This morning, I awoke to the sound of rain, trumpeting its arrival on the roof like the percussion section of a high school marching band sandwiched between floats of Leprechauns and Irish Princesses in a St Patrick’s Day parade. Now, with the tide rolled back as far as the eye can see, the scent of salt heavy in the air, and the clouds tucked around me like a grey Vancouver blanket, today feels like as good a day as any to break my Zanzibar Silence and tell you a story.

It started back on March 22^nd. The day I turned 33 amidst baby spit-up and the Motherless Children of Rwanda climbing my legs like the iron bars of a jungle gym. By late afternoon, I arrived back at my volunteer house, sweaty, dirty, and in desperate need of a REAL shower (instead of the bucket and cold water awaiting me in the closet-sized bathroom with the door that didn’t properly close).

So, I packed up my laptop and shampoo and set off along the potholed dirt road, down the hill to the Lake Kivu Serena Hotel (a beautiful property that I wish had somehow miraculously made it into my volunteer itinerary – a girl can dream, can’t she?) At the Front Desk, I turned over the equivalent of $5 to use the pool, but headed straight for the change-rooms and enjoyed every second of the only hot shower I’ve had since arriving in Africa on March 14^th.

Feeling fully clean for the first time in weeks, I put on the clothes I had hand-washed in my bathroom sink a couple days earlier and sat in the bar to order a cappuccino and catch up on my emails. While there, I had a short conversation with a European Ex-Pat who told me a bit about his extensive career in the humanitarian world in countries all over Africa. Curious to know more, but late for dinner, I invited him to join my roommate and I for a Saturday night drink at another restaurant down the road.

Two nights later, after only three sips from my first Vodka & Soda in months, I received a desperate call on my Rwandan cell phone. Like a scene from a movie, the rain began to fall and all I could hear was the slap, slap, slap of my sandals as I jogged through the darkness. I ran until I could hear his voice calling, “Help, Help”. Sure enough, when I shone my flashlight into a 2M deep hole in the middle of the sidewalk, I saw my friend from the hotel, pressed up against the slimy cement, with his foot jutting out at an awful angle.

“I’m here. I’m here” I must have said four times because his face was so translucent with shock that he almost couldn’t see me. He said his leg was definitely broken and he thought he had also dislocated his shoulder in the fall. He could not reach anyone at the hotel or find out how to call an ambulance. Knowing I could do nothing for him by myself, I told him I had to get help and then set off at a gallop along the sidewalk – panning my flashlight back and forth to avoid a similar fate.

With hair plastered to my face and my chest heaving, I stumbled into the lobby of the Serena Hotel where the two Front Desk Clerks stared at me in confusion as I sputtered, “I need your help. My friend fell in a hole and I can’t get him out. Can you come? Now? Please.”

Luckily, Ibrahim (one of the agents) came around the desk and yelled in Kinderwandan for one of the guards to follow us. The three of us took off jogging and to my relief, Ibrahim asked me questions in near perfect English.

The next hour passed in a blur as Ibrahim did his best to get the ambulance to arrive as soon as possible (it still took 45 minutes) and then attempted to corral a group of 5 men who didn’t speak any english into helping my friend out of the hole without injuring him further.

After a short stop at the rudimentary local hospital and a trip (for me) on the back of a motorbike to the Serena Hotel to throw my friend’s clothes and computers into a suitcase, I arrived in time for my European friend to ask if would accompany him in the ambulance to Kigali (three hours away). I nodded and tried to hide my panic as I quietly asked Ibrahim if he was coming too. What good was I if I couldn’t speak the language or advocate at all for my injured friend?

Still looking fresh and competent in his hotel uniform (about 4 hours later, I asked him if he was still as happy as the smiley face pinned to his vest), Ibrahim didn’t pause for even a second, “of course I will go. It is my responsibility and I would not leave him now”.

“Will you make sure I get back here safely?” I couldn’t keep the 4 year old little girl from creeping into my voice. Ibrahim simply smiled and nodded.

As we sped through the dark African night, I questioned my logic in only bringing a small amount of cash to the restaurant because I had no credit card, no passport, and no food (thankfully I had a bottle of water) and I was in a vehicle driving 3 hours away from the volunteer house with 4 men I didn’t really know and no more minutes left on my Rwandan SIM card. (Did I mention we had to go through a police check with men in machine guns outside the window – thankfully they waved us right through.)

After the longest three hour drive of my friend’s life (the pain I’m sure was unbearable and with no blankets, I had to resort to opening his suitcase and trying to keep him warm with his clothes), we finally saw the lights of Kigali. When we arrived at King Faisal hospital, a nurse asked Ibrahim and I to sit in the hall while my friend had X-rays. Over the next two hours, Ibrahim asked me questions about my volunteer trip around the world and I asked him about his life in Africa. He told me how he lost both his father and older brother in the Genocide, but how, he and his Mother had survived and eventually found a way to move forward. Now, he studies Tourism Management and works at the Serena Hotel to gain experience and pay for his school fees.

It feels like a lifetime ago that I studied Hospitality Management, but I’m pretty sure if there was a case study about how to “Go the Extra Mile for a Guest”, Ibrahim’s story would be featured. How many hotel employees do you know who would escort a guest to a hospital 3 hours away (even though his shift had ended and he had to work the next day) and not complain for even a second about it?

Ibrahim continued to ask me about volunteering and wondered  out loud if he might be able to volunteer internationally one day. He explained how he would like to work with other survivors of genocide and help them learn how to let go of their anger and move forward to find peace. I told him that one day, I hoped I could help him do just that. But, for now, I could share his story. A story of calm in the face of crisis, resilience in spite of life’s obstacles, and generosity of the human spirit.

At around 5:30am, an Ex-Pat doctor finally arrived to offer a second opinion just as the Gisenyi ambulance driver woke up from his power-nap and Ibrahim told me we had to go. I said goodbye to my new friend, who by now had regained his sense of humour and was soon airlifted back to Europe for a number of emergency surgeries (but that is his story to tell, not mine).

As Ibrahim and I walked out of the hospital, the birds chirped and the sun began its ascent over the still sleeping city. Although I did not get a moment of sleep that night and I hope it is the last time I have to ride through the terrifying curves of the Rwandan countryside in an ambulance careening far faster than the speed limit, I am grateful that an all night vigil introduced me to a new friend and fellow survivor.

With the anniversary of the Rwanda Genocide approaching, I am reminded that survivorship comes in many forms. As so many of my new Rwandan friends have shown me, it IS possible to move forward from even the worst atrocities and find ways to bring healing to others.

I hope you have a chance over this Easter Long weekend to spend time with the people that you love. Maybe you can even call the survivors in your life (whether they have survived genocide, cancer, death, divorce, infertility, or depression) and tell them you love them and are proud of who they have become.