The Dichotomy

​Surrounded by dozens of girls and boys, long skinny arms tightly gripping my waist as if to never let go. Sometimes there was quarrel, as these arms fight to find there place around me. If you could get on one side and cling to my back or hold my hand, you were in the supreme spot, one others envied, and when they saw their opportunity, they scooped in to get the best spot around "their white person."

"Mizungu! Mizungu!" They would yell out in their native language, Kenyarwanda, "White Person! White Person!" was translated to me in English when I asked what was this word I kept hearing.

David, the friend we were staying with throughout our days in Rwanda, started a school in a village outside of Kigali, Busanza. Up until a year ago, when his school, Kingdom Gate got started, there was nowhere for these children to attend besides a government school which crammed nearly 80 kids in a tiny classroom and charged too much for these families living in deep poverty to afford. So, many of these children at Kingdom Gate did not attend a school before David came along.

The school currently has 42 students attending, from ages 3-7, or in other words, Kindergarten to P1. David took us to meet the children the second day we were in Rwanda when my two travel buddies, Susan and Beth, as well as myself received a greeting like we have never experienced.

The flock of children came running behind us as they see three white women driving through the dirt paths of their village on the backs of motorbikes. Men and women, standing outside their homes, staring at the site we are. We arrive at the gates of the school and some children stand in awe, while some immediately run up to touch us.

The school children arrive one by one and gather in clusters around their choice of white person. They have huge, bright smiles and their hugs, as small as they might be, feel like the biggest hug you have ever received.

This amount of affection from such small and loving beings was overwhelming, but such a battle wrestled through my mind as the children would start fighting over their chance to touch and hold you.

I didn't want to be treated any different because of the color of my skin. I went to Africa because I want to know and love people regardless of the differences. But I not only felt a different treatment, but perhaps the feeling of being idolized. 

As a traveler, my biggest priority is to not act or come across as an outsider looking in. I believe when entering another culture, it is important to immerse yourself in their values, customs and behaviors. So the constant eyes and seemingly gravitational pull towards the western white person in Africa was a very uncomfortable challenge facing me for the first time.

They would run their hands across my necklace, their fingers grazing across my watch, exploring all the buttons, they rubbed my skin and pointed at veins in my hands and arms.

I felt very foreign as they observed all my details.

I was told many of these children had not seen a white person before, and many of their understandings associated westerners to wealth and opportunity.

And there I found myself, stuck in a dichotomy, while I loved to receive and give affection to these children, I questioned their motives, was I just a symbol of value with my western connotation and white skin?

I ruminated through this dilemma for a while, until finally realizing it didn't serve me or anyone else being stuck in this uncomfortability.

At the end of the day, these were children all living under the same sky, most of them are in stages of deep poverty with harsh backgrounds and family scenarios, they clung to me because somewhere in them, was a need for affection and maybe, yes, they needed to cling to a symbol of hope that reminded them that everything was going to be alright.

I didn't want to be that symbol, I didn't feel any better or any different. But on the other hand, who am I to question or judge love in any form?