Read Online The Blue Sweater: Bridging the Gap Between Rich and Poor in an Interconnected World by Jacqueline Novogratz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jacqueline Novogratz
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dressed as if they were dining at an upscale restaurant. The hostess served French food and wine while the dinner guests, mostly Europeans, debated global politics and complained about Ronald Reagan, America, and everything Rwandan.
Intrigued by the women in evening attire, I asked the colleague who'd invited me to the party who they were.
"Most are married to aid workers or UN civil servants," she told me. "Even those who want to work often can't get visas. Though some do significant work as volunteers, other women languish at the country club, wishing they were anywhere but here."
She added mischievously, "And their boredom does wonders for the state of extramarital affairs."
A Belgian man with thick blond hair, deep blue eyes, and a rugged appearance that betrayed a hard-earned weariness took it upon himself to give me a primer on the country. "In Rwanda," he said, "there is a great sense of order and discipline. This country is called the pearl of Africa for a reason. She is the land of a thousand hills-so beautiful and green, and you can get a lot done here, too. The people, they follow rules. You know, the masses were yoked thrice-by the feudals, the colonialists, and the Catholics. It is a lot, but you can see development projects work better here than anywhere else on the continent. It is almost too easy, in fact. But be careful, because with all of this discipline and progress comes a lot of deception."
I would reflect on those words for decades to come.
As the evening wore on, the wine flowed along with stories of Rwandan mishaps having mostly to do with hired maids and cooks. I heard the story of a housekeeper who was asked to whitewash the rims of a car's tires and ended up whitewashing the entire Mercedes, and one about the gardener who found a snake outside and put it in the expatriate's hamper for safekeeping. I found the stories about "these people" demeaning and tiring and later fell asleep thinking about the paradoxes of a physically spectacular country having a soul punctured by the competing forces of racism, colonialism, development, and geographic isolation.
The landlocked country seemed to cut people off from new ideas, so that conversations centered on the mundane, despite some of the extraordinary work people were doing. I pondered the strangeness of expatriate life, realizing that none of us at the party understood much at all about Rwanda or Rwandans, though we were the ones called "experts" I knew that this was just a single snapshot from a single night, but the bored facades of too many of the people at the dinner depressed me.
I awoke early the next morning thinking about what had bothered me most about the evening. Some of the expatriates had put low-income Rwandans in another category altogether-a box marked "other" for people who couldn't save themselves for trying. Yet we were supposed to be here to create real opportunities that would only work if we believed in the people we were serving. I decided to avoid the cynics and the "careerists" and promised myself that I wouldn't remain an expatriate for too long without rerooting myself in my own country. A creeping cynicism seemed inevitable in anyone who is always a visitor rather than someone with no choice but to live with the consequences of what he or she does. I also began to understand why I was so attracted to the notion of giving women access to loans, besides believing in it as an issue of justice. By lending women money instead of giving handouts, we would signal our high expectations for them and give them the chance to do something for their own lives rather than waiting for the "experts" to give them things they might or might not need.
I was changing. Though I'd been uncomfortable about focusing on women when I was first given the opportunity to come to Africa, I'd begun to see that if you support a woman, you support a family. I'd also learned that I definitely didn't like the word "expert" when it came to development.
Intrigued by the women in evening attire, I asked the colleague who'd invited me to the party who they were.
"Most are married to aid workers or UN civil servants," she told me. "Even those who want to work often can't get visas. Though some do significant work as volunteers, other women languish at the country club, wishing they were anywhere but here."
She added mischievously, "And their boredom does wonders for the state of extramarital affairs."
A Belgian man with thick blond hair, deep blue eyes, and a rugged appearance that betrayed a hard-earned weariness took it upon himself to give me a primer on the country. "In Rwanda," he said, "there is a great sense of order and discipline. This country is called the pearl of Africa for a reason. She is the land of a thousand hills-so beautiful and green, and you can get a lot done here, too. The people, they follow rules. You know, the masses were yoked thrice-by the feudals, the colonialists, and the Catholics. It is a lot, but you can see development projects work better here than anywhere else on the continent. It is almost too easy, in fact. But be careful, because with all of this discipline and progress comes a lot of deception."
I would reflect on those words for decades to come.
As the evening wore on, the wine flowed along with stories of Rwandan mishaps having mostly to do with hired maids and cooks. I heard the story of a housekeeper who was asked to whitewash the rims of a car's tires and ended up whitewashing the entire Mercedes, and one about the gardener who found a snake outside and put it in the expatriate's hamper for safekeeping. I found the stories about "these people" demeaning and tiring and later fell asleep thinking about the paradoxes of a physically spectacular country having a soul punctured by the competing forces of racism, colonialism, development, and geographic isolation.
The landlocked country seemed to cut people off from new ideas, so that conversations centered on the mundane, despite some of the extraordinary work people were doing. I pondered the strangeness of expatriate life, realizing that none of us at the party understood much at all about Rwanda or Rwandans, though we were the ones called "experts" I knew that this was just a single snapshot from a single night, but the bored facades of too many of the people at the dinner depressed me.
I awoke early the next morning thinking about what had bothered me most about the evening. Some of the expatriates had put low-income Rwandans in another category altogether-a box marked "other" for people who couldn't save themselves for trying. Yet we were supposed to be here to create real opportunities that would only work if we believed in the people we were serving. I decided to avoid the cynics and the "careerists" and promised myself that I wouldn't remain an expatriate for too long without rerooting myself in my own country. A creeping cynicism seemed inevitable in anyone who is always a visitor rather than someone with no choice but to live with the consequences of what he or she does. I also began to understand why I was so attracted to the notion of giving women access to loans, besides believing in it as an issue of justice. By lending women money instead of giving handouts, we would signal our high expectations for them and give them the chance to do something for their own lives rather than waiting for the "experts" to give them things they might or might not need.
I was changing. Though I'd been uncomfortable about focusing on women when I was first given the opportunity to come to Africa, I'd begun to see that if you support a woman, you support a family. I'd also learned that I definitely didn't like the word "expert" when it came to development.
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