Amazing grace

Last night at the end of dinner, just before bedtime, Jeanette gave me some information that really upset me. Cecile could not be my workshop partner next day because she was needed for a different group at the same time. I had noticed the overlap on the timetable earlier but she had said, I thought, that somebody else would take the other group. When we parted after the wedding on Saturday I had said I'd see her next in our workshop and she had not demurred.

I don't know why Jeanette didn't tell me straight away when she came home at the end of the afternoon, but she didn't. She rightly identified that I would be sorry to have to work in French yet again when I'd been looking forward to having an English-speaking partner. She couldn't know that I have also been accumulating a lot of questions about Friends Peace House (FPH) programs and about the general situation in Rwanda, and that I'd identified Cecile as the person to whom I could put some of them.

I was pretty tired, physically and mentally, after two consecutive days making sack gardens and compost heaps in the gardens of David B's house and the little guest house. I was struggling to generate the necessary energy for warming to the idea of doing the same things for the third time in a week. I took myself to bed, hoping to feel more positive in the morning.

This morning came and I was quite unhappy. Jeanette had left early, before I was up, and Bosco, who is not usually here during the week, took nearly half an hour in the bathroom. How could I find a way of turning my mood around, so I could do a decent day's work? I resolved to express my dissatisfaction. After all, these people teach nonviolent conflict resolution all the time, don't they? I constructed my statement, looking up a good range of appropriate French words in case that was how it would have to be done. 'When plans are changed and I'm not told, I feel sad and powerless.'

The rain started early today. I phoned for advice on whether the start of the workshop would be delayed, and was offered a ride in the HROC car, which I accepted. On arrival I was greeted by a cheerful Musafiri. He was to be my partner today in place of Cecile and I had no grudge against him. He was composing his report on our first workshop and needed me to check the sections in English, apparently downloaded from the web. He also wanted to insert some of my photos; I had them on a flash stick but we encountered the problem that's bugged me before – a small part of the selected image swelling to fill the allotted space. I could probably have solved the problem but he was reluctant to yield control of the mouse, which was sticking badly. All that could wait, however. I had at least been distracted from my negative feelings.

In front of the meeting rooms I was greeted by Cecile, splendid in robe and turban. Her preferred group was obviously higher status than the one she'd handed over. She told me it was to be a meeting of many women's groups to plan for a women's peace congress later in the year, hosted by Friends Peace House, and that her presence was needed. Clearly important work. My resentment was fading but I said my piece, adding that I would have liked her to phone me and tell me herself that the plan had changed. She apologised, lightly but sincerely enough. I was ready to move on.

My group assembled gradually. I had expected them to be more westernised in dress than the women in Gitarama but they were almost all wearing traditional 'pagnes', wraps. All these women had been to a Healing and Rebuilding Our Communities (HROC) workshop; none was very young; they were members of several local Women in Dialogue groups. Our room was rather small and they sat in two rows of 14, with only a small space for the tutors and flipchart. (The grander group had the larger and better shaped room.)

I'm not going to describe the first parts of the workshop – the rule making, the personal introductions, my introduction about kitchen gardens and nutrition, the drawing of a sack garden on the flipchart, the passing round of the laminated information sheet and my laptop with a photo from the demonstration garden at Gako. A the end of all that, just as we were about to go outside and begin on the practical work, more rain poured down, thundering on the roof and lowering the temperature considerably.

They asked a few more questions. Lunch was due in half an hour. Would they like to sing, for a change of energy? All sang, some danced, Musafiri and I clapped along and he congratulated them on a good rendering of a song that was new to him. They would like me to teach them a song.

Nobody in this group understands French, let alone English. They are members of various churches, including Friends. Personal reservations about the theological implications of the words notwithstanding, I decide that 'Jesus, remember me' will be the best choice. I write up the words. We practice the words. I sing the first line of the first half of the tune and invite them to imitate me. Terrible! I signal the pitch with my hand. I step across the room as I sing, rising and ducking to show the ups and downs. Still pretty painful. I ask if they can explain the problem. We are dealing with only two notes; how can it be so difficult for people who sing all the time? Musafiri comments that some of these mamas are finding the English really hard. I have already suggested singing 'la la'. Now I demonstrate. They try again. Not much better. I begin to think that two notes only a semitone apart may be hard to distinguish, but there's nothing to be done about that for now. We persevere for some minutes more, learning the whole tune. It's only the first phrase that makes me wince each time it comes round.

It's close to the planned lunch break but lunch is delayed for half an hour by the rain. I don't think there's enough space to dance here – we were expecting to use the level ground below the house. I'm running out of ideas now. Do they know any Alleluias? At least we can all sing the word. They strike up: 'Al-le-lu-u-u-ia, Al-le-lu-ia, Al-le-lu-u-u-ia, A-a-men!' I know that tune. I join in. Ah yes, it's 'Amazing grace'.

Would they like to know something abut the origin of 'Jesus, remember me'? I tell them about Taize – Brother Roger's compositions, the crowds of young people, the prolonged repetition of the same chant as a form of meditative prayer, the different languages. I smile but say nothing when I hear the word 'Kinyarwanda' in Musafiri's translation at that point – not used in Taize, I suspect. I comment that I know many people who don't go to church butt who find Taize chants spiritually nourishing. One doesn't have to be a Christian to have a spiritual life. Many nods.

Lunch still isn't ready. May they ask me some questions? We talk about my family and where I live. Would they like to hear something about the Friends Church in Britain? I find appropriate terminology is tricky here and use the words hesitantly. Musafiri immediately suggests 'Quaker'. I speak briefly about how our worship is framed in silence – listening to God being the other half, as it were, of the conversation, compared with talking to God, which is what happens in Friends services here. Immediately the room lights up.

One of the rules agreed a couple of hours ago is that people should raise a hand and wait to be called to speak. Half a dozen hands are up. The first woman says that she is often troubled by memories of the genocide and the only thing that helps is sitting quietly at home waiting to be led to a Bible passage. Another tells how she sings the same praise song over and over for reassurance. Another paces up and down inside her small house, praying softly. Another asks God to still her racing heart – whether that is physical or metaphorical is not revealed.

It's time for the pre-lunch prayer. This is the deepest and the most interactive group so far. I think the intimate space helps. It seems likely that their experience both of the HROC process and the continuing group meetings also gives a confidence and a willingness to speak.

The plan is to resume the program with sack preparation after lunch but it's so cold that women are tightly wrapping themselves in their shawls if they have them or their arms if not. I suggest to Musafiri that we stay indoors for the afternoon and he agrees.

I give instructions and 'recipes' for making liquid plant foods from chopped green leaves and from animal droppings. We talk about putting back into the ground as much as possible to replace what we take out. It's well known in Rwanda that there is no more virgin forest to be cut down now, so people can no longer simply move on when the soil is exhausted by bad practices. (It's less than 30 years ago that parts of the country were still inhabited mainly by the wild animals now confined to three National Parks on the edges of the country.) I ask whether any of the women already use natural foods for their plants. One or two soak meat scraps and bones. Several know how to make compost heaps by layering dry and green vegetable matter. I remind them that peelings are also useful. (I don't tell them that yesterday I was working with the young man whom I'd first encountered spraying fruit trees with a chemical fungicide. He had great difficulty understanding that kitchen rubbish which will rot can go on the compost heap while tins, plastic, broken mirrors etc can't – and that burning them isn't a good idea either.)

We have 20 minutes before finishing time. I offer some choices. They could teach me a song, or we could dance with very contained steps, or we could try this morning's song again, with reinforcement from Celestin, who learnt it in the car with me on Monday and who happens to be hanging about. The last choice appeals to them, so C is fetched and places himself in the middle of the back row, a strategic position.

He and I sing a few turns, first in unison then with somewhat random harmonies. We invite the women to join in. We have a critical mass of competent singers and improvement is rapid now. C suggests dividing into two halves; the tune is so structured that having the second group start when the first is half way through will give consistent harmonies. The women spontaneously get to their feet. Confidence and volume increase. I take the hand of the woman next to me and coax the whole group into an ellipse that fills the available space, holding hands. I begin to circle. Some women sway from side to side with each step and others imitate. Soon the whole circle is full of movement and energy. I see we have five minutes till finishing time. I halt the dance and we sing softly to a close.

Musafiri tells the women to return to their seats for the closing prayer and some notices. As the circle breaks I am wrapped in hugs and embraces. In unpromising circumstances, amazing grace indeed.