My Man, John Pierre
By Andrew John Rikli, Ed 2
Indulge me, if you will, and let me tell you a little story about my man, John Pierre.
John Pierre, the school director's brother-in-law and a new teacher here, turned my world upside down a few nights ago. He told me about his life as a young refugee. In '94, he left with his siblings for DR Congo, crossing the border at Gisenyi to Goma. They were all together, continuing west, traveling by foot and staying at various camps until they got to Kisangani, a bigger town on the upper Congo River. Two years had now gone by, and it was 1996. He didn't say what happened then– maybe he doesn't even really know the whole story. One way or the other, most of his family got on a train to go to the airport to fly back to Rwanda. They ended up settling in Rutsiro district, south of Gisenyi. John Pierre and his little brother didn't get on that train. They got left behind somehow, and they followed the crowds further west, hoping that was the direction the rest of their family went.
|
At this time, John Pierre was about 10 years old. Between 1996 and 2000, they went west, mostly if not only on foot until they reached Congo-Brazzaville. That's really far. Along the way, though, because of a lack of food and medication, John Pierre's little brother died.
John Pierre had been living at an orphanage in Brazzaville, doing the best he could in the circumstances, learning new languages and studying as much as possible. In 2000, he saw them: his family was on a wall of pictures the Red Cross had put up at their station, people seeking missing family members. Imagine the feeling. How many times had he looked at a wall like that and been disappointed? Then, as he told me with his almost expressionless face, they gave him the choice to stay at the orphanage, or they'd fly him over to Rwanda to be with his family. He chose the latter.
He arrived in Rwanda, and things really started to go his way. At first he was told he would be studying at the level of P2 (primary 2), but he said no way. He told them he would refuse to study if they began him at such a low level. They put him in P5, a compromise which still set him apart in age, but only by a few years. The refugee camps and movement had cost him some valuable childhood years of study. He told me that by now he would have, at 25, already finished his master's de-gree if it weren't for the war. But he still excelled in school, and is now a student at NUR (National Univer-sity of Rwanda) in Butare, believed by many to be the best university in the country. After everything he'd been through, his perseverance was still obviously very strong.
He began teaching at our school, E.S. Rugabano, this year. While he completes his Bachelor's degree in agriculture, he'll teach here, and he hopes to continue to teach here in the years after he's finished getting his bachelor's.
John Pierre is a tall, intelligent, and gentle human being. He contributes to conversation sparingly. His smile is rare, but quite genuine and calming. He eats a lot, usually until all the food on the table is gone. Imag-ine the number of days of hunger and plates full of terrible food he had to endure as a child. He enjoys basically any film on our laptops, watching doe-eyed at the edge of his seat even if he can't really understand all the words. He spends hours in our living room working on his lesson plans for biology and chemistry. He feels comfortable with his knowledge of chemistry, but biology comes with some
difficulty, not unlike myself. I get the feeling he's a good teacher. He uses as much English as he can in the classroom because he knows it will help the students learn the language. And when students see him in the village or on campus, they seem to have a casual, trusting relationship.
I left campus with my friend Janvi to go get a beer yesterday, and John Pierre was washing his clothes. He said, "Mugiye gutembera?" or "Are you going to wander?" (Code for getting a beer around my parts). Knowing I only had enough money in my pocket to buy beers for Janvi and myself, I didn't invite him to come along, unfortunately. After Janvi and I demolished my 5k RWF bill with a little help from Claver, the best bro-chette cook in Rugabano sector, Janvi and I were going to take off just after I went to greet Principe, my friend and the best barkeep in Rugabano sector.
An acquaintance of mine bought me one, so I went back outside to tell Janvi I'd catch up with him. I saw John Pierre, new to Rugabano and evidently searching for something in our many nooks and crannies of local vendors. After greeting and seeing his relaxed look when he recognized my face, I wondered if he wanted to come into Kwa Principe and split the Primus that was just bought for me. One better, he said he could buy one, just one, for himself to drink alongside me.
Kwa Principe was full of the usual suspects: market day men blowing the cash they just earned selling their cows, countryfolk escaping their fields for a lukewarm one, transplants from Kigali who run the local government. I was happy
to introduce my new friend to all the guys who know my name but whose names I tend to forget (finally, in my life, I'm popular). Not knowing anything of one another's past and little about their current lives, they were happy to have a new teacher here who is also a student at NUR. People rarely get past small talk like that.
In our conversations about work, life, and whatever else, it made me happy to know he felt comfortable enough to continue telling the story of his refugee life, even if it did choke me up a little bit when my brain generated the images of little him clutching his even littler brother's hand with all the carnage and devastation around them. DR Congo post-genocide – wow.
We noticed it was getting dark, so we finished up, said goodbyes, and were off. Upon leaving the bar, he pointed to a vendor's stall where he needed to check something out. After a few minutes, he came back out and I asked him if he found what he was looking for. Yes, he did. He was told his girlfriend's sister worked in Rugabano, and he got a chance to greet her. "Which girl-friend?" I joked, implying there were probably a slew of 'em. With a knowing smile, he said he only had one. Atta boy, I thought.
Walking down our little Wild West-esque dirt road, I greeted and introduced him to some of the higher caliber folks in the village. "You're famous," he said, and I explained that it's a blessing and a curse sometimes. Really all I wanted was for him to feel at home here, a feeling that's been sporadic at best for too much of his life. We got back home and he enjoyed the Rihanna videos on my laptop.
In the memoir The Zanzibar Chest, a journalist in the middle of Mogadishu, Somalia, during the Blackhawk Down era drops a golden nugget of a quote. He says, "In the face of hardship, you see the supremely good and the utterly evil side by side."
Having a roof over my head, clothes to wear, and food on the table isn't my definition of hardship, of course. But so much hardship gets experienced, and after embedding itself, it gets carried around in the hearts and minds of the people all around us. You don't realize it's there until it just shows up and you've gotta look to the side and take a calming breath.
When John Pierre moved in with us, my spoiled American self was wondering why he didn't try to find his own room in another house rather than shack up with the director in the next room. Or he could at least make a contribution to the
food fund. Now, every time I see him, I get a lump in my throat because of how glad I am to have him around. Just now he came in and asked for a pencil. Of course, man. Keep the damn thing, please. I'm just glad you're here.
John Pierre went through some serious hardship, and I think he would agree with what the journal-ist had to say about hardship in general. He could certainly identify with it. When he, 10-years old and keeping his little brother tight to his side, lost the rest of his family in Kisangani and began the 4-year long journey west to Brazzaville that would eventually bring him home to his family and cost his little brother his life, he knew he had to cling to everything and everyone supremely good he could see. It undoubtedly saved his life, though it tragically wasn't enough to save the life of his younger and
more delicate kid brother.
People ask me (all of us) why I (we) joined the Peace Corps, and my answer has been all along the range of overly simplified to too complicated to understand, with all its ins and outs. I'm confident, though, in one cause: my desire to know more about different people from different places. Hearing people's stories brings out all the emotions available to the human mind, and not all those are nice, of course. But there's always something to gain from them, the stories and the emotions themselves.
John Pierre probably has no idea about the effect he will have and has already had on me. Knowing myself, I'll probably never have the right words or courage to tell him how inspiring he is to me as a person. John Pierre might not ever know how much I admire him. It's hard to be clear and straight-forward about things like that, so cut me a little slack.
But this is it. This is exactly what I wanted when I filled in my application. I didn't know it then, but I do now. In America, I live such a privileged, comfortable life, completely unaware of all the John Pierres out there, unaware of the chance conversation with a person who could blow my mind and change my outlook on life. Here, in the Peace Corps, in Africa, and in Rwanda, it's different. This is my chance to take it all in.
John Pierre had been living at an orphanage in Brazzaville, doing the best he could in the circumstances, learning new languages and studying as much as possible. In 2000, he saw them: his family was on a wall of pictures the Red Cross had put up at their station, people seeking missing family members. Imagine the feeling. How many times had he looked at a wall like that and been disappointed? Then, as he told me with his almost expressionless face, they gave him the choice to stay at the orphanage, or they'd fly him over to Rwanda to be with his family. He chose the latter.
He arrived in Rwanda, and things really started to go his way. At first he was told he would be studying at the level of P2 (primary 2), but he said no way. He told them he would refuse to study if they began him at such a low level. They put him in P5, a compromise which still set him apart in age, but only by a few years. The refugee camps and movement had cost him some valuable childhood years of study. He told me that by now he would have, at 25, already finished his master's de-gree if it weren't for the war. But he still excelled in school, and is now a student at NUR (National Univer-sity of Rwanda) in Butare, believed by many to be the best university in the country. After everything he'd been through, his perseverance was still obviously very strong.
He began teaching at our school, E.S. Rugabano, this year. While he completes his Bachelor's degree in agriculture, he'll teach here, and he hopes to continue to teach here in the years after he's finished getting his bachelor's.
John Pierre is a tall, intelligent, and gentle human being. He contributes to conversation sparingly. His smile is rare, but quite genuine and calming. He eats a lot, usually until all the food on the table is gone. Imag-ine the number of days of hunger and plates full of terrible food he had to endure as a child. He enjoys basically any film on our laptops, watching doe-eyed at the edge of his seat even if he can't really understand all the words. He spends hours in our living room working on his lesson plans for biology and chemistry. He feels comfortable with his knowledge of chemistry, but biology comes with some
difficulty, not unlike myself. I get the feeling he's a good teacher. He uses as much English as he can in the classroom because he knows it will help the students learn the language. And when students see him in the village or on campus, they seem to have a casual, trusting relationship.
I left campus with my friend Janvi to go get a beer yesterday, and John Pierre was washing his clothes. He said, "Mugiye gutembera?" or "Are you going to wander?" (Code for getting a beer around my parts). Knowing I only had enough money in my pocket to buy beers for Janvi and myself, I didn't invite him to come along, unfortunately. After Janvi and I demolished my 5k RWF bill with a little help from Claver, the best bro-chette cook in Rugabano sector, Janvi and I were going to take off just after I went to greet Principe, my friend and the best barkeep in Rugabano sector.
An acquaintance of mine bought me one, so I went back outside to tell Janvi I'd catch up with him. I saw John Pierre, new to Rugabano and evidently searching for something in our many nooks and crannies of local vendors. After greeting and seeing his relaxed look when he recognized my face, I wondered if he wanted to come into Kwa Principe and split the Primus that was just bought for me. One better, he said he could buy one, just one, for himself to drink alongside me.
Kwa Principe was full of the usual suspects: market day men blowing the cash they just earned selling their cows, countryfolk escaping their fields for a lukewarm one, transplants from Kigali who run the local government. I was happy
to introduce my new friend to all the guys who know my name but whose names I tend to forget (finally, in my life, I'm popular). Not knowing anything of one another's past and little about their current lives, they were happy to have a new teacher here who is also a student at NUR. People rarely get past small talk like that.
In our conversations about work, life, and whatever else, it made me happy to know he felt comfortable enough to continue telling the story of his refugee life, even if it did choke me up a little bit when my brain generated the images of little him clutching his even littler brother's hand with all the carnage and devastation around them. DR Congo post-genocide – wow.
We noticed it was getting dark, so we finished up, said goodbyes, and were off. Upon leaving the bar, he pointed to a vendor's stall where he needed to check something out. After a few minutes, he came back out and I asked him if he found what he was looking for. Yes, he did. He was told his girlfriend's sister worked in Rugabano, and he got a chance to greet her. "Which girl-friend?" I joked, implying there were probably a slew of 'em. With a knowing smile, he said he only had one. Atta boy, I thought.
Walking down our little Wild West-esque dirt road, I greeted and introduced him to some of the higher caliber folks in the village. "You're famous," he said, and I explained that it's a blessing and a curse sometimes. Really all I wanted was for him to feel at home here, a feeling that's been sporadic at best for too much of his life. We got back home and he enjoyed the Rihanna videos on my laptop.
In the memoir The Zanzibar Chest, a journalist in the middle of Mogadishu, Somalia, during the Blackhawk Down era drops a golden nugget of a quote. He says, "In the face of hardship, you see the supremely good and the utterly evil side by side."
Having a roof over my head, clothes to wear, and food on the table isn't my definition of hardship, of course. But so much hardship gets experienced, and after embedding itself, it gets carried around in the hearts and minds of the people all around us. You don't realize it's there until it just shows up and you've gotta look to the side and take a calming breath.
When John Pierre moved in with us, my spoiled American self was wondering why he didn't try to find his own room in another house rather than shack up with the director in the next room. Or he could at least make a contribution to the
food fund. Now, every time I see him, I get a lump in my throat because of how glad I am to have him around. Just now he came in and asked for a pencil. Of course, man. Keep the damn thing, please. I'm just glad you're here.
John Pierre went through some serious hardship, and I think he would agree with what the journal-ist had to say about hardship in general. He could certainly identify with it. When he, 10-years old and keeping his little brother tight to his side, lost the rest of his family in Kisangani and began the 4-year long journey west to Brazzaville that would eventually bring him home to his family and cost his little brother his life, he knew he had to cling to everything and everyone supremely good he could see. It undoubtedly saved his life, though it tragically wasn't enough to save the life of his younger and
more delicate kid brother.
People ask me (all of us) why I (we) joined the Peace Corps, and my answer has been all along the range of overly simplified to too complicated to understand, with all its ins and outs. I'm confident, though, in one cause: my desire to know more about different people from different places. Hearing people's stories brings out all the emotions available to the human mind, and not all those are nice, of course. But there's always something to gain from them, the stories and the emotions themselves.
John Pierre probably has no idea about the effect he will have and has already had on me. Knowing myself, I'll probably never have the right words or courage to tell him how inspiring he is to me as a person. John Pierre might not ever know how much I admire him. It's hard to be clear and straight-forward about things like that, so cut me a little slack.
But this is it. This is exactly what I wanted when I filled in my application. I didn't know it then, but I do now. In America, I live such a privileged, comfortable life, completely unaware of all the John Pierres out there, unaware of the chance conversation with a person who could blow my mind and change my outlook on life. Here, in the Peace Corps, in Africa, and in Rwanda, it's different. This is my chance to take it all in.