In the summer of 1982, as a recent college graduate hitchhiking through central Africa, I spent two weeks in Rwanda, a gorgeous country of a thousand hills, all crowded with terraced farms and houses and huts.
The capital, Kigali, was a small city, little more than embassies, a few banks and hotels, the Maison du President, and a big military encampment. This was the first African country I’d seen where women served in the...
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