I've been waiting to publish my last blog post until I finished my strike video. I had some trouble downloading the footage, so it has taken a while. Also, editing over 2 hours of footage took me longer than I
thought. I hope there aren't any big mistakes. There are about 2 minutes of meetings in Kiswahili that I didn't feel comfortable writing subtitles for. I will be eternally grateful to anyone who wants to help me with translation. The song at beginning is the melody of the national anthem of Tanzania, South Africa, and several other African nations.
And here is the much awaited, closing article:
“Striped of language, stripped of work and routine—stripped even of the racial obsessions to which I’d become so accustomed and which I had taken (perversely) as a sign of my own maturation—I had been forced to look inside myself and found only a great emptiness there.”
-Obama, Dreams From My Father, pg 302, describing traveling through Europe before reaching Kenya
Suspending my skepticism of political memoirs, I borrowed Obama’s first book during my trip to Rwanda. As I traveled through the hills, I related to his dependence on language, work, and his “racial obsession” while he visited Kenya. I realized that I, too, journeyed to Africa hoping to learn about the world and myself. I had imagined returning home with coherent answers to questions about the significance of my ethnic identity and how I could most effectively contribute to the world.
Instead I’ve come back to Lakeside with more questions than answers. Is my presence in Africa helpful or part of the colonial legacy? Am I able to do anything to meaningfully aid the continent? Should I be working in my own community instead? What is my community?
My head spins as I try to neatly answer these questions and conclude my story.
Despite my questions, as my last days in Dar prove, I have learned and matured during my six months away. I ran errands and visited, retracing my steps from the first months with more confidence. I bid goodbye to the orphans and my students in the wood carvers market. I smiled as I heard employees at the orphanage brag about how much Swahili I’ve learned the wood carvers thank me in English. I surprised myself with my ability to converse, to push in front of lines or on to a crowded dhala dhala, and to bargain for a fair price.
Still, I wonder if my semester abroad was little more than a short distraction, a vacation from myself. I wonder if I will be any more adept at surviving my remaining three semesters in college. When I think about returning to cold Amherst, I long to see colorful fabrics, taste sweet fruit, and hear the lyrical Kiswahili language. I wish I could stop thinking and talking about Tanzania all the time. Instead, everything I hear or see, I compare to Tanzania. I see my orphans in each passing child and wish that they, like Tanzanian children, had never been trained to ignore strangers. I feel out of place here and uncomfortable with the barriers we Americans put up between ourselves.
Since high school, I’ve felt destined to work somewhere in Africa. It’s only after going there, that I feel a seed of doubt. Can anything meaningful be accomplished when fighting against such bureaucracy and government corruption? I do want to return—to use my Kiswahili and help improve standards of living in beautiful countries like Tanzania. But reading Obama’s memoir, makes me wonder whether I belong in Africa or whether I need to find a way to serve my own community—whatever that may be.
Wrapping myself in a khanga instead of a robe after showering, I think about Tanzania and am filled with admiration for the people I met. I admire the mamas carrying heavy loads on their heads and babies on their backs, the Muslim and Christian neighbors who respect each other’s faiths, and the students who dream of education and job opportunities unavailable in their country. But as much as I want to return as soon as possible, I find myself unable to conclusively fit myself into that narrative. Because I have no answers, I have to rely on Tanzanian conventional wisdom and believe that if god wishes I will return.
Kwaheri (goodbye)
"Milima haikutani, lakini binadamu hukutana"
This Tanzanian proverb means that mountains do not meet, but people do.
