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...
The remainder of this article is only available to paid subscribers.
Print subscribers to Commonweal are entitled to free access to all premium online content. Click here to purchase a print subscription, or if you’re already a print subscriber, register now for premium access.
Online-only subscriptions provide access to all premium online articles for just $34/year or $2.95/month. Click here to subscribe.