It was an ordinary Sunday in the middle of my time in Rwanda, but I will always remember it as one of the most difficult days of my year. Sitting in church, listening to my students make beautiful music in Kinyarwanda, no one could see that I was choking on the melodies. I was being strangled by words stuck my throat-words I wanted so desperately to know, to comprehend, to sing.
So much of my time this year has been spent trying to sing the song of another – trying to learn the words and rhythms and movements that characterize life in Rwanda, trying to be a part of it, trying to be like them.
My students have shown me so much grace as I have attempted to be “a part” at RLS this year. They have offered so many forgiving ears as I stumbled through Kinyarwanda conversations, so many patient mouths willing to explain answers to my thousands of questions, so many loving hands to flip to the right Bible passage for me in church, to write the Kinyarwanda words to songs I couldn’t remember, to lead me through the labyrinth of life in Rwamagana.
But with 10 days left here, I have been spending a lot of time reflecting on what being a part of this community and of a global community really means. Have I learned to sing their song? What about my song, the song of my home and culture, my people? Is there some great global chorus that we’re all supposed to abandon our own songs to join?
After being unable to sing (due to my own poor Kinyarwanda) for a few months, I was teaching a fine arts class and my students asked me to play something for them. I had about 3 seconds to think of a song I knew the guitar chords to that I thought they might also know, and I sang the first thing that popped into my head – “Halo” by Beyonce.
They loved it.
Last weekend, as a way to say goodbye to the students and staff at RLS, I asked a student who I’ve gotten close to if she would perform in the school talent show with me. I told her I didn’t want to sing in English or in Kinyarwanda, I wanted to sing both. I made a mash-up (classic Sav) of that first song I sang for my students “Halo”, and a Kinyarwanda song called “Malaika” (Angel). Rita agreed to sing “my” English song, to help me learn “her” Kinyarwanda song, and to sing them together.
Singing this song with Rita, it was hard to choke back tears. I finally sang for my students in Kinyarwanda, and they were so excited! It helped me to understand something essential about my time here and that is this: That there is a beauty in loving someone enough to learn parts of their song, but I know now that still doesn’t make their song yours. And that’s okay.
I think I’ve learned that we, we Rwandans, we Americans, we Christians, we Muslims, we students, we YAGM, we’re not always singing the same songs, and as much of a gift as it is to sing someone’s song with them for awhile, being in community doesn’t mean changing your whole song to their whole song. The point isn’t that the songs are the same. The point is the songs go together.
So with 10 days left, my song is one of gratitude. I'm thankful for all the people who have allowed me to join in their songs this year (even when I pronounce all the lyrics wrong). I'm thankful for those who have asked me to sing my own song, for those who have been willing to learn parts of that song. I'm thankful for every person who has helped weave the song of Rwanda and the song of this American muzungu into one beautiful, weird mash-up.
Going home, as much Kinyarwanda as I forget, that's the song I'll know by heart.
