There are few things more pervasive in Rwanda than religion, and Evan and I are often questioned about our religious affiliations (not to mention our Sunday morning plans…”ummm, well, we’re busy!”). I appreciate the fact many Rwandese are deeply committed to their (usually) Christian faith, but I frankly have little personal interest in their beliefs or their churches. I’m not religious and feel that one’s religious beliefs are personal. Moreover, Rwandese church services are a bit like Homer’s Odyssey: the journey is always long, arduous, filled with pitfalls, and ends at some undisclosed, undecided time in the distant future.
However, religious services are often comingled with more clearly social events that we occasionally feel obligated to attend. Two weekends ago was a perfect example of how smoothly such events can go. Late in the week, a lovely administrative employee at school, Valentine, whose friendly smile more than makes up for her truncated English vocabulary (French, no problem) invited us to a concert and service in town.
The event was a fundraiser for a student choir and dance troupe made entirely of Nyagatare Secondary School students. Although we didn’t know it beforehand, on arrival the church appeared to be one of those hyper-emotional, hand-waving, jump up and down shouting hallelujah affairs. These scenarios quickly make me uneasy. I don’t enjoy being roped into such religious matters without fair warning, but of course that’s practically impossible in Rwanda.
Evan and I had not eaten before we walked to town at 2:30pm, so grumbling stomachs and low blood sugar made us cranky and stressed. By the time we arrived, most of the service and concert were thankfully over (we timed it well, these things can last six hours or more if you aren’t careful). The church was hidden down a narrow little rubble-strewn alley off the main strip in Nyagatare, sunk down behind a noisy video rental business. The church itself was roughly semi-circular with a lofty cheap tin roof and spindly metal support columns. At the front a large stage stretched from left to right, where the keyboardist cranked out generic Rwandan tunes. Behind the stage was an odd, billowy, folded pink fabric background that reminded me of deflated Bazooka chewing gum post-bubble burst. Simple folding chairs were arrayed across the entire expanse of cold concrete flooring. At the rear, large double doors were opened to a nice little courtyard area.
Students, we could see, made up most the remaining congregation. Our arrival meant they had to perform one last song and dance, which they dutifully (albeit perhaps a bit begrudgingly) did. I felt embarrassed since many of the students appeared dog tired. I couldn’t have predicted how happy it would make me though to see my students singing and dancing in unison. Many of my students, for whatever reason (I suspect it’s my poor teaching skills and lackluster attempts at humor), always have scowls or bored expressions etched on their faces in class. I wonder if they are truly unhappy and dislike school. I wonder if there are some larger issues that I miss. But then along comes this concert and each and every student was grinning ear to ear with genuine joy as they rhythmically stomped and swayed and shook their hips together. And they were genuinely pleased we turned up to watch and contribute to their fundraiser (so they can record some videos). Revisiting their beaming faces and limber bodies twisting and hopping as one is more than enough to make my day. Any day. Every day.
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