All That Is Bitter and Sweet_ A Memoir - Ashley Judd [183]
Although we were there to teach the ABCs of malaria prevention and treatment, the minister never missed an opportunity to reinforce other key health messages. At this clinic and everywhere we went, the indefatigable minister also discussed family planning and water purification. He even inspected the outdoor toilets and gave spontaneous talks to observers about sanitation and hygiene.
The sad fact is that 60 percent of rural and 40 percent of urban Rwandans do not have access to safe water. Even the 2.5 percent with piped water cannot know if that water is safe. Unsafe water makes millions sick and kills 2.2 million worldwide every year. The UN clearly states that disinfection of water at the point of use is consistently the most cost-effective way to save lives. To that end, PSI markets our miracle powder, Sur’Eau, in Rwanda to disinfect and purify polluted water. It comes in a small plastic bottle that provides safe water for a family of six for one month for a total cost of 55 cents!
After an exhausting day of running around the countryside, our convoy returned to the pasture where the helicopter was waiting. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people had gathered and were lining the field in the most orderly fashion. They were tiered, littlest sitting to tallest standing in the back, staring silently at the big machine. I dove into the crowd and plopped myself down in their midst. I was immediately surrounded by an epic mural of shining black faces, seemingly from grass to sky.
I noticed a boy in a ragged shirt holding a bundle of old plastic bags that he had compacted and tied up with string to make a precious football. I gestured to him and the ball, stood up, and we were off. In one of the most memorable moments of my life, the kids and I began to stream joyously all over acres of green grass, passing the “football,” shrieking with glee. I was in a state of grace, and I knew it. It felt as though it lasted forever, the running, lungs heaving, laughing, and seeing their unmitigated joy, the color of their skin so black with my own little white body nestled in the herd. I kicked off my flip-flops and ran barefoot hither and yon. I happened to have on my favorite secondhand dress, an old calico print, and I connected easily with the mountain girl in me. I am sure that was what they connected with, too, and why we fit so well together in spite of all our “differences.” When the illusion of differences is rendered obsolete, this, I believe, is heaven.
At last the helicopter people started to shepherd us off the grass, and the minister, who was ready to go, gave me the stink eye. But it was good while it lasted.
On the last Saturday of each month, every citizen of Rwanda sets aside three hours to participate in community building. This old cultural practice of helping one another, called umaganda, is absolutely glorious—I would love to start the practice in my hometown in Tennessee. Today’s umaganda project, led by our tireless minister of health, was building homes for genocide widows. (And of course, as there was a throng, he never stopped reinforcing the government’s health messages: “A small family is a healthy family! Use soap! Treat your drinking water!”) As suggested, we all wore get-dirty clothes, and some of us engaged in tough physical labor. It was an enormous turnout. Laboring together has been influential in healing from the genocide; Rwandans now want to be known as just that, Rwandans, and not Tutsis or Hutus. They help one another without reservation, no questions asked.