br /></em></strong>John’s family suffered terribly at the hands of the extremists, yet he forgives and he preaches forgiveness. He wants to show the world the power that comes through forgiveness. Where is God? He is with John Rucyahana. </div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rlZqoikiVlSqIEE3p8FrZOtfMHqKxfs491yt3S6-bNZXwyBFKmAb_EIh63a1f3LkwLTzc5d0WdCiMxsuC7U5RuI77ePrFRbfcKk9UcYbIUcDEC16NeSVUtim3ZbhDrItT7bbsphZgww/s1600-h/Rwanda+Pics+2+040.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222545832368199330" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rlZqoikiVlSqIEE3p8FrZOtfMHqKxfs491yt3S6-bNZXwyBFKmAb_EIh63a1f3LkwLTzc5d0WdCiMxsuC7U5RuI77ePrFRbfcKk9UcYbIUcDEC16NeSVUtim3ZbhDrItT7bbsphZgww/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+040.jpg" border="0" /></a><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222543798361244146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80rREKgkKJmeGSapzMqhLnEoqgq4Bmm_bf3qJjJ1K6MRl0Oh0CVaRxS_2Mf4ELUOeQKsUG6Jro-9jduZh-CJWY6s_DOojVFhVpSk3rSTEWopHNBF-052NvGWF9Gm0bJXZDG55NdjkWSM/s400/Left+to+Tell.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div><br />If you have read much of this notebook/blog, you have read about <a href="http://http//www.lefttotell.com/">Immaculee Ilibagiza</a>. Her book, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Left to Tell</span> is one of the most important books I have ever read and has influenced my spiritual walk immensely. If you don’t know, Immaculee survived the genocide by hiding out in a tiny bathroom for 91 days with seven other women in hunger and silence. For all of this time Immaculee and her friends were waiting to die. They waited quietly as the killers searched for them just outside the bathroom door. Immaculee heard her name called out by the very men responsible for deaths of her beloved family members. She survived this horrific ordeal through prayer. She prayed her rosary and spoke to God in ways that I will probably never truly comprehend. </div><div><br />She and the others in the bathroom narrowly escaped death many times but she did escape. She did survive. Her parents, two of her brothers and all of the Tutsis in her village were brutally killed. Immaculee survived. She went to the prison where the killer of her mother and dear brother Damascene was held…</div><div><br /><strong><em>As burgomaster, Semana was a powerful politician in charge of arresting and detaining the killers who had terrorized our area. He’d interrogated hundreds of Interahamwe (extremist Hutu) and knew better than anyone which killers had murdered whom.</em></strong></div><strong><em><div><br />And he knew why I’d come to see him. “Do you want to meet the leader of the gang that killed your mother and Damascene?”<br />“Yes, sir, I do.”</div><div><br />I watched through Semana’s office window as he crossed a courtyard to the prison cell and then returned, shoving a disheveled, limping old man in front of him. I jumped up with a start as they approached, recognizing the man instantly. His name was Felicien, and he was a successful Hutu businessman whose children I’d played with in primary school. He’d been a tall, handsome man who always wore expensive suits and had impeccable manners. I shivered remembering that it had been his voice I’d head calling out my name when the killers searched for me at the pastor’s. Felicien had hunted me.</div><div><br />Semana pushed Felicien into the office, and he stumbled onto his knees. When he looked up from the floor and saw that I was the one waiting for him, the color drained from his face. He quickly shifted his gaze and stared at the floor.<br />“Stand up, killer!” Semana shouted. “Stand up and explain to this girl why you murdered her mother and butchered her brother. Get up I said! Get up and tell her!” Semana screamed even louder, but the battered man remained hunched and kneeling, too embarrassed to stand and face me.</div><div><br />His dirty clothing hung from his emaciated frame in tatters. His skin was sallow, bruised and broken; and his eyes were filmed and crusted. His once handsome face was hidden beneath a filthy, matted beard; and his bare feet were covered in open, running sores.</div><div><br />I wept at the sight of his suffering. Felicien had let the devil enter his heart and the evil had ruined his life like a cancer in his soul. He was now the victim of his victims, destined to live in torment and regret. I was overwhelmed with pity for the man.</div><div><br />“He looted your parents’ home and robbed your family’s plantation, Immacculee. We found your dad’s farm machinery at his house, didn’t we?” Semana yelled at Felicien. “After he killed Rose and Damascene, he kept looking for you… He wanted you dead so he could take over your property. Didn’t you, pig?” Semana shouted again.</div><div><br />I flinched letting out an involuntary gasp. Semana looked at me stunned by my reaction and confused by the tears streaming down my face. He grabbed Felicien by the shirt collar and hauled him to his feet. “What do you have to say to her? What do you have to say to Immaculee?”</div><div><br />Felicien was sobbing. I could feel his shame. He looked up at me for only a moment, but our eyes met. I reached out, touched his hands lightly, and quietly said what I’d come to say.</div><div><br />“I forgive you.”</div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">When Semana had Felicien dragged back to his cell he was furious with Immaculee…</span></span></div><div><br />“What was that about, Immaculee? That was the man that murdered your family. I brought him to you to question… to spit on if you wanted to. But you forgave him! How could you do that? Why did you forgive him?”</div><div><br />I answered him with the truth: “Forgiveness is all I have to offer.” (p. 202- 203)</div><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222546174217140370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjnloobb52vOvWh6Dw_sDeBvnf8OX_Xl0eAqSLwXBU2ODxHaYJ122CbcFbpcLhUQ_lluB0epod3QO6TLC8OlXgREn1VJ3i75qZM8_dAXblxgTL_alhjcdOcqk-6MHkVcMEe_M8PXVXos/s320/Rwanda+Pics+2+011.jpg" border="0" /><br /></em></strong>Now when I am asked, “Where was God?” “How can you believe in a God who would let this happen?” I think of Immaculee and Richard and Bishop John and of all of Rwanda who survived to forgive and to ask for forgiveness. God is in the message of forgiveness held closely by the leaders of this wonderful nation and in the hearts of those who are unknown to the world.<br />Where is God? <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjznukgdARe0hPzh3Lu2BOz6ZH1FMTz7a-qOWujs6trYfFO-gd3nv_bYg8d97d3FR212fnk1FYOchLFoLcEI_vXbzHTWHC1ANjU2PUDYZiV5Ui9Jcak7pZ58WNrnmVRy3FQVNxh3SsGyEE/s1600-h/DSCF0420443_001.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222545165309592434" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjznukgdARe0hPzh3Lu2BOz6ZH1FMTz7a-qOWujs6trYfFO-gd3nv_bYg8d97d3FR212fnk1FYOchLFoLcEI_vXbzHTWHC1ANjU2PUDYZiV5Ui9Jcak7pZ58WNrnmVRy3FQVNxh3SsGyEE/s200/DSCF0420443_001.JPG" border="0" /></a>God is in the heart and soul of Rwanda.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-14206048596649146862008-06-09T19:32:00.005-04:002008-06-23T14:19:41.984-04:00P.S.I don’t know if I’ll ever finish my post scripts. If you have read this far, and you started at the beginning, I am grateful. I hope that in some way it has served you, helped you to understand more about the world and Rwanda.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As a result of this blog I have been contacted by some remarkable people. Karen Froming at the Institute for Restorative Justice has shared some of her amazing work in Rwanda with me. Ned and Meg from West Virginia shared their quest for adopting a young child from The Sisters of Mother Teresa’s Orphanage. Many of the response were intensely personal; others were posted as comments on the blog. Thank you to everyone who read and responded and upon whom my words and experiences had some effect.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I hear from some of my travel companions sporadically. I read that <a href="http://www.immaculee.com/">Immaculee</a> (with the wonderful aid of Tim Van Damm) is still doing her work spreading the word about forgiveness. She has another book coming out soon. Brandon completed his first year of law school and is off on another adventure to Ireland this summer. Portia has likely finished another successful year as a teacher in NYC and Midori as a masseuse in Orlando. Tina and her family had a child (!!!). Nancy has been instrumental in helping my new acquaintances Ned and Meg adopt a child from Africa. I still stay in close touch with Cindy, the organizer of our trip and the one to whom I owe the most gratitude for getting me to Rwanda. She has bravely stepped outside of her comfort zone as an occupational therapist to teach third grade kids in Sumter, SC. Those children will never be the same after this year with Cindy and our good friend Brent Petersen.<br />I still hear from Richard (an alias) from time to time. Our exchanges are usually brief. I think he knows how much our time together meant to me. I hope so. He was the bravest of us. He took us to places he knew we should see and experience if we were to have a real picture of Rwanda. He told us stories of his own pain and sorrow as well as stories of his family and acquaintances. He accompanied us from the mountains to the savannah, from Hotel Rwanda to the church at Ntarama where 5,000 of his people were killed. Much has changed in his life but I know that he, and all of Rwanda, has demons to deal with. On April 22 he emailed a few of his friends his memories of that time 14 years ago.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210068337932114114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFoiFamSA0Sxe8_eetaSS8wZV0wvhlwUBeRjGPF9mNB2L8F8xoxVDuVsBHy4ECcQ-3rhL_48QE9elOv2h_KB_OZnfAL6yGBHMeC_i9xIK0LfdZm_dNUU2czhMSAcAmufeM22S2iYHwFSc/s400/Sunlight+through+trees.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><strong><em>Tim and Brandon do you remember that forest in Butare where u guys visited very briefly to our way to Kibeho…. It was yesterday april 21th<br />Dear friends<br />If there were no memories I could forget this day, but the memories have become part of my life, and I can not live without them.<br />“April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain…”<br />It was on April 21, 1994, and the soldiers decided to kill us. It was 5:15 p.m. when the soldier marched my brother and I into the forest. Behind me my brother was pleading with the soldier when he was shot. At the same moment, I turned to see what was happening to my brother, and the same soldier shot me too with his kalichnikov. I fell down and lost consciousness because I was shot in the arm, the finger and in my side as I turned to see my brother. Later I woke up and called my brother, “Remy, Remy” but he didn’t reply because he was already dead. With difficulty I got up and went out of the forest because I wanted to be on the road where someone would find my dead body. The night had already fallen, so no one found me. Minute after minute I waited for my turn to die because I was losing a lot of blood. I couldn’t move any more and I spent all night in our blood near my brother’s dead body till I was able to move, and I walked out that forest just to be on the road so that I could be strewn away like all the others dead. I was afraid to be eaten by dogs like we saw them all along the road… Gosh I can’t write any more about it all I am asking is to help me ask for forgiveness to my brother since I abandoned him alone in that forest, as a big brother I should protect him, but I couldn’t even through I tried so hard.<br />Dear brother you know how much I love you and you know that I would protect you if I were able to do so. I have been visiting that location hoping that I would find you again but it has been in vain, I even took some of my friend to that location but we never find you. I only see the trees that are so tall than ever and I just smile thinking they are showing me that you’re in good hands wherever you are. Tell Dad and Mother that I wish they could see us together again, and I wish I could see y’all. Little brother I hope you forgave me, if not please allow my friends and myself to ask forgiveness. Love u.<br />In loving memory of my brother.</em></strong><strong><em><br /></em></strong><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em><br /></em></strong>How could I not cry with my friend? How can we not cry for Rwanda?Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-45370574605012231482008-06-09T16:53:00.029-04:002011-05-17T21:13:01.645-04:00Now<div><br /><div><br /><div><br /><div><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><br /><div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtR6zl3VSERhS5dHb2BLDIFXEoAzFb_3RSd0F2IzIco5jVdmM50vQ2ej3tN229_lWzsFTMGKrv9Uoyc0TfXAvE-v3mHC9t5WEaDvCJosMjY-15uTbFW3wYAu_Y4yEuQXxBv3nnx0H-yvY/s1600-h/DSCF0376399_036.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210000785557583762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtR6zl3VSERhS5dHb2BLDIFXEoAzFb_3RSd0F2IzIco5jVdmM50vQ2ej3tN229_lWzsFTMGKrv9Uoyc0TfXAvE-v3mHC9t5WEaDvCJosMjY-15uTbFW3wYAu_Y4yEuQXxBv3nnx0H-yvY/s400/DSCF0376399_036.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />June 2008<br /><br />While I was in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSdP6PqsbJY">Rwanda</a> (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I Saw What I Saw - </span>video by Sara Groves) I kept struggling with the question of “Why am I here?” Upon returning to the US and beginning this blog version of my notebook I continued to ask myself that question. After putting some installments out there I was contacted by my nephew (and good friend) Mike Cowles. He is a social activist in New Mexico. Really smart. Someone whose opinion I respect tremendously. He was complimentary but asked the question, “Now what?” Which I translated loosely into, “So what?” It has taken me several months to finish blogging the notebook (a direct consequence of not taking typing – keyboarding – in high school). Also, just a busy schedule, teaching little kids, being dadly, etc. But the question of “So what?” still lin<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bpU_k-eusgkZdf-gIr2MV9UkDlihTFsNofWUS8WYxqK91QkxS-OQAfW9mQr6SaVMOQ7vXKgb7w1qY1RuvQ-r4MfVxK1pgmD5cZCjf1hZxgd8ckYLpv02f7gDlSTtVAP89lXFBfhZmTY/s1600-h/Rwanda+Pics+2+002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210001570231367586" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bpU_k-eusgkZdf-gIr2MV9UkDlihTFsNofWUS8WYxqK91QkxS-OQAfW9mQr6SaVMOQ7vXKgb7w1qY1RuvQ-r4MfVxK1pgmD5cZCjf1hZxgd8ckYLpv02f7gDlSTtVAP89lXFBfhZmTY/s320/Rwanda+Pics+2+002.jpg" border="0" /></a>gers. </div><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLDArdZjl8RX9FA58yfq9pCAivjGR6Ee69fSVMRMtazY0uH4tOOOrMsb5ZDSSYnS9SM-u1xE93dotkgZcHduGBjV3ckAa-XoMLNBGnyIRl2K-BX7vXqxKCkEVZGtQ9DOwy-_Tae4SrTj0/s1600-h/DSCF0052043_104.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210012929496776802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLDArdZjl8RX9FA58yfq9pCAivjGR6Ee69fSVMRMtazY0uH4tOOOrMsb5ZDSSYnS9SM-u1xE93dotkgZcHduGBjV3ckAa-XoMLNBGnyIRl2K-BX7vXqxKCkEVZGtQ9DOwy-_Tae4SrTj0/s200/DSCF0052043_104.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>One result, I know, is a sense of spiritual growth. My time in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L7Kgl_S9Xok">Rwanda</a> (video - <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Genocide in Rwanda</span>) simply helped me to pray more clearly, more fiercely, more carefully, more joyously. I am not one to say that I know God’s plan. But, Rwanda has taught me to appreciate all of my life’s blessings, both great and small. Before Rwanda, I thought of my blessings simply as good fortune, as in, I sure am a lucky guy to have been born into a loving working class family where I wanted for nothing. How lucky I was to meet and fall in love with this beautiful woman, Heidi Mills, who has changed me and filled me and taught me so much. Before Rwanda I thought of falling into teaching little ones as fate. I thought of the adoption of our oldest son, Devin, when it seemed impossible for us to conceive, and the birth of our second son Colin (eighteen months later) as incredible good fortune. Now, when I close my eyes at night to pray, I thank God. While it’s personal, almost selfish, this view of God being responsible for what is good in my life is huge in answering the “So what?” question. My life isn’t a blind free-fall of good luck here and bad luck there. I live with more purpose. I am simply, more grateful. </div><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210006692535691378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLlMREdIbwrH2BbYYtX1QSwO9co7e5PpBAbgUB8ioWE15aPXw-dHtyV_oy_aAHJP0xvj9urrHye5k2q_Uuz1Caf0rd3nF4W6a5N0g9QWLoX1HKvkO1at8jr23DsOC7lQCFwe5B-KN43hE/s320/Rwanda+Pics+2+005.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Almost a year has passed since coming back from Rwanda. My memories are inevitably diminished. Caught up in the day to day demands of teaching, a busy family, etc. I go longer and longer stretches of time without thinking so much of Rwanda. Still… I think differently. Issues of social justice are so much more important to me. When I see a homeless person now I see a human being, not simply someone asking for a handout. When I hear candidates wax on in their bumper-sticker-elect-me-because-I’m-better speeches, I listen more carefully about what may slip out about caring for the poor, foreign policy with human rights as its cornerstone. I also listen<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxDEcrow2V6-kEhCz778GEO26pxpJzn5O5pp2b3R8JdfEuk0ucBotJHjv2zezWHd7tdcP5Yme3v0SgCOlofj4yUUVT9911h0SaKj5Lg4a3O4N8blXrH2xxo1vGuoN9vMzA0yW4xOG9BWg/s1600-h/Rwanda+Pics+2+004.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210001841244688962" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxDEcrow2V6-kEhCz778GEO26pxpJzn5O5pp2b3R8JdfEuk0ucBotJHjv2zezWHd7tdcP5Yme3v0SgCOlofj4yUUVT9911h0SaKj5Lg4a3O4N8blXrH2xxo1vGuoN9vMzA0yW4xOG9BWg/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+004.jpg" border="0" /></a> for what is missing.<br /><br />Because of my time in Rwanda, I read and listen to news differently. What stories are given the most ink and time? I carefully consider which stories are barely mentioned. I wonder about stories involving real human pain and suffering which are not mentioned at all. I read books and stories which make me think and don’t just entertain (<a href="http://www.firstrunfeatures.com/howardzinn.html">Howard Zinn: You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train</a>, <a href="http://www.beliefnet.com/story/185/story_18562_1.html">Tony Campolo: Red Letter Christians</a>, <a href="http://www.motherjones.com/interview/2006/06/jimmy_carter.html">Jimmy Carter: Our Endangered Values</a>, <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=70hRLTVBNnAC&dq=shane+claiborn+irrestible+revolution&pg=PP1&ots=QGg-CO7sRv&sig=DbGtv5bHZp1b4sd-Xq5GSIYWcso&hl=en&prev=http://www.google.com/search%3Fclient%3Dsafari%26rls%3Den%26q%3DShane%2BClaiborn,%2BIrrestible%2BRevolution%26ie%3DUTF-8%26oe%3DUTF-8&sa=X&oi=print&ct=title&cad=one-book-with-thumbnail#PPP1,M1">Shane Claiborne: Irresistible Revolution</a>).<br /></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0L9lSxDvt_Rbd6TTnzIckerXeWoz8HQ-Dr6G0lLA0rxfFJskTa3b6-kGcoZVQjlQ8HwaXonbxbLkP-JgVPv_nTqFf4ORxZJzKMkOXVJk82YUF4u_6PFsCz5VPxaIf7z6QtvoEzzQvSeM/s1600-h/FR00915[1].jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210009724220123634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0L9lSxDvt_Rbd6TTnzIckerXeWoz8HQ-Dr6G0lLA0rxfFJskTa3b6-kGcoZVQjlQ8HwaXonbxbLkP-JgVPv_nTqFf4ORxZJzKMkOXVJk82YUF4u_6PFsCz5VPxaIf7z6QtvoEzzQvSeM/s400/FR00915%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Because of Rwanda I definitely teach differently. Not only have I shared my stories and photos of my trip with my third graders, our second graders and my faculty, but social justice has become a cornerstone of my curriculum. When my third graders talked earlier this year about the Europeans who “discovered” and “settled” America as is written in our history books and social studies curriculum, my kids asked the obvious questions, “How could they have discovered this land when there were already millions of people here?” and, “How could they think of invading America as settling it?” I would dare say that my students know more about Civil Rights than most adults in this country. Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King Jr. and Ruby Bridges are our heroes and role models. We are aware of the countless others who are still involved in the causes of civil rights in our country and aren’t anyone’s heroes because their names are not well known. My children know they can change the world. We held a fund raiser in which we sold CDs of original songs. In January we sent a check for $1000.00 to a truly worth cause in Mexico called <a href="http://www.programaninos.org/">Ninos Incapacitados</a>. Because of Rwanda, all of my future students will know that they can make a positive difference in this world. </div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrSJaeIj3THQfF-X87a73uyfl7-l7OsY8o9SgpcPs856SmT14S17gVFawNeGhcwDZByYIBK2wZfo-s4U-jgHsSS9CzyEiQPW0MjzRKdki0LTUumJQ95CUHB3VMJfB15X1nAUMSvfdfm1g/s1600-h/DSCF0016013_150.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210010211059847298" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrSJaeIj3THQfF-X87a73uyfl7-l7OsY8o9SgpcPs856SmT14S17gVFawNeGhcwDZByYIBK2wZfo-s4U-jgHsSS9CzyEiQPW0MjzRKdki0LTUumJQ95CUHB3VMJfB15X1nAUMSvfdfm1g/s320/DSCF0016013_150.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />I write differently. I think I speak differently. I want others to know about Rwanda, about Africa, and to open their eyes to the wonder, grace, delights, suffering and hardships. I have spoken to many small and large groups about Rwanda. I think people are receptive to knowing about this. I find most are amazed to discover just how little they know about the world, Africa, Rwanda. Maybe it helps them to think of people outside our borders, to think of foreigners as people with similar feelings and desires. Maybe I have helped, in some small way, to put a face on people far away, to help a few people understand that Africa is not just a big backwards bunch of countries full of tribal war, AIDS, malaria and poverty. </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizk1cFPyS0ON-u-PeacK54RP93UzXaiXoE2u0aEG4OVe0XvlNOyDBoIDUDekxeF_7tYLS4hZijznCXRyLF7SFnRui9bvtnmXmSq0OxHqCZHy4faNCqgqoy_cAFjA74lhkweWL_5VM6arA/s1600-h/Rwanda+Pics+2+011.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210005515971749842" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizk1cFPyS0ON-u-PeacK54RP93UzXaiXoE2u0aEG4OVe0XvlNOyDBoIDUDekxeF_7tYLS4hZijznCXRyLF7SFnRui9bvtnmXmSq0OxHqCZHy4faNCqgqoy_cAFjA74lhkweWL_5VM6arA/s320/Rwanda+Pics+2+011.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I have come to see Rwanda as a wonderful, complex, joyful collection of people who are willing to reconcile after the unspeakable. Rwanda’s children are just like ours. They play, and laugh, and cry. They love and work and learn and pray. They toil endlessly and are grateful for what they have.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Immaculee and Richard and Gonza and the people of Rwanda are my heroes. We are a nation of great resources, great power and great wealth. Their resource is their indominatable spirit. Their power is their faith in God and a better future. Who is the more powerful? While Rwanda is a small nation in area it is huge in its heart and soul.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBauAu0C7QIebAGUcU1hQxTo4XpD9lPanH2CqHDyp6r9t96hRFVKjUTbipLY_Vk5o1AmhpdmBqAvKrdMX0Ryc-pmoyQo6SkS7xGapyZfx_sF0HFAeUy9E28dx6ooDOPlSTsqzTgghqNFg/s1600-h/DSCF0157187_036.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210011390107952562" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBauAu0C7QIebAGUcU1hQxTo4XpD9lPanH2CqHDyp6r9t96hRFVKjUTbipLY_Vk5o1AmhpdmBqAvKrdMX0Ryc-pmoyQo6SkS7xGapyZfx_sF0HFAeUy9E28dx6ooDOPlSTsqzTgghqNFg/s200/DSCF0157187_036.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Whenever I think back about the great lessons in my life I will always remember the faces of the children in <a href="http://www.stormchaser.ca/Misc/Ntarama_Church/Ntarama.html">Ntarama</a> when we emerged from the crypts where so many bodies still lie. Those smiling, laughing children were looking ahead, not behind at a past full of ignorance and hatred. I’ll think of the faces of the poor who blessed me for my small contributions to their lives. I’ll think of <a href="http://www.mustardseedproject.org/section.asp?secID=4">Sonrise School</a> and of the brilliant minds of those children brought out of the depths of poverty to achieve their potential. When I think of hope and grace and love and forgiveness, I think of Rwanda. </div><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Yejk22N2EDkeyDEAVT43JZdo6rd9YrQtEU35Wd7OZlFKNXOFMQO6yjP1uL4O-6TLPxXhizFkXsrOOvl9RQ21-ek_xWOOId3TQXUl86dNBv7pJD0Gf4kYwofrNsRZaCRkPZL8iaVSU0Y/s1600-h/DSCF0033028_129.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210010690216119730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Yejk22N2EDkeyDEAVT43JZdo6rd9YrQtEU35Wd7OZlFKNXOFMQO6yjP1uL4O-6TLPxXhizFkXsrOOvl9RQ21-ek_xWOOId3TQXUl86dNBv7pJD0Gf4kYwofrNsRZaCRkPZL8iaVSU0Y/s320/DSCF0033028_129.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWDSwrG5RZH0Or5RtDO4c0sBjjgIliaFtUtlaLK0ozAXf3xu9lij0pA_EghKVzpVtc-vA4VO70v8ya2BjCidJZRFvjtQbRJLARKPipA9qO3JdCaWgAlOsZwXgIBx1nsZaFcwYcLc06H5Y/s1600-h/DSCF0073135_076.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210008589382974722" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWDSwrG5RZH0Or5RtDO4c0sBjjgIliaFtUtlaLK0ozAXf3xu9lij0pA_EghKVzpVtc-vA4VO70v8ya2BjCidJZRFvjtQbRJLARKPipA9qO3JdCaWgAlOsZwXgIBx1nsZaFcwYcLc06H5Y/s320/DSCF0073135_076.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210003192308185794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYmHR2PfRk0S0rSh3220n-aGGy1s_a9G0y8bWdHRMTQaCQHEn9Yl1pdzaHBzH39OUSEWJXY5FftO-NJ_4G9BUMSWocy39mQLqx_Fi3wFRIzBdHktLuI7bJ8Kr_Vud1baNocmF3JFFUeR0/s400/Rwanda+Pics+2+065.jpg" border="0" /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-54755901487473769182008-01-17T18:33:00.002-05:002011-05-17T21:14:07.277-04:00I Forgive Because I Must<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><br /><br /><br />We were quiet in the car on the way back. Brandon was sleeping. Richard had on a brave face. Contemplative. Shaggy head down. I wanted to talk a little, to debrief.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />“So, what did you think?” Richard asked after a lengthy silence. I had waited for him to speak the first words. This must have been so hard for him.<br /><br /><br />“I still don’t understand,” I said. “All of those people. The Hutu extremists. They all made a choice. I’ve heard about how well organized it was, about how the French were behind it, about the propaganda. But every one of those killers made a choice that goes against who we are as human beings.” There was another long pause. “They chose to kill.”<br /><br /><br />Richard replied, “If you don’t forgive it’s gonna eat you up, man.”<br /><br /><br />“Do you for give, Richard?” I had wanted to ask him earlier, but I didn’t have the nerve. But after seeing all of that…<br /><br /><br /><br />“Yeah, I forgive. I do. What other choice is there?” Another pause. He looked straight ahead. I was crying.<br /><br /><br />WHAT OTHER CHOICE IS THERE? HATE!!!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Here is a man who will never go to church again. “I have no use for the church,” he said the day we celebrated mass at Ganza’a church. It felt like a very long time ago, although it had only been two weeks. He is supposed to videotape a church wedding today and he shudders at the idea. Yet he espouses forgiveness. Much of his family was killed in a church where they went for refuge. His brother was killed in front of him. He was shot and left for dead. But he wants the Hutu and Tutsis to live together in peace. He is doing what Christ taught. Despite his lack of faith in organized religion, he acts more like a Christian than many Christians. He helps the poor. Reasonably. He does not judge. He walks the toughest parts of Kigali. Fearlessly. What else could possibly be done to him, right? He counsels. He is a good and kind man. He doesn’t forget… but he forgives. Again, there is God. Beyond religion. Beyond rules and procedures to get to Heaven. It is God.<br /></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><br /><br /><br /><br /><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-34823883841690772182008-01-17T17:42:00.001-05:002011-05-17T21:15:58.748-04:00Children of Ntarama<div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUD82tuMYBIwVPj09X8h54JF0IqPQzK2_Lhg-j1Too3HnqGDfWTLVlWSsRzS9Jijjzf5eXtCwOLglaGJ1JYTDo4ScKAKec32nDZ-R8En-O9_QTXcoSAufNVWkJMONEy467xK06l0xx9EA/s1600-h/DSCF0033028_129.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156581523025234418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUD82tuMYBIwVPj09X8h54JF0IqPQzK2_Lhg-j1Too3HnqGDfWTLVlWSsRzS9Jijjzf5eXtCwOLglaGJ1JYTDo4ScKAKec32nDZ-R8En-O9_QTXcoSAufNVWkJMONEy467xK06l0xx9EA/s400/DSCF0033028_129.JPG" border="0" /></a> Children from the school at Ntarama.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT01G-IjuwXThjLrjwzCuGIkX1_EuXlHnIAgG2pYH5rt-mkA_xx8Pd195U6Qjcdoa2jTw2G9cDFrdmk_m3NtsGfKAUwoB5FakbL0pZqfepuV-SsPKZho1H-6BMaHRkVFvoaeE_YBhLMBQ/s1600-h/DSCF0037031_124.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156582966134245906" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT01G-IjuwXThjLrjwzCuGIkX1_EuXlHnIAgG2pYH5rt-mkA_xx8Pd195U6Qjcdoa2jTw2G9cDFrdmk_m3NtsGfKAUwoB5FakbL0pZqfepuV-SsPKZho1H-6BMaHRkVFvoaeE_YBhLMBQ/s200/DSCF0037031_124.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJkNOmQVlR8qQhbTDfdARmjwXosU0qipWks1yN8mZh39YyJKuqLOMJE8pWoapOQ_uZ91eXgNQvoy7EeGyM4AcjG42ic7rYrIeEeLDJmDklElL_pJ07NI6_Foj2deoK0HGVVLFIRsS-tJc/s1600-h/DSCF0035030_126.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156584254624434738" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJkNOmQVlR8qQhbTDfdARmjwXosU0qipWks1yN8mZh39YyJKuqLOMJE8pWoapOQ_uZ91eXgNQvoy7EeGyM4AcjG42ic7rYrIeEeLDJmDklElL_pJ07NI6_Foj2deoK0HGVVLFIRsS-tJc/s200/DSCF0035030_126.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><p align="left">When we were leaving Richard was teaching Serafina some English phrases. He wrote it out for her phonetically in Kinyrwanda so she could pronounce it… “It’s-Nice-To-Meet-You!” </p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>The children from the school were around the cars. They wanted to try out their English. “What is you name?” “Where you from?” “Its-Nice-To-Meet-You!” They wanted handshakes. One little girl stroked my arm. “My you are HAIR!” <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPd4Rt0A7PjFgkaAW1dc_Nw_EFaUgRDlcnksHJhcc0Lmv2O5lIRoXoqueHLvlFbr-NNByNwfmbGjTdHMSxwzI3N-wJQytnbpKcuvt4o0diUoy7HdkQb-FAkV_G50KYSZum0eS8GhTjuOA/s1600-h/DSCF0034029_127.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156582493687843330" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPd4Rt0A7PjFgkaAW1dc_Nw_EFaUgRDlcnksHJhcc0Lmv2O5lIRoXoqueHLvlFbr-NNByNwfmbGjTdHMSxwzI3N-wJQytnbpKcuvt4o0diUoy7HdkQb-FAkV_G50KYSZum0eS8GhTjuOA/s200/DSCF0034029_127.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2inNq3kxsLAUrxlpkp8brH45ifEIAsvrWd2Z_ELkaJ2xjKrrg4e36gN4nwC9xgS47J7BSJLvOX6TTYX3BghBuqZ_qb9rvQYumKrVe1LabSOHlNbASSeiUDmdNSpJWECS6gSudbz0QPSI/s1600-h/DSCF0011009_154.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156583545954830882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2inNq3kxsLAUrxlpkp8brH45ifEIAsvrWd2Z_ELkaJ2xjKrrg4e36gN4nwC9xgS47J7BSJLvOX6TTYX3BghBuqZ_qb9rvQYumKrVe1LabSOHlNbASSeiUDmdNSpJWECS6gSudbz0QPSI/s200/DSCF0011009_154.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p align="left">The contrast of emotions was amazing. How could we help but smile? How could I not see the FACE OF GOD in these children? In these happy moments? </p><br /></div></div></div>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-42375943372227012762008-01-16T20:15:00.002-05:002008-06-23T13:50:30.557-04:00In The Church<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDJrywiJo8Kg-y1NW0Sr0gqpi10RYog-fQNneUoJsp3sHw6ePC4lGMXxcpBA4xc0MKGLob9DIUTlWhGsQ3S0Dy6g6SVX3aU7CDe6lkUUr_C0pNSJTk9eX1cvNPRmFyZ_IY0iiqrzmaZIg/s1600-h/Rwanda+Pics+2+087.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156252485580687746" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDJrywiJo8Kg-y1NW0Sr0gqpi10RYog-fQNneUoJsp3sHw6ePC4lGMXxcpBA4xc0MKGLob9DIUTlWhGsQ3S0Dy6g6SVX3aU7CDe6lkUUr_C0pNSJTk9eX1cvNPRmFyZ_IY0iiqrzmaZIg/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+087.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1moscCBZ1Q6jnOS90Nzv-V064s2Pv5iHwhAiGAFUU-heTeu-YFtrNYUerrgkXsM7n_D5m0GBwsOkxtA5aezKJ-WHSnZJ8bAj8lHWe71WBVTY9n6w-dDrKv9Ewg9wI7rIEYQN-EX7t3Fk/s1600-h/Rwanda+Pics+2+100.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156252090443696498" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1moscCBZ1Q6jnOS90Nzv-V064s2Pv5iHwhAiGAFUU-heTeu-YFtrNYUerrgkXsM7n_D5m0GBwsOkxtA5aezKJ-WHSnZJ8bAj8lHWe71WBVTY9n6w-dDrKv9Ewg9wI7rIEYQN-EX7t3Fk/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+100.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p></p><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyEMUCy62oQgfF-z3bRhimQ02Iu2Cw0nDmZiLh_BHfDvDhDW31Kt10xqdPH3VcTSDlaGiaQwtfN5eVxrLUtZ6Qw0TZY9RCXPCqvcyQFs-lIFEEzZOOsnLWilSTEIF6M6ZyCogxwBwoKc/s1600-h/DSCF0021018_144.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156250372456778034" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyEMUCy62oQgfF-z3bRhimQ02Iu2Cw0nDmZiLh_BHfDvDhDW31Kt10xqdPH3VcTSDlaGiaQwtfN5eVxrLUtZ6Qw0TZY9RCXPCqvcyQFs-lIFEEzZOOsnLWilSTEIF6M6ZyCogxwBwoKc/s200/DSCF0021018_144.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p>The woman who walked us through the church, Serafina, was calm but reserved. She was very beautiful. Elegant. Poised. She spoke quietly and reverently about what happened in this church. She did not tell us her story. No one asked. Richard translated for us. “In this closet people tried to hide. They locked themselves in but the door was shot to pieces. The door is still there… In this area they killed the little babies by hitting them against the wall… In this area behind the altar the blood stains are this deep…”<br /></p><br /><p>We walked into the basement of the church. It is a memorial. There were cases of bones and skulls. Rows and columns. Many skulls showed the cause of death. There was a wooden club, a metal arrowhead, a machete. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dLUroeAgWg3z3C5mZrVO96Y-NhCow7rOkRHCmPIR6MLyEIKdAhVJotcPhxI_cG8Pqy5CH8BUgwbAX2r5vN-vYGhYnweLKINXOw-uI7CGmCynMbeNVYl7XPRvUvefhDv1fkVUfCoYPaU/s1600-h/DSCF0024019_140.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156254431200872882" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dLUroeAgWg3z3C5mZrVO96Y-NhCow7rOkRHCmPIR6MLyEIKdAhVJotcPhxI_cG8Pqy5CH8BUgwbAX2r5vN-vYGhYnweLKINXOw-uI7CGmCynMbeNVYl7XPRvUvefhDv1fkVUfCoYPaU/s200/DSCF0024019_140.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix5G__nZhET4Ig4wkHnAAdViE10L9czg17CpIrg1fbeQEMRTzTSi6AMPsfT-HrCxVZr5lKSSXNKEhcSUELsnd8HnOGw3nE-ilO3ClMZjjcD5NTxNKXbmTBe3Ycvkw3dMu65uwA_UVm_-k/s1600-h/Rwanda+Pics+2+093.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156251806975854946" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix5G__nZhET4Ig4wkHnAAdViE10L9czg17CpIrg1fbeQEMRTzTSi6AMPsfT-HrCxVZr5lKSSXNKEhcSUELsnd8HnOGw3nE-ilO3ClMZjjcD5NTxNKXbmTBe3Ycvkw3dMu65uwA_UVm_-k/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+093.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrgSNclzQo-in0Lw3Mm62_q3aj9jY0WJd2KvBUInRuhRbzBIyAwD3WB3vtZYXIoTHV_5sDme8l4vlXtg_-mGZhna_rjQy2yfZNbHAdOywKd1a74byJP5q19DyUji0FaefIf4AGpUaJ5Cc/s1600-h/DSCF0016013_150.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156250776183703874" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrgSNclzQo-in0Lw3Mm62_q3aj9jY0WJd2KvBUInRuhRbzBIyAwD3WB3vtZYXIoTHV_5sDme8l4vlXtg_-mGZhna_rjQy2yfZNbHAdOywKd1a74byJP5q19DyUji0FaefIf4AGpUaJ5Cc/s200/DSCF0016013_150.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Upstairs on the altar was a glass container of rosary beads. One way they could identify those killed was by the rosaries found in their pockets. Many rosaries in a pile. The stained glass windows were broken but enough glass was left to be simple and beautiful. Simple, beautiful, fragile and colorful and broken – Just like the people of Rwanda. The white cloth was left on the altar. It was of course spattered, covered really, in blood. Behind the church were spaces where thousands of the dead have been interred. Simple wooden caskets.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156251240040171858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidelnYvrZGWeyI8P6fMjSeRkr1M2AKlNDAjntVwoM6odzGi-QkDsxFMSYY3vjH3YBgd6gz9PfEXtgRbRjRFh5VJ0TUOsFM2yXoAeRRVTwxQj-lQHoakTujbexe5r8gE7bqLl_gSIQLYLk/s320/DSCF0029024_134.JPG" border="0" /><br />In the underground area behind the church there were still many bodies. Just the way they were found. I didn’t go down there. Cindy and I stayed in the outside air and the sunshine. There were birds singi<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJPVn405wvHkm02nBvUm3MibZju6nm4EVa_nZBuvW-o4b3XTZsjYvJ-E8uVVSklS_numnuzE8DEsXPeRGEVEwqr0WKDid8LQ96v0yBcKOi7VYGmX5BRksYFWTUa74Fsbmm7-RhyphenhyphenoIrccw/s1600-h/Rwanda+Pics+2+094.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156253460538263970" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJPVn405wvHkm02nBvUm3MibZju6nm4EVa_nZBuvW-o4b3XTZsjYvJ-E8uVVSklS_numnuzE8DEsXPeRGEVEwqr0WKDid8LQ96v0yBcKOi7VYGmX5BRksYFWTUa74Fsbmm7-RhyphenhyphenoIrccw/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+094.jpg" border="0" /></a>ng. The wonderful-rich-musical-innocent-sound of children playing in the schooly<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvo1cy5jU6T3-OMdN-auOBf0PO2IwiUwK7egtxt1NEN_nTM7oq8npXtgNLlQcNXg8b87WqTKWoWs-vyJiI-JdtzyhMSfukVxYJPFqOhA5iuuDkU1YfImUTVKoxXk6gd2Yzr50Gzfi7U4/s1600-h/Rwanda+Pics+2+005.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156253043926436242" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvo1cy5jU6T3-OMdN-auOBf0PO2IwiUwK7egtxt1NEN_nTM7oq8npXtgNLlQcNXg8b87WqTKWoWs-vyJiI-JdtzyhMSfukVxYJPFqOhA5iuuDkU1YfImUTVKoxXk6gd2Yzr50Gzfi7U4/s320/Rwanda+Pics+2+005.jpg" border="0" /></a>ard just on the other side of a concrete block wall. Children born after the genocide. Ants still crawled on the ground. Overhead paper wasps built their nests. Children called out joyfully only 10 meters away. Downstairs and in the church unspeakable reminders of the evil men can do. Over the wall uniformed children with shiny brown faces and brilliant smiles played schoolyard games. And the birds sang. Bullet marks, skulls in rows, rosaries, caskets, clothes, craters, blood stains. Music in children’s voices.<br /><br /><p><br /><strong><em>God please help me to use what I have learned and experienced here to lead a better life every single day. Every Single Day.</em></strong></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxD03zu0Dd0JQrO8o9-B7cfwHh8YtBGrtEyZn7K-Q9fuNpbv9SNC5rxATA-meEoAW_T2cD77xeeU-KYTCfOvkDxFXANae-eYCddWe_OYzknyr0hs_TldWQqw3qis_iUDvpSPMdkuMdbWY/s1600-h/DSCF0056047_098.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156255870014917058" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxD03zu0Dd0JQrO8o9-B7cfwHh8YtBGrtEyZn7K-Q9fuNpbv9SNC5rxATA-meEoAW_T2cD77xeeU-KYTCfOvkDxFXANae-eYCddWe_OYzknyr0hs_TldWQqw3qis_iUDvpSPMdkuMdbWY/s200/DSCF0056047_098.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><p><strong><em></em></strong><br />Cindy cried and gasped for air. It was almost too much to even imagine. As the people prayed their rosaries and begged God to save them… How does Rwanda remain so spiritual? How do they go on living with these memories? Many of the 5,000 would not have been killed if they hadn’t gone to the church for protection. And yet Calliste bows his head and folds his hands in unashamed prayer before he eats. I have eaten with him many times. He always prays before he eats. Quietly. Publicly. Calliste. He sat on one of the benches of the church crying. Quietly. Publicly. </p>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-88269289370318747122008-01-16T19:55:00.002-05:002008-06-23T13:45:44.817-04:00Ntarama<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyB7GAt6FeJuF2fLIcAy_rLtHlB-jsp8dkFmHNjr9OjaW780lzmH7Cpldrk3l4jHLLD9FFM-gFyFvAYoX6OwNA-3_C5W7ApkijIihUYtcNgNLFxeVLOz8W1OixfNy-ftpyuKGQxRSzh8k/s1600-h/DSCF0002001_167.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156246897828235554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyB7GAt6FeJuF2fLIcAy_rLtHlB-jsp8dkFmHNjr9OjaW780lzmH7Cpldrk3l4jHLLD9FFM-gFyFvAYoX6OwNA-3_C5W7ApkijIihUYtcNgNLFxeVLOz8W1OixfNy-ftpyuKGQxRSzh8k/s320/DSCF0002001_167.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><br /><div>7:14 AM<br />Thoughts about Ntarama.<strong><em> God please help me to use what I have learned and experienced to be a better person and to lead a better life every single day. Every Single Day.</em></strong> </div><div><br />5,000 people came to this small church for refuge. They thought it would be safe here<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYiONB6yYze__KC5X2rdiUKefW-WevIGd9TPh7WRRX8BBIzKxcn0n0DySWusGFzqpBSnuUjK2eJG40DysSX49XQQSb__Itr9igoAY8LKsWyTFhDq1QUAodF1A_QXSuIa_vuHbmEo5Z4j0/s1600-h/DSCF0014011_151.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156246451151636754" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYiONB6yYze__KC5X2rdiUKefW-WevIGd9TPh7WRRX8BBIzKxcn0n0DySWusGFzqpBSnuUjK2eJG40DysSX49XQQSb__Itr9igoAY8LKsWyTFhDq1QUAodF1A_QXSuIa_vuHbmEo5Z4j0/s200/DSCF0014011_151.JPG" border="0" /></a> of all the places they knew. I can’t imagine 5,000 people in this small space. They must have huddled side by side for there to be so many in this small church. They locked every door that they could. There was a metal bar gate locked tight when the attackers came. The bars were simply shot out. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156243393134921986" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNg_8pWe61R0wI6MogtOnomN_hxZ8yVrlCBfYqFzP8S3vMUOqjb9FA1g3fYy_2mYccROYWb9jTmtgbhuSAAZcKkqhSc2W0C1Zs1hGFiEP515QCDRbWa7ynllm2yrDFIQf9-UYUjz00XrY/s320/DSCF0008007_157.JPG" border="0" /><br />In Rwanda most structures have ventilation bricks laid right into the walls. There is always a place for fresh air to get in. These spaces in the concrete blocks were used to shoot through. There was no place to hide. <a href="http://www.rwandagateway.org/article.php3?id_article=7574">5,000 people</a> standing side by side. Craters in the concrete where grenades exploded, bullet marks everywhere, bomb fragments blown through the ceiling like a clear starry night as the sun shone through – thousands of tiny holes in the corrugated metal roof. Constellations in a black, black sky. The room was bare but for a few artifacts and the uncomfortable wooden pews.</td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><br /><br /><br /><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-42514119315424938692008-01-16T19:37:00.002-05:002011-05-17T21:15:16.548-04:00Love<div align="center">Richard at The Serena during out last night together<br /></div><div align="left"><br />Friday, July 17, 2007 12:35 AM<br />I am going to get to sleep in a few minutes. I will write about Ntarama tomorrow. I have notes in my little red notebook. We said farewell to Richard tonight. There was some live music at the restaurant of the hotel. A little combo that played songs in English, Kinyrwanda and French. Lots of Reggae. Our drivers will be here at 4:30 tomorrow and we’ll head out. I Think we’ll stay pretty close to the hotel today. As I turn in this last night in Rwanda I h<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguqLYqBAD-Z1S3C4hwtGrH1bb_rDLX8uNrEmti5BKtWF-m9KqlBc5hlTmM8WGCXFFreEhAW7k4C4Hs80xw5PVLU-_XJdk58tCmwgwTwayVYyWQQm4BpVSC_r2SNCykC8G4iAqy-HWWBac/s1600-h/DSCF0075066_074.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156241636493297906" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguqLYqBAD-Z1S3C4hwtGrH1bb_rDLX8uNrEmti5BKtWF-m9KqlBc5hlTmM8WGCXFFreEhAW7k4C4Hs80xw5PVLU-_XJdk58tCmwgwTwayVYyWQQm4BpVSC_r2SNCykC8G4iAqy-HWWBac/s200/DSCF0075066_074.JPG" border="0" /></a>ave such mixed emotions. I do want to come back again. I feel that I must, but I never want to be away from you for this long again. That may seem selfish but I have thought about Rwanda almost exclusively for months now. Reading and rereading Immaculee’s book, the Bishop’s book, <a href="http://www.alongwaygone.com/long_way_gone.html">Ishmael Beah’s </a><em><a href="http://www.alongwaygone.com/long_way_gone.html">A Long Way Gone </a></em>(about Sierra Leone), reading stuff on the internet about the history of Rwanda, Youtube stuff on Rwanda. Through this time I have thought about poverty and death as well a<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Dvd3JcnOcmCM0ZZVHQQvgakzJm1xAzoCG0NBNaRULTGGYOrYWHbuBIHdtLgAjgtdad2ywDqWChoe9ym6Eo0Aee1IFPctyqzC4UpRvGJB_ryTbdhEvpaNx3EaSWGsEAOmbX26_o6DNVk/s1600-h/DSCF0074065_075.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156241237061339362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Dvd3JcnOcmCM0ZZVHQQvgakzJm1xAzoCG0NBNaRULTGGYOrYWHbuBIHdtLgAjgtdad2ywDqWChoe9ym6Eo0Aee1IFPctyqzC4UpRvGJB_ryTbdhEvpaNx3EaSWGsEAOmbX26_o6DNVk/s200/DSCF0074065_075.JPG" border="0" /></a>s grace and forgiveness. For months. I will never forget about Rwanda or t<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnqBoDSaqJent8rlN3ZG7-ha7kc0wc0i9meij0_oHx4mCj4lp6-1ft5Y5sY3iw7AGN-3dX0ZdAjiBvMT8jz3_V64LCuvK0lgFHkqaeak78nkbFUqK7IyvmjzUquKSyCivFMkFOmX1oUBM/s1600-h/DSCF0066057_087.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156240811859577042" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnqBoDSaqJent8rlN3ZG7-ha7kc0wc0i9meij0_oHx4mCj4lp6-1ft5Y5sY3iw7AGN-3dX0ZdAjiBvMT8jz3_V64LCuvK0lgFHkqaeak78nkbFUqK7IyvmjzUquKSyCivFMkFOmX1oUBM/s200/DSCF0066057_087.JPG" border="0" /></a>his trip, these good people. But I have missed you too much. I am dependent, in some ways, on your consistent presence. Perhaps because I focused so much on human mortality It has made me realize that my days with you are finite. I love you, Heidi. I am certain now that one reason I came is to know just how much I love you. I know. </div>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-54785480432238374652007-12-16T18:37:00.001-05:002008-06-21T10:44:58.589-04:00The Girl in the Road<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZN33-cInptACGWuKi_AwwGBWlBK5HNetfPXXqoTBfhLaqVlC790WT_jp8KHgvkNV74YQ6uKL5MxLWjsa7bQE6I7fkVSvDnHnDKnlHUnc1bGQ33IsTwuVen3cE33wwI5ehj0dhhu4cvxY/s1600-h/Rwanda+Pics+2+096.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144719819786094754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZN33-cInptACGWuKi_AwwGBWlBK5HNetfPXXqoTBfhLaqVlC790WT_jp8KHgvkNV74YQ6uKL5MxLWjsa7bQE6I7fkVSvDnHnDKnlHUnc1bGQ33IsTwuVen3cE33wwI5ehj0dhhu4cvxY/s400/Rwanda+Pics+2+096.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><div><br />The roads were mostly good. The dust was low. The temperature was not too hot yet. We passed by many large farm cooperatives growing sugar cane The view in the distant valley was dotted with plume<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwM0ioo9BZ0D6NjZujWo1vC02P5IMUIBzh5Iix2d5DcovC90OdH6JUNFrqQJI5cj6RssCa9eVo27ItGTCpSqq8f2VkF5ddMFVcS_0F6Pt3OZT_7dMIPmQ-de2StN62YbtRCXBcRQFzR6s/s1600-h/Rwanda+Pics+2+097.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144719600742762642" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwM0ioo9BZ0D6NjZujWo1vC02P5IMUIBzh5Iix2d5DcovC90OdH6JUNFrqQJI5cj6RssCa9eVo27ItGTCpSqq8f2VkF5ddMFVcS_0F6Pt3OZT_7dMIPmQ-de2StN62YbtRCXBcRQFzR6s/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+097.jpg" border="0" /></a>s of smoke. Burning off the cane.</div><br /><br /><div><br />While we were driving the traffic stopped suddenly. We thought there must have been a wreck. A few car lengths ahead of us a girl of about 13 or 14 lay in the road sprawled on the pavement. Her flip flops lay in the road next to her. A few people were standing around but it didn’t seem that anyone was doing anything to help her. We got out and approached. We heard “Mzunga” (sp?) among the people around us. It is not an altogether endearing term meaning loosely “crazy white people”. It was really scary. Strange. Surreal. The girl had foamy spit around her mouth and nose. The people in the nearby road crew kept on working. No one moved to touch her. Richard spoke to the people around her. Brandon and I kept back, near the car. When he came back he told us that she had had these spells before. It was a seizure. She was laying front down in the road, her face to the side. Richard explained that “these people” believed that a person with this <a href="http://www.afro.who.int/mentalhealth/publications/epilepsy_african_brochure_3.pdf">sickness was contagious</a> and that if you touched her while she was unconscious you would contract what she had (which I read as DEMONS). </div><br /><br /><div><br />As bizarre as it sounds he said to get in the car and drive on. What could we do? I felt totally helpless. I wasn’t in a position to act. Still, driving away, leaving her on the hot roadbed was numbing. I felt guilty. Richard said that she would be alright. The people said to Richard that this had happened to her a lot of times. We drove about a half mile and Richard talked to two police to let them know so that they could keep her safe. There was some relief in that. All of this happened before we got to Ntarama.</div></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><br /><br /><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-4281114407374920282007-12-16T18:35:00.003-05:002008-07-03T09:03:15.048-04:00Going to NtaramaWhen we left this morning for the <a href="http://www.chron.com/content/interactive/special/humanrights/rwanda/church.html">Ntarama</a> Genocide Memorial we started out pretty light hearted. It was Richard, Shaboni (the driver), Brandon and me. We stopped at a traffic light behind a van with a huge GOD IS LOVE sign completely covering the back window. It wouldn’t be legal in the States. A smaller sign below had Richard's last name. He said that it is the name of a town in Rwanda. I don’t want to make more of this than it actually was but the juxtaposition of those words while we were on our way to a church where 5,000 people were killed. A church similar to where Richard’s own family was killed, where they had gone for refuge. GOD IS LOVE… RICHARD...<a href="http://www.rudyfoto.com/RwandaStoryPage.html">NTARAMA</a>. <table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-55557172072594510152007-12-16T18:29:00.001-05:002008-06-21T10:33:27.497-04:00Veranda Reflection<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144717762496759938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ4jk2c3V95NCVCtbB4ZNYzZjOBgcFjpZEhsuNhczAufe74TAjR8M7YG521njrXf-Aro4VL3c2EGiVVAbl2T9CCkguHp3eQTV9FJKVjMqgz3PCe5SixqWJ-YV4RSeekiRWFvEcV9e2i8E/s400/Rwanda+Pics+2+065.jpg" border="0" /><br /><p align="center"><em></em></p><em><p align="center"></p><p align="center">Midori, Nancy, Portia, Brandon, Tina, Immaculee, </p><p></p><p align="center"></p><p align="center">me, Cindy and Tim - All Inspi(red) </p><p></p><p></p><p align="center"></p></em><p></p><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody></tbody><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><div><br />I’m sitting on the veranda where I have sat many times over the past two weeks. My American friends are all in their rooms. There are kids in the pool below. They are speaking Kinyrwanda but they are also speaking the lovely universal language of children. Laughing, chasing, screaming. Their happiness is so immediate. So complete. Reflecting on this day is hard. For one thing we will not all be together again. We have become a unit somehow. In so many ways we are all so very different, but have all come to love and respect each other despite our differences. After tomorrow we will never be together in the same room. Most of us will probably never see each other again. This bonding has been strange. Thrown together by chance, experiencing the reality and harshness and grace of this faraway place has brought us together in a way that nothing else ever could. Sitting here with a cold glass of water and the sounds of children and birds in this perfect temperature by myself surrounded by people speaking French, Swahili, Kinyrwanda and English. This is so unbelievable. So surreal. I could cry but I am not alone enough. </div></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><br /><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody><tbody></tbody></table>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-26362223294095588292007-12-16T18:25:00.000-05:002008-01-21T08:02:37.177-05:00Saying No<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><br />A couple of miscellaneous thoughts, events. When we were in the car yesterday, Brandon jokingly said, “No” to Cindy about something. It wasn’t a big deal but he refused to do something she had asked of him. Richard spoke, “In this country you don’t ever say no to your parents. Never. When you are asked to do something you do it without question. The only time you can say no is when you have a family of your own.”<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144716735999576178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvwqveqFV094xxtxUEkDxXGemwA56nmN0gtPwdnB9Ev2z87yK1-9MnAqGWMMKAh-V9_15JUODvg_nWnITHJilbU0miOoBtITst4obiClJ8Uqoa1PSSczRXZ0xL6SlhZ1BC7ONwk23lDQ0/s320/DSCF0258288_060.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />Another little scene. One of our group of Americans gave money to a poor person. We were driving off and she thought it would be okay since we wouldn’t be mobbed by others. Richard cautioned that it may have done more harm than good. “If you gave that person 5,000 francs and the others have nothing and they are hungry… Think of what you have done to that one now.” It’s so complex. It is right to help people individually but Richard is right. You could actually put someone in danger. On the other hand when you donate to an organization there is waste. Greed. Resources may be used for useless, unrealistic projects. Salaries of workers, advertisements, phone banks. It’s hard to know the right thing to do.<br /></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><br /><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-36818536502112035052007-12-16T18:20:00.000-05:002008-01-21T08:01:18.061-05:00Poverty<table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><br />Poverty in Rwanda seems different that the US. Poverty in America is something beyond lack of material possessions. There seems to be a feeling of hopelessness of oppression. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA92PyrNKrA532rUJsYipA2fwe3xQNkEQDZh-IqywwvEn7utfuxXbgshYRSu_ZATO8b3u3BM9D1YBDDR5MnE6rbDxDRHlHkAYZdhwnqK5X-Q2JwTcGLomvHELYlxnZrxvdgov6HMB18-c/s1600-h/DSCF0332360_014.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144715400264747090" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA92PyrNKrA532rUJsYipA2fwe3xQNkEQDZh-IqywwvEn7utfuxXbgshYRSu_ZATO8b3u3BM9D1YBDDR5MnE6rbDxDRHlHkAYZdhwnqK5X-Q2JwTcGLomvHELYlxnZrxvdgov6HMB18-c/s200/DSCF0332360_014.JPG" border="0" /></a>Helplessness. I do not sense that in Rwanda. Mostly, even among the poorest, I see happiness. Not that people wouldn’t want electricity, or running water or a more comfortable place to live. I’m sure they do. But they seem grateful for what they do have. They work hard for everything – even their water – even the wood they use to boil their water and to cook. Here if you give the equivalent of a dollar to a poor woman she looks you in the eye and blesses you from her soul to yours. Of course there is evil here. But there is also hope, humility, gratitude, self-relian<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiblZLv32FiUdbL4_YMJ7UaHBzIeuusty-VwyG7fljTPDc3bn_yCFZAwW950mUEDt4aIOtveIIMzaOXA-G9uexKCZdxgXmggmsVvmEnB4hVtT_OusmgTp7RDj_Bub45TIiiDO45DBlMmj0/s1600-h/DSCF0333361_013.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144715838351411298" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiblZLv32FiUdbL4_YMJ7UaHBzIeuusty-VwyG7fljTPDc3bn_yCFZAwW950mUEDt4aIOtveIIMzaOXA-G9uexKCZdxgXmggmsVvmEnB4hVtT_OusmgTp7RDj_Bub45TIiiDO45DBlMmj0/s200/DSCF0333361_013.JPG" border="0" /></a>ce that do not seem so present in the US. Hard work is expected here. People do not complain. Right now a man is washing the tiles on this veranda. They look like the tiles on our kitchen floor. He is washing this very large floor on his hands and knees. Soapy water from a bucket. A rag. He stands, works the kinks out of his back and then gets back to work. Every single tile washed by hand on his hands and knees.<br /></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><br /><br /><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-84490443281090816002007-12-16T18:08:00.000-05:002008-01-21T08:00:29.389-05:00Back From Akagera 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78lCZXD4xLKTNRTSObbp2k-J-esUvxUQOgS5ddiSzSS1Cr6JMwCybecZc6CiwPqWoR2RjrBlLZN6txw7lKa1NXlRejcCXGaZNPl1HEZs5hJTzEwXkEpsIvf6RQJElwmTWmLN2hEBuqTA/s1600-h/DSCF0304333_026.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144712672960514098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78lCZXD4xLKTNRTSObbp2k-J-esUvxUQOgS5ddiSzSS1Cr6JMwCybecZc6CiwPqWoR2RjrBlLZN6txw7lKa1NXlRejcCXGaZNPl1HEZs5hJTzEwXkEpsIvf6RQJElwmTWmLN2hEBuqTA/s400/DSCF0304333_026.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><br />Here are some more of the sights and sounds from our trip to Akagera and back to Kigali. In many ways these long journies through the country have been as important as the destinations. Seeing the wild animals at Virunga and Akagera was fun but seeing thousands of people do what they do daily was essential to understanding this beautiful country. </div><div></div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144712325068163106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7fFwmIUWAsXFKcNZT8rkanXREkG62WDFLlE64cRmNh-7IJ-R_1apmhn-vn4UIYLm_DmriKSm6rfGQOSqMImcAACtn3Vh-dMeqnCpRE_Fy5JrGV-1TP9esqajzLQ86cHP1nTe9bM2o2oM/s200/DSCF0296326_029.JPG" border="0" /><br />A little one with a lacrosse club tee shirt down to his knees. Walking, walking, walking. Washing clothes in a bucket, washing children from a bucket. A mother goat tied dangerously close to the side of the road nursing its kid. A lovely young Rwandan mother, breast feeding her new baby, sitting in a tiny flower garden near her <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi13cEzAO3yOs-ShnvaqMm2NInl7Y2VnV9ZMp6iURLNPJrL-DVjD_WMaV1GjG6P9JqNWKUvAVMX6GwROnpoz01MHlXDlSfpJ_xAG4mB6sAxDos1vjKAhYuqevQ_c6W8uADROca_7ybGEVo/s1600-h/African+woman+breastfeeding.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144714425307170882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi13cEzAO3yOs-ShnvaqMm2NInl7Y2VnV9ZMp6iURLNPJrL-DVjD_WMaV1GjG6P9JqNWKUvAVMX6GwROnpoz01MHlXDlSfpJ_xAG4mB6sAxDos1vjKAhYuqevQ_c6W8uADROca_7ybGEVo/s200/African+woman+breastfeeding.jpg" border="0" /></a>mud home. Carrying, carrying, carrying. Boys on bicycles coasting down steep hills, walking up.Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-35394618869642713172007-12-16T17:21:00.000-05:002008-01-21T07:59:43.663-05:00Longing<p>Friday, July 16, 2007 6:30 AM</p><p><br />It’s hard to believe that we have been apart for two weeks. That can’t happen ever again. My longing to be with you has come in waves. Now that I’ll only be Rwanda for another thirty-six hours it is rushing back over me. Knowing that I’ll be getting on a plane tomorrow night heading home to you brings such feelings of relief and joy. Loss too. I can’t explain it but being here with these people in this place… My eyes have been opened. I think – I hope that when I return home I’ll be different. Better. If you can ever manage to read this far I hope that you understand that I have changed. Grown. Not that I will have grown past you in any way. You have always been the kindest, most generous person I have ever known. My hope is that I will be more like you. My hope is that I will be more grateful every day for the many rich blessings in my life. That I will be worthy of the goodness – the God all around me. Most of all worthy of you. </p><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><br /></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-10056439055010566332007-12-01T18:59:00.002-05:002008-06-23T13:28:36.743-04:00People<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUILAio1U7wNShLFUJyXt1IQ4OjAt5YtdJsgjf6PrHe_7_EAAgixt4D2KOPyKZg4XhWBFQkoZWfdUNwm0MKkqF4syqY0EXISDv6UcAADhAYANlVyHS3KkOss_x7lcZwCKZLGbIq37MepU/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+077.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139162580434989474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsLoHbrd6z2-5Hpe41r4cfPv5ZAG-XGMTsQnGkcgYWMzHdgB5_Lm2jd48ejIbGCaBvZsQmgFUQFWh_zZsFTRqunRGOBdMHpHGP3753iD-comLyUpTpFOeX18ASj5L7by-ddZP8QWG2AqA/s400/Rwanda+Pics+2+077.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO63UqGu23De2tKbIYaf_CdyCIWoba-bRbDVxIx22Xc7N03xoLVXhoD1CAUXU7ShJMz7pD1wwXfJvV2xhb5sb3ajW22v-Dv6P0x38w1-mxAKWxeE1z3IPtbS-pnufxuzZD3RWzVnyXbf0/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+076.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139161523873034626" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvFCRJYNTV839b87WvbFRKBgerwRP-xg1WmejjizCo-Pfb2iiFkY8eVhhdtTPkU-RaDpOYLASQPafsq3161Ph85aMhSDJ-jMAmaHuKggFgz_6Rd579L6bVjrHWKNmOC3kKP-0DyMomN4/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+076.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />One of the best parts of this trip for me has been seeing how people in this very different part of the world live. On the paved road from Musanze to Akagera we traveled about 80 kilometers per hour. People walk constantly on both sides of the road REALLY close to traffic. Even toddlers are on the highway, little kids, all ages, all day. Walking, walking, walking. They are carrying stuff or going to get something to carry. There are school kids in uniforms, older people carrying bundles. You wouldn’t believe how much time and effort go into getting water. Women carrying big ju<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsem1P487VG58YYEt4SpyIwaArfPHGuTSJ3bb8HeDHjMrGbtUulpNuBa2JmI3k91uMZW4GkVn2nh8sLzz6OdhITLwH0T2WRoVq-mxlcUlAQuzYmvbmZAEb6FbTo_GxKrQyYIe43Fbc1Cw/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+036.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139160574685262162" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61NMb9cKpm21S8OoDjJyqCdeBJKxYUkMqhktjn5e0LbfJ8Qc8xrUrHfqNCFe2oNGxytrGWLUrbWaONLkjIVBPr0O7jhYrzJA2ey1zRX6xd3TQ9WsVHjeehYsFLd-CSrxMbZc9B007yxs/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+036.jpg" border="0" /></a>gs of water in their heads, kids with water jugs strapped to their bikes, little ones struggling with water containers which seem almost as big as they are. Usually water is carried in large (about 5 gallon) yellow plastic jugs. Richard said that these may have come from refugee camps or are reused after buying large amounts of cooking oil. One way to make life a lot easier for a lot of people would be to help them to get access to clean water. When they get it to their homes they must boil it using wood scavenged or bought or bartered for. Water. Such a simple luxury for us and so desperately complex and challenging for Rwandans. Sometimes they pump water from a communal well. Sometimes villages have a communal spigot they share. There is a lot of cool social time around the wells. </div><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139161897535189394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5SpJbrZa4aCLBnYoEAsbtcyNR6a-Q6U25QYE1Zhd6pCZZKxPm736ryy9okjxl0OY1SFmNT4JZHqFNoMi2F06MK8m4L9msQ4FAu7LOx9Hj332bdCCP53uEoLVukdNT6FsP0Hw11sWppO8/s320/Rwanda+Pics+2+095.jpg" border="0" /><br />As we were driving to Akagera Richard said during the genocide that this part of the country was under the protection of the RPF and so many people tried to get here. Refugees flooded this part of the country. It’s amazing how different this area of the country is from the volcanoes and gorillas to the north and east. There it was wet and tropical. As we drove over here it became much drier, far different from the tropical rain forest of the gorillas. From mountain gorillas to baboons, from air so damp that it made my shirt cling to my back to air so dry and dusty that it stung my throat and made my nose bleed. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139160282627486018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzTlecxehv1D3PPTrRBKrNwhYpMMGHsFZjrX3QG5sTsWcM4GaljJjkjrNh5Og86gyxnZ0_gd7Ggr57LyM95Vhm4y1zVN4YK45m5CwWm6I1NK9rQlxDiZQEbjOwE4-skE7GuSBqjN_v4Ww/s320/Rwanda+Pics+2+026.jpg" border="0" /><br />There are many more cows in this area. Dangerous looking horns, much thinner than American cows. Still there are people working the land relentlessly with hoes. Tall banana trees everywhere. Little kids standing by the highway selling bags of limes, eggs, avocados. Lots of people carrying firewood in bundles on their heads, much of it tied with the stem of a fi<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vcwgpxKh3EgLfJRakYX8yReE_IcjNSZzRwyTukmnqU88thHHELOcd7BHfA9cP0ItSMslVkqU4zaa4ePW6ebePiQjchMARp2xje66Sp_CO34hZ14NigDw6Lb4Eff7byNLp2w5xDz-jkI/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+063.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139160866743038306" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKPAIZ0H-DAqBaeRqVe1FP27QuNXPFaUzEaX91ulT5HicW4A11cVz4bSiTLVxhsrEYZUOMBsZuXKMOO5qN_URw-2papTT0_S0jGASol4TQhgQ8My9JeVBEkgXmfZrXcArdS_Bc8fLQqGs/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+063.jpg" border="0" /></a>brous plant. Wood for cooking maize, corn potatoes, African tea, coffee. Occasionally you see “a police” or somebody from the military wearing a beret and carrying an AK47 or a shotgun. After two weeks being here that still freaks me out a little. Not as much as it did when we first arrived. Bob Marley on the car stereo. Most people who have a music system still listen to tapes here. Richard loves reggae (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mACqcZZwG0k">“</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mACqcZZwG0k">Don’t worry, every little thing is gonna be all right!</a></span></span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mACqcZZwG0k">”</a>). He sings along loudly, off key, but with gusto.<br /><div><br />Women strolling along carrying large colorful umbrellas in the bright sunshine. Boys riding or pushing bikes with huge sacks of produce (potatoes, beans, carrots) or large bundles of green bananas. Most people wear sandals or go bare footed. Two old men, white hair, one with a staff and a battered old fedora hat, both wearing tattered suits walking up the mountain holding hands. They are each other’s best friends. You can see that. Imagine all that they have been through together. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIYx5Npr6gYvt-mjHoV-0Jy1WYl98GV48Nz8PySUCGfJX2fP6NmNu8QjaUo3Wl_IWuvw9ZMNEl7zNgWymmx2p0G3xKDX_4FqAC5oo7VroEPPI1K_Lkpj3KKYt8nrpDjCNqoKBhLpMNc30/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+009.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139159964799906098" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihy5USDLmtZ4y9HbkqY55M9sBOddXsqx4PsuQ34WjP-chS4wxhe_8JuK30Rq9MQInk0w-fUs7tFwHBalXj05-JxH_UBw4HX3gbGZOWUCbWD439a9GWA6CIWqqDYFUDHBMisBdTwgJ3SkY/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+009.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div><br />Tiny little mud brick or just mud houses with dirt floors. Yet, often you see a colorful little flower garden. The poor may understand beauty even more than the rich. And there IS beauty here. An old woman, bent, leaning on her staff. A young man driving a motorcycle with an old man on the back (his father?) and a baby i<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8-Y7uVDyUfwbviSuQFd8gxLslVb2Mtv7kDi__Oc-zV5Glnj1aUhSfNddL_5Kd7AMIAZ3eKt0qNUo4eAEj4K_CC7pQuVu4BDEkeK5jN9gyucsGQzcNSeu9Ba7ubkwDF6DVkXdhEkqu2Y/s1600-r/DSCF0304333_026.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139163271924724146" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEika5d0yldDDQD6FNyYE3FHwnrQodcpT7YqdFTV4O2H4Xit9EGhAjrJJEmTLqVBAxee9cPeO7ETwTl8yxuTJU6EB7n-xjF9LMIrspJ45_manFqPFlLXBr_6bdtuajUrNYslaBEA9WGfn98/s200/DSCF0304333_026.JPG" border="0" /></a>n his lap (his son?). Sunlight through banana leaves, dirty yellow water jugs, windowless huts, multi-colored scarves, sweat-stained shirts, people smiling – laughing – talking – teasing – primping – posing at the village pump. “Kirkwood High School Tennis Club” t-shirt on a radiant shining faced teenage girl. She’s riding on the back of a bike pedaled by a handsome boy of about the same age. They are laughing. White teeth. Joy. They aren’t wearing shoes but they are wearing happiness. Beautiful intricate braids, ebony skin. </div><br /><br /><div>A day of dust. Freshly made mud bricks drying in rows and columns in the hot afternoon sun. Clothes drying on bushes. A primary school girl wearing her sweater on her head, dancing and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitWtsqPylTH3jU4OohikNBWerhlFaq2fmJ_d1C3NjQhpZi4cHT2Ux8zdo5r3yLNOPkmCQ6YFJ4sOjXrYHx7JZiofuX-yWA2tTzbsbrz9xoRjJ9lK2N-HVgjrgp3EnTxq-ws8aF3GVzP74/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+073.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139161154505847154" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVx2ldJUlezTsVGfxDTSJQJbQp_VV59oiWNs5UobYN9vdhOExKQV3N9_EL1M_7k2AGED8FyLF9NnwHjle3nnD0ZYNdtr0YxQ_gBjV5MNXu26muZJvR0B1hDs3NPx751ZPkAtw49z6mQdw/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+073.jpg" border="0" /></a>clapping to her own inner music. Makeshift wheelbarrows made from found wood and a tire and axle. Nothing is thrown away if it can be used again. A group of women threshing grain in the slow breeze with baskets, large and round-patterned. They have made these baskets themselves with grasses they have picked. They thresh the grain they have grown to feed their hungry families in homes they have made themselves from materials they have fashioned from the very earth around them. A man planing wooden planks by hand from a tree he has cut and sawed into boards. </div><div></div><div>It’s 12:15 and I can barely keep my eyes open. Before I sleep I will hold you in my heart. I hope I dream of you. I love you.</div></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-60338431091315896642007-12-01T18:25:00.001-05:002008-06-18T22:15:20.278-04:00Writing to You<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNXDq8MZ4_BRvR5QG9D5XMCC_nCSpYMwPmVCg9hPPQ7VFfBDHZ4_e2vlzYWAAqQlP7WFP6mvIdlzp7A_g3Fx2qnP7QTQq2LbrcGsbKo41wIUgMD916aiARRAVKws1H27dfp1qb0yqY_zk/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+104.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139150026245583138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVYa17OFD9Z7lHrAfiyxJQFUlNjwNUM_mjdo67Hx7zcnhacXGZKl4MJz4NDIBq5EjfAtVXoNRwphcbExQCqirUXYFFVj2wji2Aa-Hf5ABNlneo6Nb80sT9-GUBXpg7kKO-dgjGyyyCnY/s400/Rwanda+Pics+2+104.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>Sunrise in <a href="http://www.rwandatourism.com/parks.htm">Akagera</a></em></div><em></em><div align="left"><br /><br />It’s funny. I don’t think I’ve ever NOT read so much for two weeks. I did read the local paper a couple of times as well as the booklets from the Memorial, but nothing in a book. Instead, for these two weeks, writing has taken up that space for me. I couldn’t write much yesterday (except for the little red notebook) and I missed it. Mostly, because it is a way for me to communicate with you, Heidi. I don’t know if you’ll ever get this far in this little composition notebook, but if you do I want you to know that when I sit down to write this, it is as if I am speaking to you. All these late evenings and very early mornings while you were half a world away – warm in the comfort of our boys and our lovely spot on earth – I have been with you through this trip and this little notebook. If you get this far, know that I have been looking into your beautiful eyes in these pictures I have with me and I have never loved you harder, held you closer to my heart. It took a lot of trust and love for you to free up our resources. It’s been tough in a lot of ways but a learning and growing experience like no other. I am forever grateful. I can’t tell you how much I love you.<br /></div><div align="left"></div>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-86323821098711051102007-12-01T17:55:00.003-05:002011-05-17T21:17:47.560-04:00Akagera<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWbGeBuS0kSA0eghOEXSdJIsae6biEVHWqXhyw3QBEA1DJECq6BYG5xGAuQ-8SwN9KD6wXx_jeye6GF4UmOXvlPEdOHn6xdyNHCvCjOdlLQ2pfjnaptcHD1WGaFaNe0E9uorYPSczquMo/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+014.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139145417745674514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjefRSE6HS91TeB_-j_mYEjwsD945QPVa2hQGTBVlVlF5cPMzl-NZVf5t9lqQmdzWUDrgfCU6mpHLJ_-PkjHsIo0c7aYD8Gt0ZbtjGF7iDc-VHVQghuytiedZdmA7vNCaKo4v3_uk87Ghk/s400/Rwanda+Pics+2+014.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><div><br /><div align="center"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div></div><div align="center"><br /><div align="left"><br /><br />The trip to <a href="http://www.rwandagateway.org/article.php3?id_article=644">Akagera</a> was great, although it had its ups and downs. After not sleeping for more than an hour last night, it was a little hard to take the jolting 4-5 hours in the car to the park. Then we had about a two and half hour trip back to the hotel. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_dnMflmqnY&feature=related">The animals</a>, (video - <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Akagera, Rwanda) </span>the countryside, the sites we passed along the way were all awesome. I don’t even know the names of all the different creatures we saw. There were many small insects (including some wicked biting flies which plagued us for a few hours of the drive). It was really hot and extremely dry. So there was red dust in the air constantly as we were following the other car and they kicked up clouds.<br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><p align="left">Here are a few highlights from the park. After driving for about twenty minutes inside the park we saw some impala, big deer with long sharp horns. They were the exact color of the brush so I did not really see them until we were pretty close. We saw some tiny gazelles called reedy bucks (sp?). The dust was not so bad while we were in the brush. It struck me how very different the eastern part of the country is from the area where we saw the gorillas in the west. Even though Rwanda is small, the geography is extremely different from one side to the other. From gorillas and cool rain forest to the hot savanna with giraffes and elephants and hippos. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT29KcmABECl4Ljf870Mz8YyGxzaHNJODotgBXBqLtkZVk5rZTDqRFm4mD_eOyB7QkI2LC-WguLGcyrJklVtbibHAJloa73GeHoCGaVX3C_1IV5SifkyxKozDxXeupUJ1SI1GuPpDO75M/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+015.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139143708348690642" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguVCCZ7GNGeW_8fK8Xa6fzQZFoy3ZdiOWsBYgBFqm48xSfw8Ty-pgBlSZjxJYcuuTzjelQSZ10r0-uVEPdnX9vqQCiOe1u839wEyQPv86lNk_M44bVafkhmT4gL5q_zn3Tw0CMPX-UOTY/s200/Rwanda+Pics+2+015.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="left"><br />We saw two different kinds of eagles. One was quite like our bald eagle except its breast and shoulders were white. There was another kind of eagle we saw sort of posing on a log, tearing into some small animal it had caught which our guide kept calling WRONG CRESTED EAGLE. After probably too much consideration (remember I really didn’t sleep last night) I figured it was a LONG CRESTED EAGLE. Both were large beautiful birds. </p><div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8954rPEYw6jCb7QpYoskucF4VVsQiopXE7kuvLh4TOSGwEHpaEZ6522sHAmJG_AqApUPnX-ZdRsSsyvFHub8TG1XCRbRMI7KWJRDxNry0YOVpLvGwSK4JWm2aLFYg7XrJqVdX9gtxcoc/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+006.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139143317506666690" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FcjU2vOo1m-BM1DfcUNDfF-7q77EWzIMX5doqclmCRNRmqmnLDV1xeMGCqClYsgiHGpjVRPTSU_Xm7cwoT1R3Uhn_2OvMEUeWkxqw4eUClSb5ju2ts7p1Ye8w-R7fZDrsIYCm7GJfhY/s320/Rwanda+Pics+2+006.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Then we saw a bunch of zebras. We spotted them from very far away at first. Like the gorillas in Virunga, I thought we would not be able to get near them. We edged closer and closer in the cars until we were within forty feet. There were eight of them. So beautiful against the tawny colored grasses behind. We took lots of pictures. Shabani and Callixte (the drivers) really enjoyed this as well. Neither they nor Richard had ever been to this part of the country before. </div><p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVousOM92zA_X9vI-qmZVHXl_j9AoH0wRn1t9WDvWlV8hDN6DAXMiJb8FEWQUPeDvzPZ9B_4jNAbwfoMhENHlpizPkLsxOCr1dvp4t4_P4QXT6D2cPJ6i9MPhAwuJOx6QYbxTNVp4EesE/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+016.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139143944571891938" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgji_e8I3S7d0LrKl1lPmQXXj3f1VFMPbCTgVYHtehMeodTX8Sbkt_9AGPe1R2fpu2VvBso8T8BdZfUsOhImivkSBV1oUOY0bQG1FUfl1P09M638JG74W6piFeio0fT2weeEqEzfZQJ45M/s320/Rwanda+Pics+2+016.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />There were many termite mounds the color of red brick and just as hard. Some were low and wide like giant fire ant mounds, Some were over five feet tall and almost cylindrical with rounded tops. Some were shaped exactly like tall cones.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHK_ANOBC-93ropeihPxQyvzMbW05qmFnBmAz6KLZrAYrpBZNawptk-2IKr971N6Pwuuobn-q_Uury4x9W2rD1CvzzR0X3xu-Fl3DvHcjltcIcTY0UDxi-pskIAJ20wGkE_rBHaG4FOes/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+060.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139144700486136066" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPHDx_K5oSnZuL4X_-lQTkUI5wZ1Ev_l_BUjxaYd3Rc2kKABB1aKctLZKT4FmCBX7hVfRlahT8JYAXuuuJA4dZgdRDHwrX7CAbGGvehlNsGsLNlxR2en0CmE-k1AulhbVajUc7g2jqLT4/s320/Rwanda+Pics+2+060.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="left">We had some VERY close encounters with baboons. These were a little spooky. They are fearless, agile and, we were told, incredibly strong for their size. They approached the car and came quite close when we had gotten out. </p><div align="left"><br /><br />We were also able to get very close to a male giraffe. We kept a reasonable distance and it was very willing to let us hang out with it for a while. We saw different kinds of antelopes, egrets and other water birds I couldn’t identify. There were some round birds that looked like guinea hens and many hippos in the water where we stopped in our quest to find elephants. </div><div align="left"><br />While it was a great adventure, the dust and dry heat made it a little uncomfortable. Because we were in the trailing car, the dust coated us. It was too hot to keep the windows closed and when they were open, we were driving in a red cloud. We spent about three and a half hours driving out to see elephants and they had already gone off into the bush. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139142514347782290" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixOu7VjdRED3S1VQU2mW8CpSi2suF7m0pzyEEKC9wZxbSKm5M-zvWxo4DAEsWyN9crYEMfOkythyphenhyphenNPFdTWQbG32dIOvRPcplk_AQKK4xYuxBLrskO3L_taDzMx3T5yG3c5foaIYgLkgSk/s200/6.jpg" border="0" /><br /></div><p align="left">This was a once in a lifetime trip, so I’m glad we went, although if/when I return to Rwanda, I might pass on this. The lodge in Akagera was very nice. There was no hot water in the room. When I asked Richard if he had hot water in his apartment he just laughed. “No one in Rwanda has hot water. The vast majority must carry their water in jugs unless they live in Kigali.” Another lesson in how much I take for granted.</p><div align="left"><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><div></div></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div></div></div></div></div>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-2908565236318473692007-12-01T14:52:00.000-05:002007-12-01T15:10:50.912-05:00The Women's Guild<div align="center"><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdV-EZtT4CSdYwR3tT-SvH_GtiC6Ig9sswTub2cYuSU9hTa7_gbXenM59RhF5NNBN7jh8IFR6uYUAqOwtJ1UAixyJ2CIVc9gBELO1nZUFAq1-MSMQQSvgSEVgze7Rg7sF7XmRsjHEeYi4/s1600-r/23.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139095557470335090" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 428px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 296px" height="308" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijFfxBTonaGnkHzGSjKQ61xP0DhWW0trNX2hEkIi5sqn3w7TBkVlRHhe-wKBus9TZrFKcD2yKTUcvMeqq8E6K-Un7HXviraSuZs1oBKE4iidepFavAnMoq8DjyzDKlHsJuGc22A_y6CWM/s400/23.jpg" width="658" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>As we were leaving the Women’s guild leaders this morning (Peace, Agness, Peggy, Blandine, Claudine) they were so very proud of their beadwork and seemed extremely appreciative of our help to get themstarted on what may become a profitable enterprise. This was all Nancy’s genius. They blessed us over and over. They insisted that we have a prayer circle before we left yesterday and they prayed for our safe passage, blessings for our families, for our future happiness, that we might return to Rwanda one day, etc. I did feel blessed – and I DO feel blessed.<br /><br />I was waiting for Joy to stop by the guest house to sign the permission form (for me to use the children’s photographs from Sonrise). I told the women in the Guild that I had to hurry back to the guest house, that Joy said that she would be there in ten minutes. “You don’t understand Rwanda time yet do you?” asked on of the women (Blandine?).<br /><br />“What do you mean?”<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBw9tGiLC6A6ExY0LF7bgXXb2kI1XX25boV-8NeOVaqDwOltJ6V8h1IRZYSRUw5x4SNMPIFRhzSfmCkA2tQGHPVrh1nYJgY-Amb85bTb9oFKP8UZHzhBJOuNWCQ_PcxeF9HVIFeYPbhvU/s1600-r/11.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139096059981508738" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHAFrIKB1_yq3CFekrRUY1An_CjDRD5tap6SW_1yhyphenhyphengqJgXAitOOIA-qqP8lzza0QOJJJ8MAEf3F2C0gpouYmBUZZ-l_9Co7gHU5cfaMOGJcylqCPIYbbXQ0gCIIm3tk8IMFnmwa-7WaE/s320/11.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“If Joy said 10 minutes it will be 30 minutes… at least. If she said 30 minutes it will be at least an hour. That’s the way it is in Rwanda.” </p>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-58781441453073369442007-12-01T14:28:00.002-05:002008-06-18T22:08:09.298-04:00Callixte<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdVX-g64Qq8Ham3wnyTJvWVos9ZQx6HQOv6W4Utx3zwnUZP8xsR_EE6YRaJrX23Y-Wu-KLNiWGIgKmg56Ou-SSQlCmI3Xbt1wkmOGAzsomTLDj3EO_6he1z8_U0CLtcnzY1Up0o9b6_o/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+056.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139088977580437570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBz1lg3zcW-oTdiMT3mGMgDNKtrouZwys50kGiI_eXHgtf7-E16h1ztSv3QlgEt8YxJRoWUZ8lrq9qeI1DKOHoN6qPZIp8RBnY_D6P2OC7T5Obxncfm5OssLPEYKPrzMs-uFgS5WgmRyg/s400/Rwanda+Pics+2+056.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>Callixte in the Genocide Memorial in Kigali</em></div><br /><br /><div align="left"><br /><br />Our driver, Callixte (cal eest) is a sweet, quiet man. He doesn’t speak English so communication is ultra simple and accompanied by simple, universal sign language. I think he would just as soon stay quiet and let us chatter on without trying to understand us. We bought him dinner and tipped him very well when he left us to go home today. Tall, dark skin, shaved head, long fingers, big smile. He brought no bags along on our trip to Musanze. Just the clothes he had on. This morning when I got up at the guest house his clothes were drying on the hood of the car. He must have washed them out in his room last night. He ate with us nearly every meal and we made sure that he had water and snacks on the road. He has never asked a t<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7V4tcn6j9SQWpT0yNi-IoXSfnfXnTll8j8wUY3_Nla6oy2N39XrA5LdWY091ajJHNpk6T0EwaFNN-Kxa4-98MNznXWuOxGqlSPby9EVeFAjuc3m8jCiYC41mkfJqhopCXP_tTRGCUiwA/s1600-r/DSCF0056047_098.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139090485113958482" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKkU5O_h1s8TL4cAsIhyphenhyphenL6vmoOG81vWr1NI8FjR7EwR-Koo8mZV7DncK2qLiUKOlkh31Nkevc4x4brTI7G8INvBeU_fV77K1Bzu8nV5BmTZpeSRflfHeQ_k9jCn63fy9yjwbGsz1wvqcQ/s320/DSCF0056047_098.JPG" border="0" /></a>hing of us. Not a bathroom break, not food, not water, nothing. He smiles and nods and never says a word. He spent three nights away from his home with us. Three nights away from his home and his babies. He’s been with us for three days and I don’t even know what his voice sounds like.<br /></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyE-kFCLq8SIsZeNg9sTuOaSjAk8-iljP9rDv_HoXLlSpf1RtRFDgGMjHkRNypkHLGaZigVRgktFH5xhlwR5JDypZPcEGpRYnkFufQrSB-wO0YY9Y4AsoUG6HXQTR3b-drAGhQbOEFKbg/s1600-r/FR00915%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139091481546371170" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTE2bQyjZXE3f0O0IDbr1eCLdoy8Cqa0aiEA7vx3d_FvJdTSPJyw4CwWm_8n7786-wzp9gNLK7Kh6wfMedc-_ITneXwQh8NVlAweu6Dkj4jn-GtzO_9f_HbEsKdhKgXeUgzH8rF1mgwi8/s320/FR00915%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><br /></p><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">But when we sit down to eat, all of us chattering away like monkeys, he bows his head and folds his hands and prays inside his head. Unashamed and unselfconscious. For minutes at a time. Then he looks up as if coming out of a trance. And smiles! We can learn so much from Rwanda.</div>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4403304322472261293.post-80060869571391751232007-12-01T14:11:00.002-05:002008-06-18T22:07:00.555-04:00Extremes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiZvxlWs-3ZhIRb70DEx6t5hCp9Y_80BoVJHBYidL_PU7Q27oaadZwFfUx7HE5-tuFFAToZWwcmA4d0C1SeilFGAYA3HCqy2zdmhGw-S-XpuMkMkBujNnYVrlNuaCFTIaSkqMYdhc4l7s/s1600-r/DSCF0377400_033.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139085850844246066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Nn0af96j0lQXXI9UGv_owBfnvPNAduL1WJ6HdSwsLG3IBcyOn32mP5yQU9hoQS86bwiuf18HrhRuTscL6KpiEUVTz6ugQWOLulmlOiX8reGtjIwtsJBpUq8PdsnbXMgcbst5GTVsy9c/s400/DSCF0377400_033.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><em>The view from the veranda at <a href="http://www.serenahotels.com/Rwanda/kigali/home.asp">The Serena Hotel</a></em><br /></div><div><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><br /><div>So we come back to this four star hotel. Swimming pool, cable TV, WiFi, etc. And it seems wrong somehow. I’m looking into the hills at unbelievably poor, simple, poor homes from my air-conditioned room. In a little while I’ll eat the best food in the country. They w<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjVOEv0EEW6m3H_JI0_CbfPon7p3PPTzOpjTOA5p4nw5lKn-W2V6EG4mFH4N3vffkrnloWasKQAxoWns7AoMs9AQo4xtSi13Ft9ePhF9JSrutJC2r71JrcKE7QF1UAJ6OKYTiYOYC4Wz4/s1600-r/Rwanda+Pics+2+004.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139084858706800674" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_cFFgxJ5inF-ZT9QWB6BVIcQAeYPBjntIUMne3_pstUBCDtFhKawoE1zo-8NTHlSi7I0HwCrWqGS8K-tVzoa7Noy98AyEdNTDv0xJyt56HqtOznCwk027wfLSuB2PlLpSvlLZ_zF5Ic/s320/Rwanda+Pics+2+004.jpg" border="0" /></a>ill eat what they have grown or what they could buy with what little money they could make from a tiny shop or selling something in the street. This is a country of such paradoxes, such extreme opposites. The few rich. The many poor. But they all look out at the same beautiful sunset. They all enjoy this lovely breeze. There is such a peaceful feeling here. It’s difficult to imagine that just thirteen years ago this country was torn apart. Rwanda</div></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><br /><br /><br /><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>Tim O'Keefehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17734310658859460311noreply@blogger.com0