This sick inducing, sanctimonious feature about some foreign footballers building in rural Rwanda for a mammoth three days got me thinking. I won’t paste the whole article here, but here’s a taste,
An unforgettable experience that will have seen them spend last night trying to explain to loved ones what they saw. What they achieved. Knowing that, some time within the next few weeks, they will all most likely break down and cry.
Because this is what happens when you give yourself so completely to Rwanda. When you spend three days building for the widows and orphans of a genocide that, in 1994, took a million lives in just 100 days. link
The writer doesn’t quite say it, but he may as well have added “Rwanda changed my life”. It’s a phrase that is easy to write, but difficult to fathom any meaning from:
When did [insert vaguelyly obscure, poor, difficult to get to, probably just had a war or two where non-white people got killed with an overall impression in the western media of being a pretty squalid place] change your life?
How did it change your life?
What has actually changed in your life? Job? Wife? Car?