Here is the start of a blog post that I began sometime in November 2011:
I’ve been asked it more times and in more ways then I can possibly repeat here:
“How do you like Nazret?”
“What do you think of Adama?”
“Nazret endate-no?” (How is Nazret?)
Of course there is only one response. As the director of my school said one time, when some one asks you “Dehna-nish?” (are you fine?), the only response, whether you’re sick, unhappy, or who knows what, the only response is “Dehna-nyn” (I’m fine). So, of course, when some one asks me how I’m liking my new home, the only real response is “Areef-no” (It’s awesome), “It’s very nice,” “I like it.” It is just what you say.
But what do I really think of Nazret? It is much easier to give the automatic response than to actually think about and explain how I am adjusting to all the changes, challenges, and differences I’ve been experiencing during the month since I moved away from Addis Ababa to my assignment.
My assignment is in a city of about 250,000 people, arguably the second largest city in Ethiopia. The city, the capital of the Oromia region, is officially called Adama, which is the name in the Oromifia language, but under previous governments it was known as Nazret, named after the biblical Nazareth, and most people I’m around still call it that. Nazret feels to me extremely different from Addis Ababa. It is brighter, sunnier, flatter, cleaner, and more open. It feels a little bit more how I anticipated Africa would be; it is hot and incredibly dusty. Every day I come home with my feet caked in dust and everything in my room is covered with a thin coating of dust. There are more flowers than in Addis and even the buildings tend to be painted in brighter colors. It has a more relaxed, laid-back feel than Addis, and I think is really more my kind of city.
But, that is not to say that it easy to live here. There are not nearly as many foreigners here as in Addis Ababa, so I get even more comments and attention than I was used to there, though, to be fair, it is a different type of attention. There is still a type of people want money or something or who just want to point out that I’m a “fereng,” but there seem to be a lot more people who just feel it necessary to say something to me. I guess because I am more of an oddity. I also think a lot of the difference comes from the fact that often I am in town alone here, and that happened only rarely in Addis. I guess I didn’t realize how much sharing almost all my activities with Ben protected me from a whole genre of comments and hassles. Being in town as a single white young woman is a challenge. There seem to be some expectations of and limitations on women in this culture, but I am having a hard time really getting an understanding of what those are here, and how I ought to relate to them. Having that uncertainty makes me feel even more like I have to be on my guard, which is not a feeling that I really want to have when I am trying to be open to a new culture.
I am also feeling even more the limitations of being a “fereng.” I know travel the same routes most days. I stand out so much that it feels like every interaction I have on the street will be remembered, which makes it feel like even the smallest exchange I have on the street will affect my days in the future. I am sure that is an overreaction and not really true, but the feeling still changes how I react to things on a daily basis. For example, Ethiopian culture does not look down on begging when there is a real need. Ethiopians often give to elderly or disabled beggars. But, because I am white and stand out so much, I feel like I can’t give without marking myself for the future. My host brothers have even told me, “don’t give any money, or you will never be left alone.” At the very least, I feel like my actions are constantly being judged against expectations and stereotypes of white people. Everyone from my host family to people on the street compares my actions with the other “ferenges” with whom they have had contact. It is a very strange situation to feel like you’re always representing a huge and extremely diverse population about which you really only know your own experience. I guess that is maybe what it feels like to be a minority. I’ve only experienced that in small ways before, like being a Mennonite in Tennessee or from the South in Minnesota, never anything as big and obvious as race. When I fist moved down to Nazret I read the book Pigs in Heaven, by Barbara Kingsolver. In it I found this quote, “Since her arrival in Oklahoma, she had felt color as a kind of noticeable heat rising off her skin, something like a light bulb mistakenly left on and burning in a roomful of people who might disapprove” (page 318). That is a little bit what it’s like to be white here. Only it is not a light bulb. It is a huge megawatt searchlight that has previously been used to illuminate money or success or cultural insensitivity or any number of things that I don’t necessarily want associate with myself, whether they really apply. It is really an experience like no other.
Being white also really affected my experience as I began teaching. The first couple days the kids all ran over to me as I entered the school yard. It is quite an overwhelming experience to have about 180 surrounding you and yelling to you.
And that is when I was called away from my writing to eat dinner and never returned to finish the post.
I’ve been asked it more times and in more ways then I can possibly repeat here:
“How do you like Nazret?”
“What do you think of Adama?”
“Nazret endate-no?” (How is Nazret?)
Of course there is only one response. As the director of my school said one time, when some one asks you “Dehna-nish?” (are you fine?), the only response, whether you’re sick, unhappy, or who knows what, the only response is “Dehna-nyn” (I’m fine). So, of course, when some one asks me how I’m liking my new home, the only real response is “Areef-no” (It’s awesome), “It’s very nice,” “I like it.” It is just what you say.
But what do I really think of Nazret? It is much easier to give the automatic response than to actually think about and explain how I am adjusting to all the changes, challenges, and differences I’ve been experiencing during the month since I moved away from Addis Ababa to my assignment.
My assignment is in a city of about 250,000 people, arguably the second largest city in Ethiopia. The city, the capital of the Oromia region, is officially called Adama, which is the name in the Oromifia language, but under previous governments it was known as Nazret, named after the biblical Nazareth, and most people I’m around still call it that. Nazret feels to me extremely different from Addis Ababa. It is brighter, sunnier, flatter, cleaner, and more open. It feels a little bit more how I anticipated Africa would be; it is hot and incredibly dusty. Every day I come home with my feet caked in dust and everything in my room is covered with a thin coating of dust. There are more flowers than in Addis and even the buildings tend to be painted in brighter colors. It has a more relaxed, laid-back feel than Addis, and I think is really more my kind of city.
But, that is not to say that it easy to live here. There are not nearly as many foreigners here as in Addis Ababa, so I get even more comments and attention than I was used to there, though, to be fair, it is a different type of attention. There is still a type of people want money or something or who just want to point out that I’m a “fereng,” but there seem to be a lot more people who just feel it necessary to say something to me. I guess because I am more of an oddity. I also think a lot of the difference comes from the fact that often I am in town alone here, and that happened only rarely in Addis. I guess I didn’t realize how much sharing almost all my activities with Ben protected me from a whole genre of comments and hassles. Being in town as a single white young woman is a challenge. There seem to be some expectations of and limitations on women in this culture, but I am having a hard time really getting an understanding of what those are here, and how I ought to relate to them. Having that uncertainty makes me feel even more like I have to be on my guard, which is not a feeling that I really want to have when I am trying to be open to a new culture.
I am also feeling even more the limitations of being a “fereng.” I know travel the same routes most days. I stand out so much that it feels like every interaction I have on the street will be remembered, which makes it feel like even the smallest exchange I have on the street will affect my days in the future. I am sure that is an overreaction and not really true, but the feeling still changes how I react to things on a daily basis. For example, Ethiopian culture does not look down on begging when there is a real need. Ethiopians often give to elderly or disabled beggars. But, because I am white and stand out so much, I feel like I can’t give without marking myself for the future. My host brothers have even told me, “don’t give any money, or you will never be left alone.” At the very least, I feel like my actions are constantly being judged against expectations and stereotypes of white people. Everyone from my host family to people on the street compares my actions with the other “ferenges” with whom they have had contact. It is a very strange situation to feel like you’re always representing a huge and extremely diverse population about which you really only know your own experience. I guess that is maybe what it feels like to be a minority. I’ve only experienced that in small ways before, like being a Mennonite in Tennessee or from the South in Minnesota, never anything as big and obvious as race. When I fist moved down to Nazret I read the book Pigs in Heaven, by Barbara Kingsolver. In it I found this quote, “Since her arrival in Oklahoma, she had felt color as a kind of noticeable heat rising off her skin, something like a light bulb mistakenly left on and burning in a roomful of people who might disapprove” (page 318). That is a little bit what it’s like to be white here. Only it is not a light bulb. It is a huge megawatt searchlight that has previously been used to illuminate money or success or cultural insensitivity or any number of things that I don’t necessarily want associate with myself, whether they really apply. It is really an experience like no other.
Being white also really affected my experience as I began teaching. The first couple days the kids all ran over to me as I entered the school yard. It is quite an overwhelming experience to have about 180 surrounding you and yelling to you.
And that is when I was called away from my writing to eat dinner and never returned to finish the post.
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