"We are no longer able to offer our programs onsite..."

As you all know (thanks to my inability to say a proper, straightforward goodbye *please see blog #1 for reference), I really suck at farewells. While I’ve anticipated writing my final blog since the day I began this little project––I never predicted drafting it so soon. Like I said in the last post, I was informed via presidential email on March 15 that my SIT program was being suspended and my classmates and I would complete the semester via online-learning. In most study abroad situations, I would be understanding––I mean it's a global pandemic, there's really not much to be done on the international excursion front. BUT, the final month of my program in specific was supposed to be dedicated to independent field research which I had planned on focusing around female perpetrators during the genocide. It's a little difficult to conduct research on Rwandan women who don't speak English from a laptop nearly 7,000 miles away in my Maine home. Am I being a little pessimistic? Perhaps, but in my opinion, rightfully so.

My final 72 hours in Kigali were chaotic. The night I arrived home from Gisenyi was spent filling in both my host parents and my real parents on my impending departure. I'm not sure who was sadder to hear the tough news: Daddy and Rolande to see me leave or Richard and Susan to see me come home.

I ate my last home-dinner that night alongside my host mom without even realizing. It wasn't anything special: rice and beans on the couch, as per usual for a Monday night, but that almost made it more meaningful. I'd eaten so many meals in that living room and although every dish hadn't been my favorite, the consistency in nourishment had become a comforting part of my routine. After dinner, I excused myself and headed to my room to investigate the flight-booking situation. One-way return trips from Kigali to Boston were both alarmingly high in price and scarce in frequency. Certain dates didn't even have any flights at all which was startling given that Kigali is a densely-populated capital city and all. I consulted my mom over the phone and after 25 minutes, we settled on a Saturday journey home, leaving at around 4:30 p.m. While most of my classmates were trying to get home A.S.A.P. (everyone was worried that U.S. borders would be closed completely within two days) my mom thought it best to stick around as long as I could to avoid the hectic airports back in the states.

The very next day people starting saying their goodbyes. Class was obviously no longer held at SIT but still we congregated there to reminisce on our study abroad adventures and share memories we'd made over the last 47 days. After a few somber adieu-filled hours, I decided to head home. When I got off at the bus station it hit me that I'd hardly even gotten anything to bring home to my family––I always thought it would be something I'd do in May. I still had some leftover kitenge fabric in my backpack so I figured I'd pop into the market and snag a few souvenirs while getting something small made by Jackie, the seamstress who had made my clothes before.

Kimironko Market was barren. I couldn't tell if it was due to the pandemic or simply that people were closing up shop, but everything was gone. The fabrics that used to pile high up to the ceilings were missing, wooden pallets once covered in sacks of beans and rice were now visible, and vendors who formerly did anything to get my attention now seemed disinterested in my presence entirely. Somehow, I managed to find Jackie in the desolate crowd and she agreed to make a few pieces from the scraps of fabric that I had left (like I said before, it's serendipitous to find the same face in Kimironko Market twice). While she worked, I scrounged for some earrings and mini woven-baskets from a seller in the next stall over. I didn't even haggle over the prices––this could be the last bit of money these people see for a while, I thought to myself.

When I got home, my parents were still at work. I logged onto my laptop to look into any new travel bans and check the status of my flight leaving in just a couple days. My flight was scheduled to have both a layover in Doha, Qatar and Philly before reaching Boston. To my horror, the leg of my journey from Doha to Philly had been cancelled unbeknownst to me. I didn't even get an email from the airline. Unable to get through to Expedia over the phone (my $7 burner with a Rwandan SIM card had run out of minutes) I frantically Facetimed my mom. She was a true knight in shining armor. Somehow, my mom managed to get ahold of an Expedia customer service representative who by the grace of God landed me a last-minute seat on a different flight going from Kigali to Doha and Doha to Boston, on Friday.

My host parents were devastated to find out my earlier-than-expected departure, especially since they were worried sick about my returning to a virus-ridden country, but understood the impossible circumstances.

The last couple days are hazy to me now. At first, I felt motivated to do everything I hadn't been able to: a safari, ziplining, visiting a dairy bar, eating at the only 5-star Michelin-rated restaurant in town, etc. But after realizing that most of the items left on my bucket list were impractical due to new social-distancing rules––it also became clear that completing them wouldn't fill the semester-abroad-sized void I felt inside.

One aspect of my final hours in Rwanda that eased the pain of leaving was sleeping, or I guess the absence of that function. A bed bug outbreak in my home that had temporarily been dealt with a few weeks prior was now a problem again in my room. Feeling unable to physically sleep on my bed, I opted to lie on my cement floor. If the cockroach infestation wasn't enough to keep me alert all night, the cold due to a lack of blankets and well... cement flooring, was. I spent my last two nights that way: cold, sad, sleep-deprived, and absolutely terrified of bugs. Perhaps the way I dealt with that situation says a little more about me than my whole blog has. On the bright side, I could probably tell you the difference between a bed bug and baby cockroach with my eyes closed––street-smarts silver lining? Absolutely.

I brought my whole host family out for dinner on my final night. Initially they didn't seem too up for the idea. Having two rambunctious young kids probably made them scoff at the thought of calmly sitting down in a public establishment for several hours to eat a meal. Nevertheless, they picked out a little joint less than half a mile up the road from our house for a farewell dinner. Even Lillian, one of our house helpers came along (we got a takeout meal to bring home for Denise).

When we sat down at our table, my host parents spent about twenty minutes agonizing over the menu in an attempt to come up with the most cost-effective order. They were trying to get the most food whilst saving as much of my money as they could. Despite my assurances that everyone should order whatever they wanted, we settled on sharing a whole roasted chicken and a plate French fries each. After we were full and covered in chicken grease and ketchup, my host parents said a few words to thank me for staying with them.

"You are such a good person, so polite, we love you so much and we feel blessed to have you," said Daddy. He apologetically divulged a little about their financial strain that I'd already pieced together, but I cut him short to assure that they had given me more than money could buy in the short period of time we lived together.

Even my host mom who usually didn't say much in regard to emotional speeches chimed in: "Some SIT students don't always have the best character, but I really like yours."

I told them each that I loved them very much and felt as though I'd gained a new family––one that I promised to revisit from time to time both virtually and in-person. After paying, we took a zillion family photos and headed home. Thanks to zero sleep for two nights straight, I’d already had time to pack up most of my belongings into suitcases. I took my last water-basin shower, though admittedly I wasn't too broken up about it, and practically spent the night glued to my phone and computer screen.

The next day, my host parents and I watched a movie together before I said goodbye and headed to the airport via Move (basically the Rwandan version of Uber) with Daddy. There were about four other SIT students that were leaving around the same time. We all met in the security line at Kigali Intl. where host children were separating dramatically from their host parents. I hugged Daddy one last time and thanked him for everything. I probably didn't appear upset enough to be departing. It's not that I wasn't sad about the ordeal, it just felt like one of those situations that sucks for everyone. I guess I just didn't feel alone in the inconvenience of sacrificing something I had been looking forward too for a while and in a weird way, that helped a little.

Surprisingly enough, both of my flights left on-time. The planes were hardly half-full meaning I had entire rows to myself to sprawl out for during the long trek (which after 48 hours of insomnia felt pretty incredible). Even customs in Boston was eerily facile. Since the pandemic had sealed every American in their homes, no one was really traveling.

My parents picked me up in the same place they'd dropped me off, at the Portsmouth Bus Station. The only difference between drop-off and pickup were the greetings I received. It wasn't hugs and kisses that I was met with, but six-foot distancing and plastic bags to encase my luggage (I warned my parents about the bed bugs and they intended to take every precaution). Everything felt very dream-like and my parents' sympathetic tone of conversation made it seem like they were walking on eggshells around me. New England had changed so much, it was as if I were stepping into a whole new study abroad host-country. In retrospect, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd gone back in time, like I was coming home from college for an October-weekend.

"It's a different world here now, honey," my dad said as he flashed a look at me through the rearview mirror.

Olivia, my older sister was home when I arrived. She'd had to cut short a lifelong-dream-trip backpacking through Asia which made me feel a little less negative about being back. We commiserated about the virus and what it had stolen from us.

I'm just over halfway done with my self-quarantining here at home, which has been facilitated with lots of movie-watching, tea parties, and baking. Rwanda feels so distant now, I keep looking back at my photos to double-check that it actually happened. It's funny, I was so prepared for the monotonous "how was study abroad?" "was it life-changing?" "what did you learn?" questions. Now that I'm not being asked them, it feels like I'm in this strange limbo place of half-accomplishment.

The news was on incessantly for the first few days of isolation. My mom monitored the death-toll and pandemic map religiously and my dad seemed to constantly be on conference calls regarding someone new getting laid off at work. Things were (and are) tense and only getting tenser. The sweet part of my bittersweet return was supposed to be seeing friends and doing the things I'd missed out on in Rwanda: going out to my favorite restaurants, concerts, Maine springtime, etc. But it quickly became clear that all of these things were no longer a part of my new pandemic-reality.

What's getting me by is realizing that I'm not alone in feeling like life's a little dull lately. Paraphrasing the wisdom of my mother who sums it up best in my opinion: everyone has lost something in the wake of this global atrocity. I may have lost half of my study abroad, but my neighbors are losing their jobs, high schoolers are losing their graduations, and people are losing their lives. So for now, I am grateful for what Rwanda gave me, despite the unexpected change of events.