Posts Tagged ‘friendship’
• Ethiopia
You know that feeling when everyone’s speaking a language you don’t know? You’re sitting there like you’re watching a tennis match, head moving to look at the speaker as you rely on sight – not sound – in the pursuit of understanding. Sometimes you’re rewarded with a gesture or an English word that clues you in to the topic of conversation. But mostly you’re just a passive observer until someone realizes you are, in fact, still there and that you still don’t, in fact, understand the language.
It happens to me all the time.
You’d think I’d hate these kinds of situations. Even at the office people around me often speak Amharic, so if I want to keep up on the story about the guy who is fighting with his boss I need to try to pick out names and vocabulary I understand.
But I recently realized that it’s not only Amharic that puts me in the awkward hey-I’m-here-and-don’t-speak-your-language-can-you-please-speak-English situations.
One of the most unexpected but rewarding parts of living in a large African city is the other expats. Yes, some of them are pretty deplorable, to be honest. But if you are willing to open up and construct your community based on commonalities other than nationality, you’ll find that you learn just as much about other cultures as you do Ethiopian culture.
Last night I learned everything I could have ever wanted to know about the German Foreign Minister. He’s gay. He abstained from the recent UN vote on Libya. He’s “a shame to Germany” (my friend’s words, not mine).
Whoda thunk I’d be learning about German politics in Ethiopia?
Some people seem to think that if you aren’t hanging out with locals, your experience isn’t authentic. I would argue that if you’re only hanging out with locals, you’re denying yourself a truly multifaceted experience abroad. My relationships with French, Indian, Israeli, Dutch, Canadian, Irish, British, Sri Lankan, Australian and Taiwanese friends and colleagues have been just as stimulating, cultural and educational as those with Ethiopians. My Indian friend threw a Diwali party. My Israeli friend told me about her experiences in the Israeli army. My Dutch friend schools me on Europop.
We are all living abroad, but coming from such different places, everyone has their two cents about Ethiopian culture, politics, economics, gender roles and even food. It just took my friend telling me about the political history between Taiwan and China to shift my view of the government in Ethiopia. These perspectives enrich my understanding not only of other cultures, but of my experience in Ethiopia as well.
Remember New Student Week? Every conversation started with the same four questions:
What’s your name?
Where are you from?
What’s your major?
Where do you live?
If you and the person you were talking to shared some similarity, you might get far enough into the conversation to ask specifics. If they had the same major, you’d ask what classes they were taking. If you were from the same state, you’d ask where they went to high school. And maybe the conversation would blossom into friendship beyond the four walls of the Diversify NU discussion in Tech. But, more likely, it would fizzle without so much as a Facebook Friend Request.
Life as an expat is sort of like New Student Week. Except it never ends. Because people are constantly coming and going, there’s always someone new around. But every conversation still starts with the same questions:
What’s your name?
OK, this one is pretty innocuous.
Where are you from?
Sometimes this question isn’t necessary. You can spot the Irishmen the second they start talking. Other times it opens up an awkward discussion. Once I asked someone who is Ethiopian where he was from and he acted like I was an idiot. Other times it opens up a complicated discussion, like the guy I met who was born in Jamaica but grew up in the UK and whose family was in Sweden. But it’s always safer to ask “Where are you from?” instead of “Are you from ____?” People get very offended if you guess they’re American and they’re really Canadian.
Where do you work?
This one could be a deal-breaker. From my empirical analysis of the Addis social scene, there are seven groups of foreigners here: businessmen, NGO workers, UN staff, diplomats and embassy staff, teachers, missionaries and backpackers. Certain types tend to mix well, others not so much. UN staff and diplomats get along swell. UN staff and missionaries? Nope. Teachers are the only group that seems to socialize well with everyone. No one can resist fingerpaint.
For my purposes, I care less about where someone works and more about how much money they make. It sounds crass, I know. But I literally can’t afford to be friends with businessmen, diplomats and even a lot of UN staff. It’s pretty safe to assume that the rest aren’t going to the Sheraton every night for dinner.
How long have you been here?
People who arrive in Addis around the same time tend to stick together. And if all the noobs stick together, that means that all of the old farts must stick together, too. My first weekend here I went to a party where everyone had been in Addis for at least a year. They were nice enough to me, but weren’t interested in becoming my new best friends. They already had their own social group. So if the answer to this question is long enough to make you think that they know where to find the cheapest brie in town, there’s a good chance that the friendship is going nowhere.
How long will you be here?
This is the quickest way to determine if it’s worth it to share the most intimate thing two people in Addis can share: their phone numbers. If they answer a year, that’s awesome. Exchange numbers and call it a night. If they answer three months, maybe take their number if they seem extra cool. If they answer a month or, worse yet, a few weeks, end the conversation and move on to the next guy. You can’t waste your time on short-term friendships when you’ll be here for the long haul.
This post very easily could have been written last summer. In a sense, the fact that it still a valid and necessary post one year later reaffirms the powerful impact that my roommate, my best friend, and my role model has made on my life. Sinem, this one’s for you.
Sinem works as an administrator of international trade in a company nearby. I still remember exactly what she was wearing when I first met her; a light blue burberry printed headscarf with a white blouse and blue jeans. She was modest, but she was totally in style. I remember being almost envious of her confidence and beauty, and her insane ability to make everyone around her feel completely comfortable.
She introduced herself to me, speaking English almost impeccably. Almost immediately, she took me under her wing. It was so strange. I was halfway across the world and I had just met a woman who was ten years my senior, but within 5 minutes of meeting, I felt like I had found my home base with her. She instantly became the friend you call up when you’re having a bad day, the friend you meet for coffee every day after work, the consistent best friend that everyone needs in life.
But Sinem quickly became more than just a best friend. After only 2 or 3 days of living with Sinem, I found myself in awe of how beautifully she leads her life. She’s constantly reading. Any spare moment she has, there is a book in her hand. She could literally spend the duration of her life with a book and coffee. She savors knowledge in a way that I admire to no end.
Sinem literally takes every opportunity she gets to do good. I remember last summer when we were walking around a busy district of Istanbul on an extremely hot day, we saw a kitten who was extremely weak and clearly very thirsty and hungry. Sinem demanded that we stop and buy the kitten water and some food. She sat with the kitten for nearly 30 minutes, feeding it and cleaning it up. I had never seen someone who was so affected by things that I ignore as normal realities on a daily basis. Just yesterday at a bus stop, Sinem ran across the street to buy water for a dog that was panting of thirst in the heat.
I should also mention that as a woman wearing a headscarf, Sinem works at a reputable trade firm, earns well, and is the epitome of Destiny’s Child Independent Woman. The woman is compassionate, but she’s pushing forward in a patriarchal society unapologetically to maintain financial independence and social equality.
But the most profound influence Sinem has had on my life has been on my faith. I came to Turkey last summer in a precarious relationship with Islam. Praying 5 times a day was an ideal that I thought the future would bring for me, but Sinem pushed me to confront my deficiencies now rather than later. Without every really teaching me or judging me, she taught me so much. She wholeheartedly accepted me but simultaneously pushed me to never settle for mediocrity for anything in life. Sinem articulated her beliefs in a way that I had never heard before; she got through to me that provoked me to critically understand my faith. Being around her made it so easy to be a good person, and so difficult to do bad. The natural nuances and simplicity of her life rubbed off on me in ways I can’t describe.
Just tonight when we were walking home from evening prayers, Sinem insisted on walking an elderly woman home from the mosque. For most people, that would be their good deed of the day, but for her, it’s what’s normal, what’s natural, and for me, is what defines who she is.
Sinem is undoubtedly a huge reason why Istanbul is like a second home for me. I truly hope that I can carry everything she has taught me for the rest of my life. I know that she will be a lifelong friend. It’s funny how I’m doing research on woman’s rights issues and how I’m living with a total female powerhouse. Although in two weeks we’ll be thousands of miles apart, Sinem’s constant assertion that “the world is really small” makes me feel like it won’t be too long before I see her again.
I love public transportation. While I admit that the often long waits for trains, buses, and shared taxis and the more indirect routes they take to my ultimate destination are antagonistic to the urgent, on-the-go part of me that hates “wasting time,” I love tro tros, matatus, colectivos, micros, the metra, the el, Pace buses, you name it. Why? The interesting people I meet and the conversations we share.
The minibuses the size of VW buses that carry passengers for less than a dollar all over Accra and beyond provide ample opportunities to strike up conversations with people. While I’m more reticent now than before I talked with Auntie Rose about communication differences, that has not impeded the quick friendships forged amidst the traffic of Accra.
I met a Liberian refugee who was forced out of his country in 1980 and has yet to return. A theatre student who wants to become a pastor, a grandmother and her granddaughter with the biggest, most curious and inquisitive eyes I’ve ever seen. A student from Kumasi (capital of Ashanti region) studying tourism but who still harbors dreams of becoming an architect. A fifty-year-old man that wants to come to the United States and had a sister there from a different mother who will not help him and wants an invitation from me in a couple of years when I graduate. A banker from Ho (capital of the Volta Region) who, unprompted, tells me all about his marriage when I tell him the topic of my research.
Sure, there’s some chit chat. Where are you from, oh I have a cousin who lives in Virginia, where are you staying, etc. But the conversations have substance too. Over the course of our 15-minute, half hour, hour plus journeys, we talk of civil war, religion, family, African leadership. We discuss pursuing one’s dreams even if they go against real and perceived familial and societal expectations. Christopher shares about the people and aspects of Liberia he misses most.
There’s something lovely about sitting next to a stranger and have a genuine conversation, knowing that even if you never see them again, you both have exchanged small gifts, small pieces of yourselves.
Although my experience is that most people don’t want to leave it at that. I’m asked for my number at least 2-3 times a day. I’ve received numerous invitations to visit regions and family all over the country, eat a home-cooked meal, and go to the beach. Sometimes I take these invitations. A Ghanaian on break from medical school in Russia and I went to a beach one weekend and the student from Kumasi and I explored the Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park and Museum.
So the spontaneous, albeit usually short-lived friendships redeem the hot, sweaty travels for my research and Twi classes. No air-conditioned car can do that.
I grew up in a nutrition-conscious household. We had one small cabinet dedicated to snack food, but Baked Lays chips were about as exciting as that got. The alluring world of oatmeal pies, Dunkaroos, and Hostess cakes existed only in the abundant pantries of the neighbors’ kids. At my house we ate wheat bread, plain yogurt, and topped our ice cream with melon balls. Needless to say, fast food wasn’t on the menu. Now that I’m off to college, I have access to any kind of food I want – but the habits instilled by my smoothie-making, bran-muffin-baking mother have, for the most part, stuck with me. At the very least, it’s safe to say I won’t be spotted at McDonald’s.
However, the other afternoon, fate acquainted me with America’s most popular fast food franchise for the first time since Salad Shakers were kicked off the menu. I was at my friend Eva’s house and two other friends, Paco and Jesús, had gone out to pick up lunch. I assumed they would come back with something Spanish, like Iberian ham, or at least standard, like deli sandwiches. But instead what they brought was McDonald’s.
At first I was surprised – they actually chose to buy McDonald’s? Then for a split second I was concerned – I have to eat it? And then I put on my game face – people all over the world consume this stuff and they’re doing okay. With that, I dug in.
Not only was it actually quite tasty, the meal that followed was the happiest meal I’ve shared in Sevilla. The four of us gathered around the kitchen table and spent as much time talking as we did eating. We laughed and laughed and sat back in our chairs.
Paco is the quintessential, free-spirited goofball. He joked and made silly comments. The glimmer in his eye alerted me when he was teasing, and the laughter to follow seemed even more gratifying with the added sweetness of understanding. And when the quips went over my head, Jesús would explain them to me slowly and clearly, his patience a comfort. When the boys were being totally ridiculous, Eva would give a quick wink or a smile from across the table. “Ignore them,” she said with her eyes.
They taught me Spanish slang and asked me about my thoughts on Obama and foreign policy as if I spoke for the entire nation. I taught them about the sport of lacrosse – they’d never heard of it. We you-tubed each others’ favorite musicians and found our homes on Google World. Questions and curiosities whirled around over the pile of fries at the center of the table.
So I learned to take my nose out of the air. The value of a meal can best be measured by the communion shared over it. At home it happens over grilled chicken breast, free-range, certified 100% organic. Here it happened over breaded nuggets. The food may be different, but if human connection is the goal, either suffices. Pass the fries, please.
Each and every one of the 16 women in the room chuckled as the radiant Laura shared her story. Sheepishly, Laura admitted that one month ago she realized she was sick of her “degrading, abusive, good-for-nothing” husband and after he hit her, she threw some punches herself and told him to get out.
“Shoot man, we’re laughing at a woman who mistreated someone,” I thought to myself. We shouldn’t be laughing, should we? Surely, conflict should never be resolved violently. Needless to say, the social worker dedicated the following half hour explaining why hitting an abusive man isn’t a good idea and why hitting anyone in general is wrong.
But that’s not to say that laughter doesn’t have a place in the purple room of CEFAM, the women’s center in Arica. Perhaps unpredictably, group therapy sessions for women who have experienced or are currently living with physical, psychological, sexual, or economic abuse are always filled with laughter.
Laughter lifts spirits and dries tears. In this case, it solidified a group of 16 strangers, who identified with Laura’s desperation and frustration and, though perhaps imperfectly, respected her valor, her gutsyness. Okay, so it’s wrong to punch someone. And it’s unsafe to violently engage a 6-foot something member of the armed forces with ready access to a gun, especially given the fact that this year there have been 50 femecides. But, perhaps that’s why everyone laughed. It’s like laughing at a funeral. You know there’s something wrong about it, but it serves an irreplaceable cathartic, unifying purpose.
The several different groups of women with whom I’ve participated in therapy the last two weeks have taught me the surprising amount of joy that persists despite plentitudes of pain. Whether it’s the acogida (first shelter) or the autoayuda (self help) group, there is never a shortage of jokes and good cheer. No matter where they are in their individual journey, the women always seem to have an inexhaustible reserve of joyfulness that may be tapped even moments after tears are shed.
In a self esteem exercise, the four women in the autoayuda group spent time reflecting on their personal characteristics, with an emphasis on the positive ones. They made sashes with “Miss (insert positive adjective here)” and strutted down an imaginary runway to “Pretty Woman” and “I’m too sexy” and explained why they are Miss Generous, Miss Creative, etc. It was a riot!
A week ago, one woman began to realize how dependent she is on her husband, and how lonely and isolated she feels. “But now you have 15 new friends!” another woman said, beaming. The two have since sat together, chatted together, exchanged glances like giddy kindergarteners making friends for the first time.
Joy overflows in the small instances. When one lady hands another a tissue. When Maria, an incredibly strong, resilient woman finds it in herself to dance in her chair every time a cell phone goes off or crack jokes and be the first to laugh at them.
After working through 16 women’s stories of abuse it’s nothing short of a miracle that at the closure of every session, when linked arm-in-arm in a circle, there’s a resounding sense of contentedness. They’ve shared, they’ve cried, they’ve bared their raw, open wounds. They’ve giggled. And laughter is like hope: contagious, curative, imbedded in the resilient human spirit.
*names have been changed
Great article!
