Pardon Our French

(and Kirundi)

‘Tis the Season

On Friday night our family set up our Christmas tree.  As is our Christmas tradition, the evening we decorate the tree we have snack supper, play Christmas music, and it’s when it really starts to feel like Christmas is coming.

There are some things that go along with Christmas that feel so siimilar, so familiar. The tree, the songs, family all together. Then there are the things like hanging lights on the Leopard skin that has been in this house since the ’70s, using an artificial tree, and the banana tree growing just outside the living room window.  Or the fact that Jonah and I just got back before dark from Bujumbura (we try to never drive on the highway after dark ~6.00pm all year) because we were in the city trying to sort out car registration with customs, and taxation people. We ended up having a 12-hour day, yet the three appointments had a combined time of less than 5 minutes. Then we tried to fined Diesel on teh way home as tehre is a nation-wide fule shortage for the last couple weeks. 

So there are some things that definitely remind me of my childhood christmas, and some….not so much.

It seems like there was not a lot of years in between us being the kids who go home for Christmas, and us being the ones with kids who come home for Christmas. Actually, there was one year in between.  In 2014 we were back in Canada, celebrating one last Christmas with extended family before we moved here, and 2016 Jonah was coming home from school in Kenya.  Perhaps for our family that is a bit more compressed but I’m sure it feels fast for everyone.

{I suppose it’s also the season to use ’tis,as that’s not something we’d ever consider the other 11 months of the year.}

Home again, home again…jiggidy jig *

Supper down in the big city.  No hippos were sighted.
Supper down in the big city. No hippos were sighted.

The big kids are home!  They landed in Bujumbura a week ago Saturday, and we stayed overnigight in the city. 

A little rain couldn’t keep these four out of the pool.  Since there’s no pools in either Kibuye or Kijabe, they’re all pretty happy to be swimmign around. 

I’m quite convinced that it will never not feel strange to have to pick up your kids from an international flight when they come home from school…but such is life #ThisBurundianLife

Already in one week, we’ve had a lot of fun. Lots of family games, bike rides, movies.  The kids have gone up to the feeding program with Susan, visited the orphanage, and distracted their siblings from school work. On Saturday Jonah learned to ride a motorbike – so yesterday we went for an amazing Father-Son ride through the beautiful, lush, rolling hills of this place.

Still to come…setting up the (borrowed) Christmas tree & decorating the house, and so much more.

*I must admit…I really have no idea what that saying means. I have probably thousands of little rhymes, songs, and sayinngs that my Mom (mostly) sang to us [still does actually] that will for ever be with me. 

For November 11th.

This is a re-post of something I wrote after visiting Normandy just before the 70 anniversary of D-Day, and I feel it still reflects my feelings on a day like today.

This year marks 100 years since the guns were silenced on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month.  The signing of an armistice that would finally stop “The War to End All Wars”. 

Right now here in France, it’s early morning June 6. 70 years – to the hour-  since the start of the D-Day landings on the beaches of Normandy. Having recently taken a trip with my Dad and my son to see a lot of the WWII sites, this idea of ‘properly’ remembering D-Day and events like it, has been on my mind.

Canadian troops arriving at Juno beach

How does one go about Remembering D-Day?

It’s 70 years since thousands of Allied troops landed on the beaches that spread out in front of the sea-side towns along the shores of Normandy. These coastal villages that were used to welcoming tourists to their beaches, and fishermen back from the sea now welcomed a liberating army as the largest assault ever put together in modern military history arrived on their shores. There is no way to avoid the signs of the war in these towns along the Norman coast,  simply impossible to ignore what happened here in the days and months surrounding June 6, 1944. Code names like Omaha, Utah, Gold, Juno and Sword are tied to a material reality here. They are real places, just across from someone’s house, a place where kids fly their kites, some farmers field. The memories still seem so fresh with the year-round flying of US, UK & Canadian flags in the streets of these French towns. Yet when you stand on the beach, it seems almost impossible that these events took place, or if they did it must have happened a very long time ago.

One thing that struck me in Normandy was this juxtaposition that a time frame of seven decades can create. On one hand, it doesn’t really seem that long ago. Find someone at least 80 years old, and they will likely remember it well. My own mother was in elementary school. 1944 was the year George Lucas, Ban Ki-Moon, Lorne Michaels were born, Jimi Hendrix and George Harrison, Steven Hawking were one, and they don’t seem all that old.

American Cemetery, 

However, 70 years without our nation being involved in such a massive conflict is long enough that neither me, my son, nor my father have ever faced the brutal reality that is warfare.

As we stood on the coast of Normandy where so many young men lost their lives, and specifically on Juno Beach where the toll on the Canadians was so high, it was cause for reflection. There we were, three generations, lived (so far) in peace.  Fully aware that to a large degree this privilege is due to the sacrifices of those who did experience hell-on-earth in that very place where we were standing. For us, the harsh truth is that remembering D-Day is something we can choose to do, or not. For any who took part in the struggle here, or any battle anywhere, forgetting will not ever be an option.

While we were in Normandy, there was something I saw on a lot of memorials, cemeteries, graves and other places, that kind of rubbed me the wrong way:



I understand wanting to honour the sacrifice of those who felt compelled to put their lives on the line for the struggle of their nation.  However, I’m not sure I can agree a teenage boy having his body blown apart by a farm-kid from the neighbouring country is “GLORIOUS.”

I decided I should, perhaps just this once, know what I’m talking about. So I looked up the definition:

glorious |ˈglɔːrɪəs| adjective ~having, worthy of, or bringing fame or admiration

So perhaps, glorious is an appropriate word – even if it doesn’t feel like it. Worthy of admirationseems about the least we can say about those who died to honor their memories.


So, how does one properly ‘remember’ an event like D-Day?

How do you balance respect for the individual, order-following soldiers who died fighting on the winning side, without demonizing the individual, order-following soldiers who died fighting on the losing side?

“Beloved only son…Edmonton, Canada”

How do you recall battles fought, won and lost, lives saved and ended, and human conflict elevated to the level of armed hostility without glorifying war itself?

“Love the soldiers – hate the war?”

When we were wandering through the Juno Beach centre, taking in the exhibits, an older gentleman was standing next to me, saw Jonah and asked with an English accent if ‘the lad was interested in the war.’ I think I replied something like, “well, not interested in the war, but I feel he needs to learn about it.’

The man said something like “well that’s good – because we can’t ever let it happen again” and then he turned and continued on.

We finished up with the museum and went outside as we had signed up for a guided tour of a bunker which had (fairly recently) been discovered under the beach. The tour was lead by a Canadian university student working at the Juno centre. As he started his presetntation, he said “I just want to give a special welcome to Mr Hyde, a veteran of D-Day.”

Commonwealth Cemetery, Bayeaux.

That man from inside the museum was a D-Day vet from the Royal Air Force. He had manned the guns onboard an RAF bomber that came in to support the Canadian and British troops who landed at Juno. It was impossible to imagine what this place must mean to him. What memories does he hold, that he can never forget, even the ones he wants to? We were touring a bunker that was used to collect intelligence and coordinate the counter-attack on the plane he was in.  For me, D-Day is a historical event. For him, it was probably the one day – the few hours – of his life that will stand out forever. For him, remembering D-Day, is not an option, because forgetting it is not possible. My son, my Father and I were struggling to imagine what it must have been like that morning. For him, I’m sure there are more days when he struggles to forget.

I recently saw a series of ‘then and now’ photos, contrasting the same place. (NOTE: stop reading NOW and go look at this nice interactive one here, and a really big set here. Seriously  – go look, they are fascinating)

Canadians landing at Bernieres-sur-Mer with their bicycles.

When I look at the pictures showing sunbathers lying on the beaches that a few generations ago were literally soaked with human blood, it feels like poorly behaved kids yelling and playing in a graveyard. People relaxing, seemingly without a care in the world. But in some way, isn’t that part of the freedom those soldiers were fighting for? They sacrificed for us to enjoy the chance to sit on the sand and enjoy a day at the beach. They wanted their countrymen to be free, to live in peace and security. You can’t lay on the beach if you fear an invasion. We – Canadians, French, Americas, British, and Germans and so many more enjoy a kind of liberty that was very hard won. 

So how does one remember D-Day?

I guess I’m left with: let’s enjoy things like a day at the beach, but never forget the price was paid for us to do so.

“To the Fallen,
Thank you for your sacrifice for our freedom.
From the pupils of Woodland Academy”

More importantly, let’s honour the request of Mr. Hyde and all those like him – and never let it happen again.


Something a little different.

This is just a one-time notice that I’ve started another site to share some writing / thoughts I have. 

OK – the truth is that I started it several years ago – but never had the courage to actually share what I wrote. 

So before I change my mind and delete this post…here it is:

Consider yourself informed. 

Yee-Haw (?)

In keeping with the theme of themed birthdays here in Kibuye, when our youngest turned 7 (!) we were surrounded by cow-boys/girls.

Having spent half of my school-years in Alberta, and rural Alberta at that – is perhaps why the whole ‘cowboy’ motif is lost a bit on me.  I feel like there are real ranchers, farmers etc. They work hard jobs, spend a lot of time with animals – and wear boots and hats.  Then there is the strange urban-faux-cowboy. People who live in cities, yet still drive enormous trucks, have boots and hats – but they are clean facade versions.  Either way – do what you want – but neither one of those is me. Just not my jam.

However, for Alma, who has spent not much more time in Canada than she has evacuated to Rwanda, the image of a cowboy is a bit different. Also, when we were in Edmonton a year and a half ago, her grandparents got her into watching the show Heartland. To be honest, I’d never heard of it before, but apparently, it has more seasons than Alma has years of life, so the girls have been catching up.  It’s about a family on a ranch, set in the beautiful foothills of Alberta, where the prairies rise up towards the majestic Rocky Mountains. Really a beautiful part of the world. But I digress…

So what does one do for a 7-year-old cow-boy/cow-girl themed birthday in the middle of rural East Africa?  I guess the thing that people in the middle of rural East Africa are really good at…you improvise.

The kids found a lot of hats – that technically were probably more ‘Tilly Safari Hat’ than ‘Straw Cowboy Hat’ – but, it worked.

We set up a horse-obstacle course in the yard. Note: that horse-head-mask we got at a Goodwill store in Edmonton has been used shockingly more than one would think it would be in a country that has no horses. Or, maybe not – I guess I have no idea how much one would think it would be used in a country with no horsees.  again, I digress.

We have a whole shwack of safety flags that somehow made it over here, we have boards and bricks, and a few hula-hoops.  Boom -obstacle course. 

Cardboard from a recently unpacked stove, some buckets that came on the last container – et voila – horse jumping. {or whatever it’s actually called. Please don’t correct me}
This was our version of “lassoing” a horse. Hula-hoops thrown at Horse-head on a broom handle stuck in the yard by the chicken coup. Worked pretty good.
Of course for a ‘horse-themed’ party – the question of what will be the “pin the thing on the thing” is a bit more obvious.
However – after it was determined that kids could see through the horse’s mouth – we had to reverse it – which made it just that much creepier.
The cake was ‘straw-coloured’ with some Lego and a 7 candle that has made the rounds to two kids already – and got passed on again. Those things really are pretty good when you have kids in fairly close succession. In reality, they’re only lit for a few seconds each time. I have a feeling we’ll see it on someone’s 17-year-old cake soon. 

As you can see from her – and others – smiling face a good time was had by all. The kids here really do love their birthday parties. They are usually pretty creative, and just a lot of fun. Our sweet girl has now had her 7th, 6th, 5th  and 4th birthdays in Burundi.  Her third in Canada{which apparently was during a blogging hiatus}, and numbers Deux and Un in France. 

It’s great to see her thriving here – learning and growing and being part of so much. Wonder what the next year will bring???