Forced instruction and observations of the Great Divide

My trip to the States was wonderful. The trip back home was smooth, but GOD, was it LONG! As I had selected Emerites as my means of travel, I transited at Dubai  - a lovely airport full of all the fountains and fancy shops that you imagine the UAE's international airport would have. After enjoying around 3 hours of free wireless internet, I hopped on my last flight for the day - Dubai to Nairobi. My plan was to sleep the entire ride so that by the time I finally reached my bf's waiting arms, I'd be awake and coherent. Much to my chagrin however, the Indian Kenyan gentleman who was seated next to me decided my time was better served hearing him tell me his entire life story. I tried sending him hints like putting on my earphones, pretending to read my Nook, etc, but none of my tactics for peace and quiet worked. He was a nice enough guy, but I was just so bloody exhausted....in a vain effort to at least keep the conversation interesting, I ended up picking his brain about the "African Kenyan"-"Indian Kenyan" divide. As I expected, his opinion of the African Kenyan population was not pretty yo say the least. He described a deep mistrust by the Indians of the African Kenyans. He bragged that, unlike his fellow Indians, he was "good" to "the Africans," but added the caveat that this was because should he not be, "they'd stab me in the back." "If you're bad to them, he explained in a matter-of-fact tone, "they remember, you know. They'll never forget the unkindness you showed them. And one day, they will get back at you. You know, those people, they never separated completely from the animal. They act first and then, only after they have attacked you, that is when they will think about that action that they have taken. They can be very dangerous people." He went on and on...I just looked at him dumb-founded, wondering what he would say if I told him I completely disagree, that I have numerous African friends who are perfectly lovely and trust-worthy, or how I've fallen in love with an African man (oooh, God forbid!) and couldn't care less if anybody disapproves of the relationship we've formed. My Indian seatmate, however, interpreted my dumb-struck expression as portraying "interest" and thus went on to tell me how one of his distant family members "actually married an African." I'm surprised they are still together," he remarked, "because most Indians who try relationships with Africans don't see success. Yet those two have made it so far and they even have a kid! But what a funny-looking kid it is. I always laugh when I think of that funny looking kid..." And he went on and on...

I never did get any sleep and as a result zonked out in my bf's arms at the early hour of 8 in the evening.  

Every other country I've visited, I've observed interracial relationships between the local populations, be they different colors, ethnicities, what have you. In Kenya, it is common enough to see "African Kenyans" forming relationships with wazungu (whites), but I have never seen a couple made up of a "African Kenyan" and "African Indian." It just doesn't happen. And the divide seems to go further than that. I never see the two populations mix and there seems to be a bitterness between the two. "Indian Kenyans" have been around for decades, if not generations. Many have Kenyan passports, speak fluent Swahili, and feel more comfortable in Kenya than they do in India. Indeed, many young Indian-Kenyans have never even been to India at all! And yet, despite all the years they have lived here, Indian-Kenyans still somehow manage, and seem to prefer, to keep themselves separate from the African majority.  

Baby making

Am sitting in Mom's office enjoying this country's high speed internet when one of Mom's nurses stops by to say hello and to give me her 2 cents at the obvious - "your mom really wants grandchildren, you know. I already have 2," she says with a proud grin. "And just so you know, you don't need a husband to get a baby anymore. Back in my day, if you had a child out of wedlock, you were called a slut, but these days, oh no, you can have a baby without a man with no problem to ya." She goes on to tell me how her daughter just went ahead and got impregnated by a sperm donor and "she's doing just fine." She gives me a hinting look as if to say, "you could do that too, you know!" I grinned back at her and, just for kicks, told her that I'd definitely consider her idea.

A conversation with Dad

My father is coming to East Africa for the first time early February. To get him upbeat and excited about the trip, I've been giving him a daily sprinkling of cool aspects of daily life in Kenya. Here is this morning's tidbit:

Me: "Dad, Dad, so in Kenya, one of the cool things you'll need to try are the  hard-boiled eggs with pilipili."

Dad: "Pilipili, huh?"

Me: "Yeah, there are these vendors that stand out on the street. They carry with them these huge plastic containers full of freshly boiled, hard-boiled eggs."

Dad "Uhuh."

Me: "When you order one from them, they have this neat way of grabbing you're selected egg with a plastic bag and pealing it without having ever touched the egg with their bare hands. So it's sanitary, you see, Dad?"

Dad: "Yup, gottit, so what's the big deal about the egg?"

Me: "Well, after they peal your egg, they slice it open with a knife, sprinkle it with salt, and then cover it with this spicy salsa that is just to die for."

Dad: "And then what?"

Me: "Then you eat it."

Dad: "What about the broken shells?"

Me: "They throw those on the ground."

Dad responds by raising an eyebrow in disapproval about people throwing eggshells on the ground part, as opposed to in the garbage or compost (love my Dad for that - he's so GREEN).

Me: "Yeah, but anyway, Dad, the egg and salsa...it's really good."

Dad: "Hymm, well how do you eat it?"

Me: "Just like that, Dad. They just give it to you in the plastic bag they've been using to prep your egg."

Dad: "They don't give you a fork and knife?"

I take a moment to study Dad's expression. No humor there. That was a serious question. I smile, "no fork and knife, Dad. You just pop the egg in your mouth. 2 or 3 bites and you're done! You'll love it, don't worry."

Dad: "Hymph. We'll see." Then he lightens up a bit, "I might have difficulty eating something like that though." He turns and gives me his famous I-just-made-a-joke-grin, "my whiskers would get in the way!" He chuckles to himself and walks away.

For all his idiosyncrasies and eccentricities, my Dad cracks me up more than any human being on the planet. He and I drive each other nuts sometimes, but you know how it is... Our parents are the ones who raised us, have seen us at our most ashamed, proud, emotional, what have you. They've been there to help us clean up the pieces after this or that relationship, to boast on our behalf and pull the curtain when we're not doing so hot. Our love for, and dedication to them runs so deep that not even the most bitter of disagreements or longest periods apart can change how much we care for them. So as much as I have certainly learned the importance of deep, chaturanga breathing during Dad's emotional moments, I adore him to pieces. And by the way, for the record, you will never see a smile on face in your direction if you mistreat him. Treat him like gold however and I will love you, bending over backwards in your times of need. 

Sometimes Fate calls and sometimes it YELLS!

October saw me leading my first circuit ride to the sandy expanse of Dadaab, Kenya - home to the world's largest refugee settlement. Though certainly not free of challenges, the ride was a success both in terms of refugee processing and in me keeping my team safe in the midst of the escalating insecurity that has now led to the current war between Kenya and al-Shabaab. I returned home to Nairobi thoroughly exhausted, but relieved having done my very best during a ride where so many things COULD HAVE, but DIDN'T go wrong.

In the field, members of our field team works long hours on weekdays, weekends and holidays. When we get back to Nairobi therefore we are given much deserved R and R. This time around, I was allotted 8 days. 

Now, I am not usually the most superstitious person. If a black cat looks like it might cross my path, I do hold my breath hoping that it won't, but if it does walk in front of me, I won't let it ruin my day. If I find a heads-up coin or a four-leaf clover, I will count myself as lucky, but I am not the type to go planning my days according to my horoscope. Last week however, an idea popped into my head as if slipped in there by God Himself (well, actually by my bf) and then Life found a way of popping in coincidences that just so happened to work in favor of that very idea becoming a reality. 

Before revealing the idea though, I must interject that recently I have been struck by an almost overwhelming amount of homesickness - the kind of homesickness that leaves you in tears staring forlorn into the unseeable distance. The ME wanting to be strong was frustrated with these feelings, but for the life of me, I couldn't shake them. I started stressing myself out wondering when I'd be able to move back to the States (if ever), wanting to live close to my parents like my brother, and even feeling bitterness towards my bf seeing him as the one keeping me far away from home as opposed to the job I've chosen and still enjoy. Needless to say, I wasn't in a good spot emotionally. And so, my ever patient bf suggested to the teary-eyed me that I try going home for a visit rather than immediately entertaining rash ideas of moving back completely. 

It started just like that. A simple idea planted in my head by someone I love.

Coincidence 1: I Expedia (yes I'm making that a verb) round-trip tickets to the States. I expected the rates to be at least 1.5K. I find a ticket for 1,017USD, inclusive of all taxes. 

"Interesting," I think to myself. 

Coincidence 2: My 8 days of R and R conveniently line up with Thanksgiving and the Friday after (also an office holiday) meaning 2 full weeks of me having nothing to do. 

"Interesting," I think to myself. 

Coincidence 3: I must admit that after the above 2 coincidences, I did get a tad bit excited, but that optimism was immediately dampened by the realization that I no longer had my passport in my possession. Just like in any country, foreigners working in Kenya require a work permit issued by the Kenyan Government. Mine was about to expire so my office had re-submitted my passport to get a new permit issued. The problem, however, is always that nobody knows when the Government will actually issue you your permit. Sometimes it takes 2 weeks, other times it take months. My passport had been with the Government for a month, so it was anybody's guess as to when it would come back to me.

The following workday, I asked my friend and colleague in HR to check up on my passport. "I'm toying with the idea of flying home to surprise my parents, but can't even consider the idea if I'm without my passport. Do you think it might be ready?" She gave me a doubtful look, but agreed to do me the favor of checking in. 

The next day rolls in and my friend/colleague has a big grin on her face. "You'll never guess what I have with me," she says to me, barely able to conceal her excitement. "No way...," I say as I realize what she might be hinting at. She then dives her hand into her pocket and reveals my passport with my new permit intact! "You're good to go, lady! Go surprise your family!" 

I bought my tickets as soon as I returned home, booking a departure for the following Monday at 10:55PM. But there was one more possible hitch. I was scheduled for surgery Monday morning, a surgery I could no longer put off. 

 Coincidence 4:  The weekend flies by, as it always does when I am in Nairobi (I blame it on a certain Kenyan). Early Monday morning, my bf takes a jumpy me to Aga Khan Hospital. I haven't packed anything for my trip and I'm nervous that something will go wrong during the surgery that will keep me in the hospital longer than planned. We're shown my room in the private wing, I change into my surgical gown and I'm wheeled off to the theatre (aka "operating room"in my part of the world) where I'm told corny jokes by the nurses and knocked out cold moments later by the anesthesiologist. 

I end up having to stay at the hospital till 6. Thankfully my bf is there for me throughout and assist the very groggy and dizzy me get home safely. I distinctly remember feeling as if I had somehow downed 5 shots of Zappa. All I wanted to do was crash and even the simplest questions by our driver or even my bf seemed to be the most confusing ever! Fortunately I didn't crash and managed to throw at least a shirt or two in my bag before my bf carefully led the very chemically drunk me to the airport-bound taxi. 

Coincidence 5: Both my flight to Dubai and my connecting flight to JFK were on-time and smooth. 

Coincidence 6: My JASC friend from way back agreed to host me for an overnight in NYC and just so happened to have an apartment located 2 minutes from Penn Station (where I take my trains to Upstate NY). 

Coincidence 7: ...And this is perhaps the most shocking of them all, my father who LOOOOVES to talk was actually able to keep it a secret from my mother that I would be visiting. 

------

And then comes the grand finale. 

Dad calls Mom at work and tells her this grand fabrication about how 2 of their old buddies from NYC had randomly decided to pop by Cooperstown (our village) for a surprise visit. "Oh how wonderful," Mom replies, "will I be able to see them too?" "Oh yes," Dad answers smoothly, "I actually already invited the 2 of them to join us at Bocca  for dinner this evening. We're meeting at 7. You'll meet us there?" "Got it," replies Mom obliviously. 

Several hours later, a confused Mom walks into Bocca. She sees Dad, but no buddies from NYC. "Where are they," she asks Dad while craning her neck to look around. I walk out from my hiding spot. Mom had thought that she wouldn't get to see me for another year mind you. She looked at me and her mouth dropped. 

"Wha...what are you...what are you doing here," she asked me, her voice already faltering?  

And then the flush to her cheeks came. "What are you doing here??" <bear hug> "What are you doing here, Amity? What are you doing here?" <question repeated x100> And then the happy tears came. And came and...it was one of my happiest moments. Those happy tears of my mother, they're the stuff I live on. 

It feels so good to be home.  

Nippon ni modoritai

Perhaps it is because so much of my life has been focused around work lately, but I have been increasingly nostalgic for the life in the States and Japan recently. The latter feeling was intensified yesterday when I payed a visit to a local fishery in Westlands, called Aloha. Every Tuesday and Friday they get shipments of freshly caught fish straight from Mombasa.Yesterday being Tuesday, I was able to purchase SUSHI GRADE tuna for the very affordable price of 350 shillings. Inspired by the mere idea of having access to sushi grade tuna in AFRICA, I rushed off to the home business of a Japanese friend of mine in order to purchase nori (seaweed), wasabi (horse radish) and Ugandan rice (the closest thing Kenya has to the sumptuous short-grained, sticky rice of Japan). My Japanese friend seemingly hadn't spoken in Japanese for a while and gladly chatted on and on with me for, ohhh, I'd say a good 30 minutes! Surprisingly my Japanese skills are still very much in tact, even after a year and a half away from Japan. It felt so GOOD chatting away with her. Not that we talked about anything that interesting, but the stereotypical mannerisms she has as a native Japanese seriously made my heart pound with pure joy! I really miss Japan. I miss the people, the food, the culture, I miss the little things that made up my life there. I left in March 2010. Wonder when I'll finally get a chance to go back again?

Dadaab showers

Rainstorms in Dadaab take your breath away. One minute the skies are blue, the sand is blistering under your sandaled feat and the sun is so hot on the back of your neck that you feel like an ant being tortured by a 4 year old with a magnifying glass. The next minute you can hardly hear because the rain is crashing down with such intensity on the tin roof above you. Even those with excellent focus must stop and stare wide-eyed out the doorway as curtains of rain pelt the sand below. The rain stops 20 minutes later and everybody exhales seemingly simultaneously, as if in their awe-struck observation of the  turbulent rains, they'd accidentally held their breath the entire time. This part of the world has been dry for far too long. Crops have withered and bore holes have run dry. But now the rains have come again and the Somalis breath a sigh of relief. The last several months have seen tens of thousands of their brothers and sisters flee for their lives and too often collapse with starvation. Now the rains have come and God willing, a breath of rejuvenated life. 

Dadaab - a humanitarian crisis

It's surreal to be here - in the heart of the world's largest humanitarian aid effort. Dadaab already hosted the largest refugee population in the world. Then the summer of 2011 saw drought and famine in Somalia, northern Kenya and southern Ethiopia. Dadaab then saw thousands of Somalis DAILY fleeing into Kenya in search of safety and sustenance. I have heard that the UN has managed to receive 1,000 per day, but even those numbers do not reflect the actual population flows Dadaab has been overwhelmed with. The current number of registered refugees in Dadaab is around 455,000. MSF estimates that by the end of this year, the number of Somalis seeking refuge in Dadaab's refugee camps will pass 500,000. The UN, IOM, MSF and other aid organizations are doing their very best to provide the refugees with the aid they need, but with #s increasing daily, al-Shabaab led violence, kidnappings and carjackings on the rise, providing sufficient aid is proving difficult. MSF recently posted statistics on their website which state that in a recent nutrition survey of children seeking refuge in the the outskirts of one of Dadaab's 4 camps, "37.7 percent of children between six months and five years old were suffering from acute malnutrition," while "43.3 percent of children between five and 10 years old were malnourished." 

Referenced article: 

http://www.msf.org/msf/articles/2011/08/dadaab-kenya-somalis-fighting-for-survival.cfm

Kidnappings in Dadaab

14 Oct 2011

Update on the two MSF staff abducted in Kenya

Yesterday, Thursday October 13, an MSF team suffered an attack in Dadaab, Kenya. One of the MSF drivers, Mohamed Hassan Borle, age 31, was injured during this attack; his medical condition is stable, he is out of danger and remains hospitalized. Two international staff, both Spanish, were taken. As yet, MSF has not been able to establish contact with the two staff taken. A crisis team has been set up to deal with this incident.

The two Spanish colleagues abducted are Montserrat Serra, age 40, from Girona (Palafrugell) and Blanca Thiebaut, age 30, from Madrid, both working as logisticians for MSF in the Dadaab refugee camp. Their families have been informed. MSF is calling on all media to respect the privacy of the families in this difficult time.

"We are in regular contact with the families of our colleagues involved and relevant authorities since the first moments. We are doing all we can to ensure their safe and swift return. Our thoughts are with them and their families," says José Antonio Bastos, president of MSF in Spain.

Following the attack, MSF has evacuated part of its team working in Dagahaley and Ifo, two of the three refugee camps in Dadaab. As a consequence, crucial medical activities had to be stopped. However, MSF is still maintaining its life-saving activities.

This attack is jeopardizing the assistance to thousands of people in urgent need of humanitarian aid and a quick and satisfactory solution is necessary.

These incidents call for prudence and discretion. In order to facilitate the best and swiftest resolution of the incident, MSF will not provide further information for the moment nor will it comment on statements, rumors or public information related to it.

MSF is also calling on all actors involved to refrain from commenting publicly about this incident. “The current publicity around the incident is particularly unhelpful, for it can only hurt the families and jeopardize efforts to get our colleagues back,” says Bastos.

 

MSF started providing medical assistance in Dadaab in 2009.

 

Source: http://www.msf.org/msf/articles/2011/10/en/update-on-the-two-msf-staff-abducted-in-kenya.cfm

Promotion....!!!zzzz...!!!

I am being told that lately I have not been as avid a blogger as certain readers would hope. Just as I was was about to argue to the contrary, it occurred to me that my last post was a couple weeks ago already. Realization countering retaliation, I write again.

The past couple weeks have been exhausting, but professionally challenging and exciting. I have been promoted to the position of Field Team Leader. Just like before I am based in Nairobi. I spend around 2 weeks in Nairobi and then head off to the field for 3-4 week circuit rides. Before, I was a caseworker. In that position, my main role in the field was to interview refugees; individuals, who had fled their home countries due to persecution, could not return because of feared continued persecution and could not remain in their host country because of lack of integration prospects, security risks, further persecution, etc. Through refugee testimony, I’d piece together their flight stories, persecution claims, and other application materials, which would in turn be adjudicated by Homeland Security. It was a fascinating position to be in, but eventually I got to the point where I wanted to impact refugees’ lives on a wider scale. As a Field Team Leader, I am responsible for the overall processing, security, management, interpreters, communication with the UN, IOM etc while my team is out in the field. The team changes each time we deploy from Nairobi. Sometimes there are as many as 25+ people on a team, other times there are 3 or 4. I’m only on my first circuit ride as an FTL, but so far things are going well. I’ve a strong team that gets along well and I am in a field location that I’ve always enjoyed working. Plus I hit the ground running so to speak in terms of my determination to lead a successful circuit ride. New FTL or not, I wanted to give my team my best. Hopefully that’s evident in the work I produce. :p     

Recommended read

Interesting article relating a displaced Somali's return to his homeland.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/25/opinion/sunday/returning-to-somalia-after-20-years.html?_r=2&ref=opinion

Impressions of Khartoum (continued)

"so, how many blacks did you interact with there? the north is accused of racism...? if so, did you see any of that? how did people feel about the break up? what were your impressions of the conflict there? what was your main task? seems like Khartoum is insulated from all the fighting...?" - PP 

The vast majority of my time in Khartoum saw me either consumed with work or passed out in a coma-like sleep. We worked past 8pm on most nights and on others, till 11:30. Regardless, we did somehow manage to fit in some exploration time during which I was able to get a decent taste of the political and social climate, not to mention stuff myself silly with Lebanese food (it's diet time, btw, for the next several months!)! 

By "blacks," I am assuming you mean darker-skinned Africans, such as those from Darfur, S Sudan, etc (I'm still getting used to Ethiopians, Eritreans and other lighter skinned Africans considering themselves "brown," as opposed to "black;" and referring to themselves as "Ethiopian" and "Eritrean," but never "African.")? Yes, I did see and interact with a number of "blacks" during my stay in Khartoum, something I found surprising. Noting the government's propensity for xenophobia, one would think that someone of darker skin tone would find life in the "Sudanese Arab"-dominated north precarious to say the least. Apparently this is not true for all, however. During our ventures out into the city, we saw individuals that were dark as night even, sitting peacefully (or seemingly so, at least) in Khartoum's cafes, or working as wait staff. We had a chance to chat with an individual from S Sudan and another from Darfur, both of whom seemed comfortable with their lives in the North. In fact the S Sudanese guy was actually complaining about his new change in nationality because it meant he would now have to apply for a work permit and visa to remain in Khartoum. Our driver, who I guess would be classified as "brown," (???) told us that he loved President Bashir and basically said "good riddance" when we asked him for his opinion about S Sudan's independence. "The Southerners caused us so much trouble," he remarked. "They never wanted to be apart of this country. I'm glad they're on their own now." None of the locals we met in Khartoum seemed to think ill of the Bashir administration. None seemed to be disadvantaged by Bashir's continued rule, except of course the refugees, whose every day lives are led in fear that they will not see the next. Persecution against refugees, especially those who are Christian, is real and daunting. I left Khartoum wondering to myself if the refugees I interviewed would be safe as they made their way back to the camps, let alone till the adjudication of their USRAP applications.

Because of the observations I noted above, I do feel that Khartoum is isolated from the fighting in Darfur and along the border with S Sudan. At no time, did my colleagues and I feel that our safety was threatened. We were free to walk around the city as we wished, regardless of the time of day. As a non-Muslim woman I was not expected to where a head scarf. I was however expected to respect the laws and traditions. Alcohol (for men and women) is forbidden and women are expected to dress on the conservative side (long-sleeved tops that do not expose the chest and dresses/pants that loosely cover the legs). Khartoum may be safe for a white westerner like me, or a light-skinned, Arabic speaking Sudanese, but the same cannot be said for less fortunate migrant, refugees particularly. Sudan is the first country of asylum to thousands of refugees, but we consistently heard stories of refugees being arbitrarily locked up, tortured, and harassed. Sudan is predominantly Muslim and adheres to Sharia law. Nothing wrong with that, except that Christian refugees are not able to avail themselves basic human rights guaranteed to them by international law (Sudan has been a signatory to the UN Convention/Protocol Relating to the Status of Refugees since 1974. Reference: here). They report relentless hardship, inclusive of rape, taunting, death threats and suppression of their rights to movement, religion, education and employment.     

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USRAP: United States Refugee Admissions Program         

Farewell

Just back from dropping my mother off at JKIA (Nairobi's main airport). We were together for a whirlwind of 10 days during which Mom experienced everything from Luo cooking and dancing lessons to Zanzibar's spice farms, sumptuous cuisine and disturbing history. My house feels quiet; too quiet. My bed, sofa, chairs, ...even the air in between!...feel empty, as if they are all on pause, waiting patiently for the warmth and love that Mom brought to them. As I said my farewells to Mom at the airport, I was still riding on that natural high that comes from familial companionship and reunification. No tears came as my cab driver and I spend off back to Westlands. In fact, I was smiling to myself. Mom's visit had brought such a breath of fresh air and comfort to my life.

Back in my cottage now. I'm stretched out on my lumpy sofa, lost in thought. Mom's footsteps out the door have left this place encased in a silence that seems deafening. She hasn't been out of my sight for even 2 hours, yet I find myself yearning for the sound of her voice, or even the mere sound of her rummaging through her things. 

Tears come...

 Dammit. I thought I was stronger than this. I miss you, Mom. Safe journey home. Come back soon. 

Hello from Zanzibar

We are now on the semi-autonomous island of Zanzibar, located off the coast of Tanzania. It is a lush island rich with flora, animal, avian and aquatic life. The locals are a mix of dark-sinned Africans and “cappuccinos,” as they called themselves, the result of generations of intermarriage between Indians, blacks, Italians, Portuguese, Osmani, you name it. We've found the "Zanzabarians" to be very pleasant and hospitable, eager to share their culture and history. 


We've found Zanzibar to be the perfect short vacation as it has many attractions including historic sights, luxuries (spas, sandy, white beaches, scuba diving, etc), cuisine (world's most amazing octopus) and nature (red colubus monkeys, ant eaters, mangroves, dolphins, etc). At the same time, the island is relatively small in size making most of the attractions easily accessible. Yesterday, the three of us traveled to the spice farms where our guide introduced us to the abundant variety of spices and fruits the island has to offer. Cinnamon, cumin, lemon grass, ginger, chili, black pepper, coffee, you name it, it was probably there. During our tour, we were assisted by a young villager named Ali who happily climbed up into the trees and into the prickly bushes to pick samples of the spices for us to taste and smell. He and other village children also wove hats, purses and rings out of banana leave for Mom and I, as well as a crown and tie for my bf. :) Our guide also amused us with alternative uses for the spices we were being introduced to. Nutmeg, for example, is used by the locals as a female aphrodisiac, while turmeric can be used to cure acne. 


Today Mom wasn't feeling well, so my bf and I went on a snorkeling date to Bahe Island and also to Prison Island. The latter doesn't sound all that romantic, I know, but I promise you it really is. The beaches on that island are lovely and it is home to countless tortoises, offspring of the 4 tortoises gifted to Zanzibar by the Seychelles government in 1919. The tortoises were neat. You could get right up next to them and watch as they chomped away on their spinach and other greens. The larger tortoises there were well over a century old and showed no signs of kicking the bucket any time soon. There were also newly born tortoises barely the size of your palm - absolutely adorable! 


More to come later! For now though, I am afraid that I am in too desperate need for a nap that I don't dare to type any longer, less I start typing gibberish! Cheers from sunny Zanzibar! Pictures to come. :) 



Impressions of Khartoum

Perhaps I am more influenced by Western media and resigned to believe other people's opinions than I care to confess. 


I expected Khartoum to be different. 

I expected a city like the Taliban-run Kabul that Khaled Husseini writes about in his novel, A Thousand Splendid Suns. I expected a city dominated by Arab-looking men in white jallabiya and white taqiyah. I expected Khartoum’s women to only be those able to walk the streets if they were covered head to toe in black burkas - like moving shadows against city walls - seen, but never to be heard or interacted with. Before I departed from Nairobi I was told (and mistakenly took as fact) that as a woman, men in Sudan wouldn't address me or answer any questions I might have; that I would be "treated as if I didn't exist;" that I should "just resign to the fact that I would need to do all my communication through a male colleague." 

And then I got off the plane. 

And then day 1 went by. And day 2 and day 3...and I am still not experiencing any sort of gender-based discrimination. Though nearly all women here where the hijab (a shawl  wrapped around the head to cover a woman's head and neck), I've only seen a handful of them in full burka. All women are expected to dress conservatively, but non-Muslim women need not wear a head scarf. I have been wearing long skirts and long-sleeved shirts each day and I have not felt any disapproving eyes from the general public. 

Whereas in Nairobi, I am constantly on my guard for possible purse snatchers or con-artists, my gut feeling about Khartoum is that it is safe. And this has been affirmed by UN staff, expats,  and even our security officer back home. Darfur? The border region between Sudan and the newly independent South Sudan? Not so safe. Khartoum is safe however and when you ask the local expats why they'll tell you it is because of Sharia Law. They say if you get caught steeling you're hand will be cut off. Alcohol consumption is forbidden for me and women alike; and it is not just women, but men too who are expected to dress conservatively. I have noticed that people here lean more towards generosity, particularly to guests and the poor. The poor, in return, are just as respectful. A beggar in Nairobi will ask you for more if your charity doesn't meet their inarguable assessment of what you're capable of giving. Beggars here will thank you profusely regardless of what you give and then be off on their way.  

Sudan gets a bad wrap because of a laundry list of issues - Darfur is the first that comes to mind. Darfur is the region in western Sudan that has seen some of the world's worse human rights violations. Sudan's president, Omar Bashir is most often held responsible. He is accused of using the Janjaweed, or "Devils on Horseback" to wipe out the ethnic Fur and other native Darfuris. 2.9 million Darfuris have been displaced so far and there doesn't seem to be a plausible end in sight.  Fighting appeared to have been diminishing in the early 2000s, but has seen an intensification in 2010/11. With the long-awaited independence of South Sudan after 20 plus years of bloody conflict, the world now wonders, "now what about Darfur?" 

<to be continued...this blogger needs some "Z"s>

Something sad…

A not so distant evening in the past saw some colleagues and I chatting over dinner at one of Khartoum’s many outdoor cafés. As friends so often do, each of us threw into the conversation relevant stories from our past and tidbits about countries we knew best. One friend tossed in stories about the Middle East, while another matched his with tales from the Swahili Coast. Not wanting to be sidelined, I tried throwing in Japan tidbits. Disinterest fell like silk across their their faces and my Japan contributions were frustrated with interruptions of a completely unrelated topic. Japan is one of my favorite conversation pieces and yet when I talk about the country here, in Africa, people look as if I’m talking about the driest thing ever. I realize that most people here haven't been infected with the East Asian bug, but honestly, it's difficult for me to dampen my passion for the country even after a year and a half of living on the opposite side of the world. I realize it sounds childish, but it hurts when people seem disinterested in what I have to say. And it is one of my biggest pet peeves when someone "mulitasks" when I'm sharing something with them. I'm not so conceited to think that everything I have to say is the most fascinating bit of knowledge you've gained all day, but at least show me the respect I think and hope I show you. When sharing my frustrations about this evening with someone close to me, it was pointed out that he, at least, doesn't think I am always as good at listening as I prefer to think I am. This saddens me, but at least it is something I can do something about! Try again and again, my dear, and you will see what a great confidant I can be. 

7-11 (Khartoum Day 2)

My blogging editing tools have been automatically switched to Arabic...it took me a good 5 minutes of trial and error just to get to "compose a new entry." Good grief...hate it when my pc tries to outsmart me. f-_-;

Today was our first day of interviewing refugees in Khartoum. The refugees were all cooperative and gentle souls, but good God did their cases take forever to complete. Personally, I had to complete the equivalent of 6 cases, two of which were for a family of 8! On top of that, we had major IT issues that delayed processing so much so that we were literally working from 7:30am to 11:00 PM. ELEVEN! Thank God  the three of us love our jobs because we certainly don't get paid enough for the number of hours we put it in the field - especially on this circuit ride. By the time 8pm rolled on by, my right hand started going numb from clicking my mouse all day. By 8:30, my female colleague and I gave up on any shyness we might have had inside us and started singing out loud to Blondie and Beyonce. By 9, we reached that point where you're so tired that the littlest things will make you giggle till your stomach hurts. By 9:30, we became dizzy from having focused our eyes on our computer screens for so long. By10, we were complete zombies. And by 10:30, I found myself envying my cigarette-smoking colleagues because at least they had a pick-me-up (for the record though, I didn't pick up a cig myself...and never will :p). It's miraculous how inspiring hard-working colleagues can be however. As exhausted as I was, there was no way I was going to be the first to throw in the towel. I'm sure my colleagues felt the same way. It was only after our Field Team Leader asked us for the 5th time if we wanted to pack up and head back to the hotel that my fellow female colleague and I finally conceded. 

Tomorrow the cases will be smaller in size and our IT issues shouldn't be as cumbersome as they were today. Personally, I'm praying that by the end of the day tomorrow, I will have a stack of completed, all-my-"i"s-and-"t"s-crossed-cases to feel proud of.      

Sinful till the last minute (Khartoum Day 1)

Arrived safe and sound in Khartoum after a fairly pleasant flight on Kenyan Airways. Thankfully our logistics officer avoided making our flight reservations with Sudan Airways as they apparently have one of the poorest reputations worldwide, not to mention several recent crashes. <gulp> While still in the air, one of my colleagues and I decided to have a light drink seeing as drinking alcoholic beverages is forbidden in Sudan. When I went back to the flight attendant area to request a bottle of wine however I was met with a surprisingly cheerful male, Kenyan flight attendant. He grinned at me and asked how long I'd be in Sudan. "Two weeks," I replied. "Oh God, don't take just one bottle of wine then," he said, "take two!" He then handed me two small bottles of white wine and gave me a knowing wink.Back at my seat, a Brit sitting next to us assured us that we could easily get through Sudanese Customs with the extra bottle of wine by just concealing it in our pockets (Sudanese Customs officers only check bags). Not wanting to risk being the one foreigner who DID get caught with alcohol at Customs, I ended up leaving my extra bottle of wine in the airplane. Call me a wimp, but having a celebratory swing of wine at the end of the day just isn't worth getting deported from a country known to be strict when it comes to crimes forbidden under Sharia Law.I'm only here for 2 weeks so I'll abide by their rules and taboos. Long-skirts and no alcohol it is. ...Interestingly enough though, my male colleague WAS able to  pass through Customs with a bottle or two of those small brandy bottles in his pocket. 

We have arrived in Khartoum late at night so I've yet to experience the Sudanese culture, atmosphere, food etc. I will be sure to write again soon though so as to share my experiences. After all, as my org's HR head said to me yesterday, "of all places!! Who gets to say they've been to Sudan?"   

It's a Hard Knock Life

Githurai, Nairobi - full of life, but no place to sit on the curb and sip your coffee latte. Born and raised in Nairobi, my better half writes in his blog that Githurai is an area infamous for prostitution, insecurity and filth. My first impression was along the same grounds. As we walked from the bus stop towards our destination, I observed block after block of dilapidated buildings, foul garbage heaps, and emaciated goats and chickens. Like elsewhere in Nairobi, Githurai was humming with activity, business and people trying to make the best out of their lot in life. And although I was probably the only white girl walking Githurai's streets that day, I was welcomed by curious looks and the smiles of men, women and children alike. 

After 10 minutes of lugging our bags of groceries and other donations through Githurai's congested streets, we arrived at last at our destination - Open Hand Children's Home (OHCH). OHCH is an orphanage founded in 2003 with the aim of acting as a beacon of hope for abandoned children. It is a small compound of about 3, inter-connected, small buildings that houses about 20 children ranging from around 15 down to a a couple weeks old. We spent the majority of our time with 2 adorable infants named Victor and Victoria both abandoned by their parents when they were less than a week old. We were told that one of the children had been found abandoned in a ditch, while another was found tossed away in a plastic bag. INFANTS! How can a woman carry a baby in her womb for 9 months and then feel so little connection and love for that child that she is literally willing to throw that baby away? Not ready for a baby? Sweetie, you should have taken precautions to not have that baby in the first place. Didn't plan on getting pregnant? Do the best you can anyway. As the mother of that child, it is your obligation to do the absolute best you can to give that child the best life possible, be that by raising that child yourself, or by ensuring that that child is in loving, capable adoptive hands.  

I coddled and cooed to baby Victor for a good hour, if not 2. His wide, tear-rimmed, brown eyes stared up at me the entire time. I am hardly in the position to adopt a child, but oh if I could...    

Last days in Kakuma (Part II)

Turkana woman

After the coffee ceremony, my firends/colleagues and I went window shopping in the Somali section of the camp. I was in the tail end of the group as I was trying to call our driver to have him pick us up. As I was trying to find his number, I was taken by complete surprise when an elderly Turkana suddenly appeared at my side. She began pulling at my sleeve, begging me for money with such desperation in her voice that I was paralyzed for a moment or two in shock. Kenya, Ethiopia and Somalia are going through what is considered the worse drought and famine in 60 years (see the following BBC article for more information, http://www.bbc.co.uk/search/news/?q=turkana). Turkana, the indigenous people of northeastern Kenya have been particularly hard hit as they are a nomadic tribe in a remote part of Kenya that tends to, even under normal conditions, be dry and arid. When I looked at the Turkana lady today, I saw tears streaming down her face. I was taken back so much by the experience...White people, referred to as wazungu in Swahili, are generally assumed to be wealthy. I am used to people begging me for money - it is a regular experience when walking in downtown Nairobi. But this lady...God, I can't recall a time where I've seen such desperation in somebody's eyes...In hindsight I think that the moral, human thing to do would have been for me to give her some money. Instead I apologized to her in Swahili and quickened my pace. In my defense, I was scared. The distance between my friends and I was widening, and I was in the middle of a refugee camp with no security guards to come to my rescue. Our security head back in Nairobi had warned us prior to our departure to Kakuma that desperation among the Turkana was/is growing. Large numbers of their population are literally starving to death. When that Turkana lady grabbed hold of my sleeve like she did and I saw the desperation in her eyes, I found myself wondering, "to what lengths would I go if my children were starving? What violence would I consider to get them the food that they need?" I realized that just like me, the Turkana lady would do anything save her family. What woman wouldn't? My mother always says, "messing with me is one thing, but try messing with my family and you've got another thing coming." With such thoughts in my head, my eyes bugged out, I shook the my arm to loosen the lady's grip and sped off in the direction of my friends and safety.

But now, as I am sitting in the comfort and safety of my UN accommodation, I remain wondering, did I do the right thing? Should I have given her the money she so desperately needed, or would have that put my safety in jeopardy? Surely handing out money to one desperate soul would lead to tens, if not hundreds, of other hands reaching out towards me for their share? And if I refused them money when I had just offered to another, would they let me walk away freely? I have my doubts...

Last days in Kakuma (Part I)

Our circuit ride to Kakuma Refugee Camp seems like it just began a couple days ago and yet now we are about to make our way back to Nairobi. Though I miss a certain somebody horribly while I am away from Kenya's capital city, I really do thrive on life in the field. Interaction with refugees and refugees' culture aside, I love how, especially in rural, field locations like Kakuma, it is easy to get into a healthy routine of eating healthy, waking up early, exercising and socializing with friends. Though we are in the middle of the desert, for example, we are living in a UN compound which allows for 24/7 protection by top notch security, decent food options and gym access. 24 hour security allows me to go for solo runs (within the confines of the compound) without having to look over my shoulder every second. The food is not amazing, but it is more than edible and in some instances, quite tasty. The gym in Kakuma is newly built and actually has decent equipment. I have gotten into the habit of running a couple times around the compound in the evenings and then hitting the gym to tone my arms and abs. Many of my colleagues also seem keen to keep healthy so every time I return from jogging, I find at least a handful of my team at the gym running on the tred mills or lifting weights. There's a real sense of camaraderie on this field team...we've really got a good, fun, hard working group of guys and ladies  that I truly enjoy working and spending time with. Last night, thanks to the dj-ing skills of a certain member of our team and the decent speakers IOM has invested in, we were able to have a dance party under the stars till the early hours of the morning - it was no clubbing night in Nairobi, of course, but fantastic fun nonetheless!

Traditional Ethiopian meal - Njera with various stews
and sauces

Today a bunch of us went to Kakuma 1 Refugee Camp (there is also Kakuma 2 and Kakuma 3), to the same Ethiopian restaurant my new friend Sarah and I went to last Sunday. We had the same njera dish with various stews and sauces, but we also got the unique opportunity (unique while working outside of Ethiopia, at least) to enjoy a traditional Ethiopian coffee ceremony. Once we were done with our meals, the wife of the restaurant's owner came over to our house with a hot plate filled with freshly browned coffee beans. She went around to each of us fanning the fragrance of freshly heated coffee beans in our direction. Then she disappeared to this shrine like contraption set up in the middle of the restaurant where she ground the coffee beans by manually while putting the water on to boil. Once the coffee was mixed and ready for pouring, she called us over to the shrine (not sure if it was really a shrine per say...) to be seated and served. We were first given sweetened pop corn and these sweet seeds to eat as an appetizer. My colleague/friend who has lived in Ethiopia in the past explained to me that popcorn is thought to bring out the taste of coffee...who knew! As we nibbled on the popcorn and seeds, our hostess carefully poured thick "buna" (Ethiopian coffee) into tiny cups that reminded me of those that are used in China and Japan. Confession - I hate coffee. Cultural sensitivity comes natural to me though and refusing to try something so important to a given culture would feel so much more awkward than drinking something my taste buds aren't a fan of! And so I "oooh and ahhhh"-ed over the coffee, drank every last drop of my portion and thanked my hostess till she was red in the face. 

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Side tangent... 

Kenyan Nyama Choma

I do the same thing when it comes to eating Kenyan meat. Kenyans like to cook their meat till it's so tough that you have to chew each piece for minutes on end just to get it into a somewhat swallow-able form. Eating "nyama choma" (grilled Kenyan-style meat) is so much a part of the culture here. I fear that for me to turn my nose up at the cuisine I might inadvertently insult them, especially since meat is pricey and it is considered rude in Kenya to refuse what is offered to you (it has been explained to me that if you refuse something that is offered to you, it's like turning your nose up at your host...as in, you will risk being seen as ungrateful and rude...complete opposite of Japanese culture). So....just as I did today with the Ethiopian coffee, I generally find my normally vegetarian self agreeing to nyama choma nights without really wanting to eat the stuff in the first place. <sigh> If only the Kenyans didn't make their meat so overly cooked and left some of the natural moisture and tenderness my tendency towards cultural sensitivity might not clash so much with my culinary tastes!   

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South Africa

My best friend. She and I have been tight like THIS!!!! <crossing fingers> since undergrad. We're literally from opposite sides of the world with her being from an all-black, Xhosa village in South Africa and me from a snow white village in Upstate NY! Still we hit it off right from the start, especially as roommates our sophomore year. These days, she's in the States with her white, American husband  I'm in I am almost on my 2nd year living in the  "mother land" with my black African (well...more chocolate than black, but whatever) bf. It's like we've literally switched places! I have seen her since our mutual friend's wedding in 2007 and yet I feel as close to her as if we had spent every day of the last year together. Mom used to tell me that one of the hardest parts about coming an adult is not just the responsibility, but also that genuinely good, devoted friends become harder to find. I've been lucky - Pumz has been there for me thick and thin regardless of the time and distance that passes between us. Imagine, we still write to each other via snail mail...and no 2pagers either. I do believe the average letter that gets sent is between 8 and 10 pages long! Sure, we e-mail and G-Chat too, but letters to and from Pumz are definitely my fav. 

This Christmas Pumz is flying down to South Africa to be with her family. HOPEFULLY, her husband will be able to join as well. My guy and I are flying down to meet them (our first int'l trip together <grin>)- it will be the first time in almost half a decade that I'll get to see Pumz in person. I am, to say the least, beyond excited to see her again. Meanwhile, it'll be interesting to be in a country that has such a turbulent past in terms of race relations, especially as I am in a "mixed" relationship. How will people treat us, I wonder? A close friend of mine who has spent many months living in South Africa told me that she was often yelled at by white South Africans when she walked amongst blacks. In Kenya you don't see such hatred towards interracial mixing...or at least I haven't experienced it yet. Here, it is not so uncommon to see mixed couples holding hands and whatnot. I actually even forget at times that my bf is a different color than me unless somebody back home brings it up or one of my mzungu friends gets carried away w/ their ever curious questions. I've heard that in South Africa one has quite a different experience as many of its people  still seem to cling to the country's segregated past. Am not one to judge a country based on another's opinion though - I'll go and make my own opinions, thank you very much. So till December let me hold back my opinions and rather focus my thoughts on the excitement of meeting my best, "best friend." :) 

Riding sky-high

Girl I met in Harar, Ethiopia

Today was one of those days in the field that left me exhausted, but riding sky-high with satisfaction. With respect for our refugees' privacy and security, I can't share the details of my interviews. I can say (write rather :p) that today's applicants were genuinely GOOD, hard-working people who, had they been fortunate enough to have been born elsewhere in the world they would have been definitely been successful leaders of their communities, doctors, politicians, professors, you name it. But because of where they were born, the ethnicity they had been assigned at birth or the color of their skin, they were persecuted against, denied basic human rights, threatened with death and chased out of their countries. And this by groups of individuals who are just as human as you, me and the refugees I interview, but who by mere chance were born into a class, color or ethnicity that is deemed superior to the oppressed. 

At the end of one of my interviews today, the father on of my case broke into tears of gratitude. Through our interpreter he gave me a mini-tribute that I will not soon forget. "Thank you so much for today, madam. I was so nervous before the interview because I was afraid that somehow the interview would go wrong. But you were so patient with me, you were so kind. My past is such a hard thing for me to remember, let alone talk about. It breaks my heart to think that my infant son might grow up to live the hard life I have. Madam, you may not be the one to decide whether we get to go to America or not, but by listening to me, recording my story and by just being here, you are giving us a 2nd chance at life. I am forever grateful to you for that. Thank you, Madam, thank you. Today I felt closer to Hope than I ever have and for that I pray to God that He bless you in everything that you do." It's refugees like him who inspire me and make me believe that what I am doing here is worth while. I have a notebook that I carry around with me where ever I am conducting interviews. In the notebook, I have a list of case numbers of refugees that I "follow." Though a well-written and well-put together case file really does help a refugee's chance at getting approved by USCIS, I have no influence over his/her chances at acceptance beyond that. Regardless, I like to keep my list of "refugees-to-follow" just to see if they get accepted and where they end up. I can't tell you how amazing a feeling it is to interview a particularly heart breaking case and then find out down the line that that case has been approved!

A Tribute to a Dear Friend

"M" and I with M's pet rabbit

The last 48 hours have been exhausting. I found out yesterday that one of my dearest friends is gravely ill. I'll just refer to her as "M" for confidentiality reasons...It is considered rare to survive multiple relapses of the same cancer, it is virtually unheard of to survive 3 different cancers all together. When I first met my friend back in 2008 she had already survived 2 different types of lymphoma. Like me, she was to start her studies at the Monterey Institute for International Studies (graduate school of Middlebury College) in August 2007. Right before she was to begin however, she was diagnosed for the 2nd time with lymphoma. She ended up spending most of the next year undergoing treatment including chemo, radiation and a bone marrow transplant. Her doctors thought she was an amazing success story then having survived 2 cancers with such gusto and good spirit.

By the time she entered the Monterey Institute for International Studies for the first time in August 2008, she was full of excitement and enthusiasm. She was such an inspiration with her eagerness to learn and the fact that she never seemed to get discouraged. She had survived cancer not once, but TWICE and now she was going to learn what she'd been wanting to study for ages - International Migration Policy. I remember her telling me about her dream to work with and assist human trafficking victims...there was such a sparkle in her eye when she talked about all the things she would now accomplish in life, now that she was finally healthy!

M and I were instant friends. As a Japanese-American, I felt like she "understood" me in a way my non-Japan-influenced friends couldn't possibly. I remember talking for hours with her about our studies, about boys, Japan, love, life, happiness, exercise, our professors, you name it. We also had a dear, mutual friend whom I shall refer to "L" with whom we often spent time with. The three of us adored each other. L and I would have done anything for M just to see that beautiful smile of hers.

Then one day, towards the end of M's 1st semester, she and I attended a spinning class together at the local gym. I was all hyped up because I was convinced that M would love the class. The instructor was a wild one - she'd scream at the class to make them work as hard possible, her music was jammin' and loud...it was going to be an awesome class and M was going to love it! M wasn't able to get through the class though because she kept getting cramps in her feet. She'd get off her bike, sit on the floor, massage her feet with this confused look on her face, get back on her bike and try again. Then a couple minutes of peddling later, she'd have to get off her bike because her arches were cramping up again. I remember being concerned for her, but wasn't able to comprehend at the time what might be the reasons for her achy feet.

I think it was something like a week or so later that M began having her headaches. The headaches were so bad that they would leave her vomiting and retching into the toilet basin for hours each day. I remember that she was suppose to give this big presentation in Japanese one day. The Monterey Institute for International Studies is world-famous for its language learning/translation/interpretation classes. Every fall a conference is held where students present their research projects in a language other than English. What they say is then simultaneously interpreted into multiple languages. M was to present in Japanese on human trafficking and I was to be the MC, also speaking in Japanese. About an hour or 2 before the conference was to begin, I received a call from M on my cell phone. She was barely able to make out her message because she was vomiting so bad, but I understood that she would not be able to make her presentation. A classmate of ours presented his research during her time allotment so the conference wasn't disrupted at all, but I remember hardly being able to concentrate as I did my MC-ing. Thankfully Japanese comes naturally enough to me that I don't have to put too much thought into giving such presentations. If only the audience knew though that my mind was no where close to being in that auditorium, but rather with M...

After the presentation, I went to M's house immediately. By that time I realized that what she was feeling was not normal and that she urgently needed to see a qualified physician. She was stubborn though and for good reason. She didn't want to be sick again. She had already had her fair share of hardship; this was her time to be HEALTHY. It was almost as if she were internally demanding that her immune system pick up the slack and take control again! I refused to let M sleep alone that night. I helped her to my car, gave her a basin and drove the 5 minutes it took to get to my apartment. Though I was doing my best to drive carefully, I think she vomited at least 5 times during that ride. I had this grand plan that when she came over to my house, I would fix her an amazing dinner that would make her feel like a million bucks! I was going to make her hot soup and tea and we would chat happily until we fell over in happy delirium. That wasn't to be the case though that night. M staggered to my bed, sat seiza like the Japanese lady she is, laid her head down on 2 pillows laid on top of each other and rocked back and forth, back and forth for what must have been hours. She was in so much pain. She said her head felt like it was going to explode; the vomiting was just as bad. I begged her to return to Japan early to see her doctors. She was so resistant to the idea though as we only had about 3 weeks left till the end of the semester. "I'll be fine, I'll be fine," she said more to herself than to me.

A week later, M was on a plane to Tokyo where she was diagnosed with CNS, lymphoma of the brain. I nearly collapsed in anguish when I heard that news... I was terrified that I was about to loose one of my dearest friends.

M may be petite, but her inner strength to halt Death in his tracks proved victorious yet again. She survived. The treatment she had to undergo emancipated her already small frame, but she came out it without a lick of cancer in her. The doctors, both in Japan and at Stanford, were astounded - she was officially their miracle story. A doctor at Stanford even remarked, "I don't know how you are sitting here, in front of me today."

M was thereafter able to restart her studies in Monterey and graduated soon thereafter. She was healthy and was ready to conquer the world!

That period wasn't all happiness and congratulatory embraces though. The docs at Stanford warned her that they didn't see her surviving a CNS relapse. With that grim thought in mind, M had to undergo an extra long session of chemo. She made it through though and in the end, the docs at Stanford were unable to trace any cancerous cells in her system. That was 2 years ago.

Yesterday L and I received an e-mail from M. According to the message, the doctors in Japan have confirmed that she has relapsed and again has CNS. She wrote that she requires chemo again, but her body is too weak to undergo such harsh treatment. Her chemo must be followed by brain radiation and a bone marrow transplant....Just reading that e-mail made me sick to my stomach with dread. ...But imagine, our dear M wrote at the end of her e-mail, "don't worry. I'll get through it!" God, reading that really made me smile. M is so focused on the happiness of her friends and family, that the first thought in her mind is not to beg for encouragement and support, but to ensure them that all will be OK.

Me, "M" and "L" - 2008

I am not the church-going type, haven't been since I was child...but I do believe in God with all my being and I do believe that sometimes He puts a bit of Himself in those he's really enjoyed creating. In M, God has sprinkled in an angel. When I think about her inner strength, her encouraging words and her will to survive, I am left in awe. And when I think about how she has fallen ill yet again, ...I am overwhelmed with sadness because she has to undergo so much pain and suffering again, but when my tears have dried, I smile because honestly, I know that she will survive again. 

Adventures in Kakuma Refugee Camp

"Women's rights are human rights" -
DAMMMN STRAIGHT!

Just got back from an adventure-packed stroll through Kakuma I Refugee Camp with my new friend/colleague, Sarah. Like seemingly all refugee camps, Kakuma 1 is divided according to nationality and then subdivided according to ethnicity. There is the “Ethiopian Section” of Kakuma 1 Refugee Camp, for instance, and within that section there is the “Oromo sub-section,” among others. In Africa, so many of our refugees have fled persecution based on their ethnicity. It is common to hear refugees speak of having been attacked, robbed, threatened, raped, and/or had family members maimed or murdered simply because of their ethnic identity.What is even more surprising to the new comer however, is that often times, fleeing to a supposedly "safe" country of asylum like Kenya is not the end of their experiences of persecution. I've heard countless complaints from refugees living in camps like Dadaab and Kakuma that refugees continue to be attacked based on their ethnicity (as well as their religion, their outward appearance, their gender, their familial background, etc). Somalis from minority tribes like the Midgan, for instance, often have a horrible time in the camps because the Somali majority tribes give them such a rough time. Of course there is security in the camp, but with camps like Dadaab overflowing with  five  times  plus their population capacity, available security is spread thin, if non-existent, to say the least. 

Adorable Ethiopian refugee who agreed free-of-charge
 to be  the start of my photo. Thanks, buddy!
Am thinking I'll find a  way to get a hard copy
 to him via the next team that visits Kakuma. :)

Needless to say, because of the above mentioned security issues in their country of asylum, camp refugees usually divide themselves up according to tribe/ethnicity, what have you. The UN assists with this, but the refugees divide themselves voluntarily as well.When refugees arrive in their country of asylum, the last thing they want to do is live among people from the ethnic group that persecuted against them back home. Fortunately many refugees whom I have spoken with are able to recognize that all members of a given ethnic group are not automatically evil and out-to-get-them.Regardless, as is common anywhere, refugees often feel most comfortable when they are around people of “their own kind,” whether that be in terms of ethnicity, religion, nationality or language.

Njera - Ethiopian staple

Anyway, I digress…our trip to Kakuma I was lovely though a bit overwhelming in my opinion. We had lunch at a Ethiopian restaurant called Franco’s. Franco is an Ethiopian refugee who prepares the best Ethiopian food I've ever tried. Our meal today included the staple in any Ethiopian meal, a slightly sour-tasting bread called njera. I’ve spoken to numerous Ethiopians in the past who swear that njera is the best food out there and that it is the first thing they ever miss from their home country. Personally I am not the biggest fan of njera, but it feels odd to enjoy Ethiopian food without it, so in my tummy it went. :p Njera is usually eaten with stews, curries, greens and beans. They also like to eat it with a sauce called shiro. Our njera today came with a potato curry, greens and capage (see photo). Franco also offered us a meat stew, but Sarah and I aren't the biggest fans of red meat so we opted out. 

Turkana Woman and I - July 2011

After our meal, we headed out to the streets and wandered around for a good hour and a half poking our heads into shops, shaking hands with the refugees and doing a bit of spontaneous shopping. I've had my mind set on getting a picture with a Turkana woman all week and finally got my chance today. She had been begging me for money, so I made her a deal - one picture for some pocket change. She agreed and there I had my picture! I purposely had the photo taken with her before handing over the money because when I handed over the two ten shilling coins I had in my pocket she complained that it was too little. I smiled at her, apologized in Swahili and continued on down the road. We had a bunch of other Turkana as us for money, but the refugees themselves were mostly respectful. They just smiled at us, wanted to shake our hands and practice their English. I suggested a photo to a few of them, but most were too shy so I decided on leaving my camera in my bag as to not offend anybody. The pics I was able to take are included in this blog. 

Refugee store on Obama Street

The highlight of our Camp stroll was by far our interaction with one, very lively...and most likely, slightly crazy, Turkana man. He came up to us like the other Turkana, wanting to shake our hands, talk to us and ask for money. As the reader may well be aware, there is a wide-spread food shortage that is overwhelming northern Kenya, Somalia and Ethiopia right now. Camp refugees are provided with UN food assistance, but the natives of north-eastern Kenya, the Turkana, are not able to enjoy such assistance as they are not refugees. It only made sense therefore that during our stroll in the camps, it was the Turkana, not the refugees, who were so keen on asking us for assistance. Not wanting to be overwhelmed by a crowd of Turkana begging for money, however, we politely refused to give money (with the exception of the Turkana lady I took a pic with). We did make sure to treat the Turkana, and refugees, with due respect however, by being sure to shake their hands, smile and talk with them for a couple minutes before moving on. ANYWAY, back to the particular, and rather peculiar Turkana gentleman we met...he approached us like all the other Turkana with a look of excitement, curiosity and need to shake our hands. He then went on to give us a good minute-or-two monologue in what sounded like a mixture of Turkana, English and Swahili. We were able to make out about 10 words of what he was saying because he was dragging out each word and had such a thick accent. He pronounced the swahili word "kidogo" ("small" or "some" in English) like "kiduuugo," for instance. And then he had this high pitched way of speaking that broke down any ability I had to keep a straight face. We made out the word children and pesa ("money" in English) and then he kept repeating the phrase "Education is the KEEEEEEYYYY to LIIIIIIIIIIFE."  When he pulled out that one I couldn't help but double over in laughter...Thankfully my laughter was matched by amusement in his eyes and laughter from refugee and Turkana onlookers. Obviously he was trying to get us to give him money so that he could send his kids to school. I would have loved to have been able to give him money. A crowd of equally needy onlookers had quickly surrounded us however and I feared we would be mobbed by outstretched hands should I reach in my bag for my wallet. Plus, what if we had given money to the Turkana man, but refused money to the others? We could have easily been hurt, especially as two unaccompanied women in a camp in which we were strangers. 

"Abstain from sex till marriage" - um, yeah,
don't agree with that one...

About 3 hours after entering the camp, Sarah and I departed for the UN compound drenched in sweat from the African sun, but having satisfied our curiosity (at least for today) about what the camps were like. Outside the camp are numerous signs advertising everything from the Kenyan Red Cross to the importance of abstaining from sex before marriage. We had our fun posing in front of the signs as you can see. :)