Life Abroad in the Time of Coronavirus

I chose to return home from Rwanda because of COVID-19. It’s a choice every American abroad is facing right now.

Less than two weeks ago, I was sitting at my house in Kigali, Rwanda, drinking coffee and reading the news. Like the rest of the world, I was sucked into the black hole that was (and is) coronavirus coverage, not wanting to look but compelled by force of gravity to consume article after article, anxiety rising with each click.

At that time, I was worried. But my husband and I had moved to Rwanda for work a few months earlier. We would monitor the situation, closely, we said. We’d made a life here, and we weren’t planning on going anywhere anytime soon. Little did we know that in less than two weeks, we’d be holed up at the family cabin in Wisconsin on quarantine.

The first COVID-19 case was detected in Rwanda on Saturday, March 14th. Someone traveling from Mumbai back home to his family in Kigali. That same day, all public gatherings were banned. Schools were suspended. Restaurants limited patrons to 50 people at a time. Hand washing stations at every business, hand sanitizer placed throughout stores.

A few days later, a travel ban was announced — no travel, in or out of the country. By the end of the week, all borders were closed, motorcycle taxis ground to a halt, employees were told to work from home, nonessential businesses were shuttered, and the country went on lockdown.

As the reality of the travel ban hit home, we realized we needed to make a decision — and we had less than two days to make it. Should we stay in Rwanda and ride out the virus, come what may, or should we return home to the U.S., before we no longer had the choice to do so?

The problem with making a decision when it comes to COVID-19 is that there are simply too many unknowns. If we left now, when would we be able to return? The travel ban was to last for an initial period of 30 days. But in reality, we know it will likely last as long as the Coronavrius is still running rampant globally.

On the flip side, if we stayed, when would we be able to go back to the U.S.? A month? Six? What if our parents got sick? What if East African economies took such a hit that it destabilized the region? What if we got sick, and the otherwise competent healthcare system in Kigali was too overrun to get the care we needed? What if the nearly 30 hours of plane travel exposed us to the virus? What if, what if, what if.

We consulted leadership from the organization my husband works for, and under whose emergency evacuation policy we’re covered under. They told us that during this time, the likelihood of being successfully evacuated for a medical emergency was low. The Director of Security strongly advised that we both get on a plane.

But still. Like many foreigners living and working in Kigali, the missions that led us here also compelled us to stay. My husband works for Eastern Congo Initiative, which is now leading an emergency prevention and response to COVID-19 in the region. In the province they serve, there are 24 ventilators for over 8 million people, many of whom already have compromised lung functionality. If Congo isn’t able to stem the spread of infection, it’s projected that 10% of Congo’s population could be lost. A terrifying and heartbreaking prospect.

As a writer and independent communications consultant with a long background in humanitarian work, most of my contracts are with development organizations in Kigali and Congo. And as the crisis loomed, refugees and the most underserved populations in Rwanda are at highest risk. I felt a pull to stay, to shift into gear and do what I could to help.

Two sleepless nights didn’t bring us any closer to a decision. Everything was in slow motion, and neither of us quite knew what to do with ourselves. Friday morning came around, the last day we could choose to evacuate. We had tickets purchased for a 4:30pm flight out. Would one or both of us be on that flight?

The answer that I think we knew all along, but didn’t want to admit, was yes. In times of emergency, in times of heightened drama, the things that we all keep closest to our hearts begin to emerge with growing clarity. And what was most important to us, we realized, was our family. Was each other. We decided not to be separated, to stick together. To go home together. Because if someone we loved got sick and we couldn’t be there, we might never forgive ourselves.

As the situation unfolds in the U.S., it’s become clearer and clearer that the response was too slow. The moment where widespread testing could have worked to stem rates of infection has passed. Numbers are rising, hospitals are overwhelmed. But as the Coronavirus tightened it’s grip at home, my friends and family were worried about me in Rwanda.They wanted us to come home, and we did. But at the end of the day, it wasn’t because I was worried about us in Rwanda. I was worried about them in the U.S.

Of course, not every foreigner living in Rwanda has chosen to come home. Of the people I consulted before making a final decision, about half chose to leave when we did. At the airport, I talked to one woman who worked at the U.S. Embassy whose husband was staying behind while she left with their children. I talked to her “handler,” someone who wasn’t leaving himself but who was helping to facilitate her evacuation process, to make sure she got on the plane. He told me he’d be there “till the bitter end.”

Many people are choosing to stay because they couldn’t get their dogs or cats out in time along with them. Some are staying because they don’t want to abandon their work, and their colleagues. Others are optimistic that the borders will open up again soon, and that Rwanda will successfully stop the spread of infections. And still others stay because Kigali is simply home.

Every American living abroad right now is faced with this choice. To stay and face uncharted territory in the country they call home, or go back to the U.S. and face the unknowns in the place, with the people, who were home for so long.

We’re lucky that we have a place to stay, somewhere to go. Spending our quarantine at this cabin in Wisconsin — one of our favorite places in the world — means faring better than most right now. We have wi-fi, we can continue our work from here.

But suddenly, our lives have been split in two. We’ve left one life in Rwanda, frozen in time. And we’ve begun a new life here, one where we can’t plan what the next month, or even the next week, might bring.

Our home in Rwanda, the things we left behind, are sitting, waiting, calling us to resume our lives. Those calls echo and reverberate, looking for a spot to settle in and guide us back. But for now we ignore them, because we have no choice. When will things shift back to normal? What will that normal be? And will I ever step through my front door again? Only time will tell.