It's Complicated!

So, what am I doing here anyway?

I'm here to write articles and produce radio pieces for some newspapers and radio stations in Canada and the US (as a freelancer). I want to look at some stories that I think haven't been told while the world focuses on Darfur. First of all, Sudan has been portrayed as a very violent place, where Arabs are killing blacks in a brutal genocide. But this isn't the case across the country, and in some villages, Arabs have hosted blacks fleeing the war in other parts and integrated them into their communities. Second, Darfurian rebels took up arms against the government claiming their region had been marginalised for years. But Darfur is not the only neglected area in Sudan, and actually there are many groups in different areas right across the country that have/are/want to take up arms against the government. Third, many people are not aware that there was a civil war between north and south Sudan that killed 10 times the number of people who died in Darfur. That war ended in 2005, but in the past few months, has come dangerously close to re-erupting because many parts of the peace agreement have not been implemented by the government.

Anyways, those are some of the things I plan to look at, but this place is just so damn complicated that I'm trying to sort everything out in my head before I blog about it (that's why I haven't been blogging much. My days have been mostly consumed by work and my work is not at a stage of explanation yet! Plus, I received a grant from an organisation that funds journalists who go to 'under-reported' areas, and will be blogging for them (the Pulitzer Center) about the more journalism-oriented parts of this experience. I'll send you the link when it's live.)

So instead of telling you my thoughts on the conflicts here, I instead will reassure you that I have said goodbye to my friend the lizard, and moved on to cleaner pastures: ie. a UN guesthouse. My feet are starting to crack from the dryness, my skin is always sticky from the heat, I drink an incredible amount of water everday (Sometimes your mouth is so thirsty but your stomach is already bloated from all the liquids) and I'm becoming accustomed to wearing a scarf everytime I leave the house (which unfortunately means no tan).

I did get to one cultural event yesterday though. Here are some pics from a Sufi ritual I went to. Every week, hundreds gather to pay hommage to a great Sudanese Sufi leader, Hamd El-Nil (from what I understood) outside his tomb in a big cemetary. They stand in a huge circle, swaying to the drumming, chanting La illiha illa Alllah (there is only one God), until the sun sets.

All over again?

I was thinking of what I would blog about on this trip, and whether it would feel (for me and for you) like I was going away for the first time all over again, or more like, "been there, done that". I haven't really figured out the answer to that, but I think a little bit of both. I think everywhere you go, there are new and different things/people/issues, etc. But to some extent, it's always a bit of the same. Today, I stopped thinking about work for long enough to remember that I was in a new country and should probably discover it! I found a local restaurant and asked for some traditional food (which was on the house because they were so pleased I was Egyptian and interested in their food), and had that feeling of discovery and excitement for a second again. But I realized that that feeling is much less present this time around. There is much less culture shock (partly because I speak Arabic, I imagine) and much less transitioning. I have to say, it feels a lot easier. (My dad would argue that takes away from the fun). I think you just get to a point where new and exciting is normal. Does this make any sense?

Anyways, the weirdest thing about being here, I would say, is the fact that Darfur is right next door and you'd never even know it by being here. There is really nothing to indicate that there is a so-called genocide happening a couple states west of here. It is a lively city, with cheerful people, going about their business. Living here, it's as if Darfur does not even exist. And once in a while I do wonder if the West has, as the president of Sudan alleges, exaggerated the genocide for their own interests. But when you look at the numbers, it's just not true. Almost 190,000 have had to flee their homes in Darfur this year (2008) alone! Can you imagine? This thing is still raging on, five years later.

In more uplifting news, apparently even in Islamic conservative societies, 82-year-old men ask single women they meet to marry them. And I thought it was only in Senegal!

And... We're Back!

Oh, it feels good to be back in Africa! I thought Sudan would be a lot like Chad, but it's way better - full of life and much more developed. I'm loving it so far! (It has only been one day, and I'm sure I will take that back later!) But I'm definately exhausted.

I don't think I have ever really experienced jet lag until now. I slept badly Friday night in Canada, left for Sudan Saturday afternoon and arrived - after two nights on planes/airport benches - in Khartoum, the capital, Monday morning. So as you can imagine, the lack of sleep is catching up with me. This morning I woke up at 3am, and could not get back to sleep after that.

The flight here was full of all the regular chaos. Flight attendants who spoke no Arabic. Passengers who spoke no English. Overflowing overhead compartments. People sitting in each other's seats. But amazingly, the whole thing went really smoothly. None of the three flights I had to take were delayed. I had no problems getting through customs. My bag arrived unharmed. And someone was waiting for me at the airport to bring me to my ... hotel, if you could call it that.

For $20 a night, the cheapest you can get here, I got a room with paint chipping off the walls, a lizard crawling around, sheets that looked like they had never been washed, and ants everywhere. This morning, I shared my shower with a different lizard. I think he was as scared of me and the water as I was of him, so he wasn't too dangerous.

Sudan is really an interesting place. A neat mix of Arab and African. Actually, my arabic gets me very far here, and when I fling a scarf around my head, I don't look too out of place here. (Most women here cover their hair, and the northern part of the country is governed by Sharia law).

I've met a few people here who seem nice, including another Canadian journalist. And I had a fool (bean) sandwich this morning which reminded me of Egypt.

Hope everyone is doing well, and talk to you all soon insha'Allah!

Reflections & Gratitude

As you all know, I've been meaning to put an end to this poor blog for a long time. Unfortunately, life took hold of me, and almost three months later, you poor readers have had no closure! And so finally...

First of all, thank you to all of you, for your interest and support. You have been a loyal and forgiving audience. Thank you for reading.

Thank you to God of course, for making this beautiful trip possible in the first place.

And thank you to the people of Senegal and Chad for teaching me so much. I only hope that one day, I can repay the favour.

Sometimes, while abroad - most of the time, actually - everything around me seemed normal. It's amazing how fast you can get used to your new surroundings and forget how different they really are from the world you're used to.

And I remember a specific moment, about a week before leaving Senegal, where it all hit me. Where I stopped to think about just how different a life I had been living.

I was sitting in the bare mosquito-infested, concrete-walled room at my friend's family home in a small village where you can only get around on horse-drawn carts. Her family - brothers, sisters, aunts, neighbours - were watching the home's sole TV in a room that doubled as the bedroom for at least 8 or 9 girls who slept on foam mattresses on the ground. At night, they cocooned themselves in their thin sheets to protect themselves from malaria.

And I remember stopping, looking around the room, and letting the magnitude of it all sink in.

For six months, I lived in a country where most people pee, poo and shower in the same hole in the ground.

For six months, I lived in a country where whole families share a single closet, where there is no such thing as intimacy, where front doors to homes consist of sheets hung across a hole in the neighbourhood wall.

For six months, I lived in a country where 90% of jobs are in the informal sector, selling peanuts, on the street or used t-shirts at the market.

I lived in a country where people eat with their hands - and not just the tips of three fingers, but with the full palm, rolling the rice into their palms as if it was Plado before unfolding it into their mouths.

I lived in a country where you can buy freshly cooked peanuts, donuts and shishkabab on the streets.

Where the goats wake you up in the morning and the neighbours' screaming children keep you up at night.

Where the people you meet can touch your heart in a matter of minutes.

Where helping someone in need is not an option but an obligation.

Where saying Salamu Alaikum (May Peace be Upon You) to strangers you pass on the street is similarly expected.

Where women are strong leaders of their families; where men feel a lot but say little.

Where people love freely and fully - without reasons or logic - just heart.

Where colour, music, and life fill the streets. Where rhythm is instrinsic in every person and men can really dance!

My six months in Senegal taught me something about friendship. I built incredible friendships - often with people that didn't even understand me. I've changed my definition of friendship since. A friend is not always someone who knows you inside and out. A friend is simply a person who cares for you, who is there when you need them and who smiles, sincerely. I am friends with the woman who sells peanuts on the path from work to the bus. I don't know her name. We have trouble communicating. But she has touched my heart all the same.

My six months in Senegal taught me something about sharing and sacrifice. It's not enough to give to the poor from your "extra" savings. It's not enough to give away the shirt you no longer want. That's not giving. The real giving is when you sacrifice what you actually want or need for someone else. And Africans do it every day. In Senegal, it is normal to give up what you need for what someone else wants. Sacrifice is a duty; kindness is built into the system.

My six months in Senegal taught me something about tolerance. Life is never going to cooperate with you fully, and if you can accept that, you will lead a much more peaceful life. Things go wrong, the electricity cuts out, the bus is late. So what? There are more important things in life to worry about.

But Senegal and Chad have also taught me about hardship and injustice - about people who spend their lives wishing they could live somewhere else so that they can provide for their families.

About people in such desperation, they kill, rape and torture to keep living.

In Chad, I watched a baby die of malnutrition, his body lifeless on a Doctors without Borders clinic table. I met a woman whose back was still covered in scars from beatings by armed men in Sudan. I felt the evil human beings were capable of, the suffering they endured.

So the next time you're pissed that you're late and stuck in traffic, remember that the roads are safe and that you aren't under constant threat of hijacking.

Next time your mother annoys you with all her demands, remember that she is healthy and not dead thanks to completely preventable disease.

Next time you have the chance to reach out to someone and improve their life in whatever way, TAKE IT.

That's all for now, I think.

But I still have a lot to learn, to live, to take in. I plan to return to this beautiful land - sooner than you think. So keep your virtual ears open - Sudan is next!

The Egyptian States of America

Egypt, my dear Egypt, what has happened to you?

I swear, I no longer recognize this place sometimes. I guess the most striking example of rapidly increasing Westernism in Egypt is the MASSIVE 7-story luxury shopping mall called "City Stars" in which you can find restaurants, a cinema, carnival games for children, coffee shops and the most expensive, luxurious and brandname stores I have ever seen in one place. It's easily 10 times the size of the Rideau Centre. Seriously, I have never seen a mall like this in Canada or anywhere else.

Another big sign is what appears on TV. Way more girls wearing bikinis and couples kissing. These things used to be taboo. Music videos no longer consist of the singer with his arms outstretched, singing in the middle of an empty field to an invisible audience. Now, they would totally fit in on MTV. And movies have lost their "Oh this was made in Egypt" charm. Instead of the usual family love story or ridiculous comedy, there are action movies and documentary type movies, made in a much professional (read Western) way.

And the homes. As Cairo contines to grow and grow (now at close to 80 million), residential neighbourhoods are being built on what used to be the outskirts of the city. One of the newest and trendiest places to live now is called 6th of October. I went to visit my aunt who recently moved there, and ... wow. It's like a Cuban resort. They live in compounds, meaning the "neighbourhood" is surrounded by a fence and you have to enter through the gate. It's the picturesque image of a cute residential neighborhood, like you see on TV. There are sidewalks, they are clean, bicycles line the grass-filled lawns, no traffic, no horns, just perfectly identical beautifully built homes, that are even more American-looking on the inside than on the outside. It's astounding. (Keep in mind, regular Cairo is non-stop horns blaring, sidewalks, if any, filled with garbage, cars stuck in traffic at every sidestreet, and no such thing as a front yard, let alone any sight of greenery).

You can easily sit at the neighbourhood Chilli's and feel that you are exactly at Jack Astor's in Kanata. The way people dress, the way they talk, the Westernism has permeated almost everywhere.

But that's not really the point. The point, or at least my question, is: Is this the only way countries can develop? Is development tantamount to westernization? Is there a way of developing poor countries without turning them into little Americas?

Arguably, all these signs of "westernism" in Egypt are good things. It means people are living in better conditions, they obviously have more money to spend, and are able to enjoy the non-essential things in life instead of focusing on their survival.

But you can still find places - lots of them - to buy fool and ta'amaya (beans and felafel) sandwiches for 15 cents. My cousins keep telling me that this side of Egypt (shopping malls, restaurants, etc) is the life of only 5 percent of the population and that most people - including doctors and people in respectable professions - do not have enough to feed their families.

So I suppose this isn't really development at all - it's just rich people spending their money, while the poor continue to be poor?

I'm not sure of the answer, but it seems inevitable that as countries pull themselves out of poverty, they will do so with the help of foreigners, and in the way that foreigners have. It seems to me (but I am no expert) that there are far more internationally-designed development projects than there are locally-driven measures to reduce poverty. Is it not logical that if poor countries are to develop, they will do so in the image of developped countries?

I asked my aunt this question, and she said there will always be people who hold on to their traditions. I saw evidence of this in Senegal, where despite nike, internet and coca-cola, Senegalese culture was very present. Still, I can't help but fear that one day, the whole world will look the same ... McWorld can't be that far away.

Any thoughts? More optimistic ones hopefully...

A piece of cake

This is a special posting courtesy of joint blogging by Heba A and Erin M:

It all started on a cold Egyptian day in Cairo. Erin was in a taxi on her way to Heba’s aunt’s apartment in the flashy residential district of Mohandisseen. She was eating koshari from a plastic cup and frantically trying to bring her taxi driver into contact with Heba on her cell phone in order that she would actually arrive at her desired destination and not in the hands of someone like the spry young buck in Aswan who grabbed her at the market and said, “How about Egyptian boyfriend?” The day was crisp, and she thought to herself how nice it would be to meet up with Heba and head over to the local Cilantro’s (Egyptian version of Second Cup coffee chain) for a triple-cream caramel apple cinnamon mocha-lattecchino. Everything is available in Egypt, all the time, from pizzas to shawarma to sushi, so why not?

Heba greeted Erin sporting fashionable new kicks in the form of pointy suede evening boots, recently purchased at a Spanish luxury footwear outlet called Scarpa. “Nice buy,” Erin said, “you needed those.” “And only forty bucks,” Hebs answered. “What a deal!” they exclaimed in unison. At Heba’s aunt’s place came the usual debate over what to do: how could money be spent and some form of nourishment be consumed this time? They drew a blank, and found themselves back in Kanata during their high school days, when “hanging out” with a friend inevitably resulted in cardboard cups of hot chocolate in the parking lot of the closest Tim Horton’s. There was really NOTHING to do, was there, unless they went somewhere and ate something, right?

“Stop!” Heba cried, “Something…doesn’t feel right about this!”

TWO MONTHS EARLIER

In total darkness, Heba lay on the slab of concrete considered a floor at a home in her friend’s natal village in western Senegal. In the same room, ten other girls lay on thin mattresses on the floor, protecting themselves from mosquitoes in their sleep by wrapping their thin sheets over their heads. The room was bare, but for a TV and some cockroaches. It served as the bedroom, the living room, the dining room and every room. As she lay there, Heba thought to herself: “Look at what these people have. How different their lives are.” The next morning, she awoke to the four-inch piece of bread for breakfast and the faucet outside the house with which to wash her hands – without soap. She spent the day meeting family, laughing, cooking, cleaning – a typical example of simple life in rural Senegal. There was no coffee shop, no restaurant, no Mac’s Milk or MacDonalds. Yet it was a beautiful day without boredom or unfulfilled desires. And when she left the village the next day, she left with longing in her heart to return to these people, live among them and leave behind all that she didn’t need in her homeland.

On the day of the Fire Festival among the Muslim communities in the region, Erin found herself baking in the oven that is the village of Larabanga in northern Ghana. Her “guide” and host, a young orphan by the name of Oli, showed her the small room she would stay in that night: a bare shack with faulty wires and a mosquito net draped over the straw mattress lying on the dusty floor. Outside, his grandmother, also the caretaker of him and his siblings, prepared their afternoon meal (rice with tomato sauce) over the fire. As Oli and Erin headed for the main street of the village, he indicated to her where the toilet was: she was free to use any in the row of outhouses built for the school across the road, which was what he and his family also used as their latrine, if you will. (Yes, I will.) “We’re trying to raise money to buy desks for the school,” Oli explained, adding that the primary school students were required to carry their chairs or stools to and from class with them every day, and that those who had nothing just sat on splintery boards on the floor. There was one food stall in the main village area, and over Erin’s time in Larabanga she quickly realized that it only served rice with sauce and either antelope or grasscutter (a large rat-like rodent) meat. That was it. There was one guest-house with similarly faulty electricity and a primitive bathroom, and almost no water – the residents of Larabanga walked 12km several times a day during the dry season to get water from the pumps in the nearby national park. Most of Larabanga’s residents lived, effectively, with nothing. Or do they only live with “nothing” in comparison with what I normally have? Erin wondered… (dun, dun, dun….)

BACK IN CAIRO…

“We can’t do this,” Heba said. “We said we wouldn’t do this!”

“This” referred to the horrible gutless tendency Western people have to fill their empty time with activities that are based on gratuitous consumption. Then the debate ensued: why do we as a culture feel that we need these things? More importantly, why do we feel that we need them even after seeing first-hand from our experiences in the sub-Sahara that we truly don’t need them? Why is it so difficult to succeed in curbing useless spending on unnecessary items (shoes, junk food, the latest fashion items, or anything to fill free time)? What drives us to consume like we do, and how could we put a stop to the madness and horror?

In Senegal and Benin, Heba and Erin had seen that they were capable of living without many of the things they had deemed “necessary” for life in Canada, and had even realized that it was, in fact, easy to live without these things. They had grown accustomed to live without small things like candy, brown bread or Tim Horton’s coffee, or slightly more difficult things like hot water or even running water. They had gone for lengths of time eating the same thing day in and day out (rice, rice, and more rice), and had gotten used to squatting in dark, smelly, cockroachy holes on a regular basis. They swore they would try to maintain some semblance of the concept of the simple lifestyle they had known and come to appreciate.

Then, enter Egypt. It’s amazing how fast things can change – often in the blink of an eye. Heba and Erin slipped frighteningly easily back into their old ways, accepting invitations to eat deep-fried mozzarella sticks, caramel-smothered ice cream and cheese-drowned nachos, like the past life-changing months had never even happened, or at least had more or less faded away. And they went right back to enjoying those things. Heba had entered a jewellery store and felt the immediate urge to purchase earrings and that perfect purse to match her new shoes. On the other side of town, Erin had been drawn by the warm light of a bakery beside Rami’s apartment where glossy cookies and puffy pastries had little to do to convince her she needed them.

As they sat there on Heba’s bed debating how to spend their evening, stabs of guilt crept up their chests, which gasped for air after the almost continuous eating they had both done since arriving in Egypt. Although they hadn’t forgotten the lessons they had learned in Africa, the consumption suddenly seemed inescapable outside of the context where they had learned about it. It was in the fully-stocked fridge, the seven-story shopping malls, the speed dial of their landlines that allowed them to order delivery of practically anything existing in the known world. Egyptian youth socialize like Canadian youth: dinner, drinks, coffee, some form of smoking. How is it possible to have a social life here or in Canada, to participate in the norms of socializing with others, without letting ourselves get sucked into a culture that equates satisfaction with consumption? When one of our friends or family wants to treat us to something, whether it be a new shirt, a nice lunch, a Nile cruise, or a full-expenses paid trip to the Dominican Republic, how is it possible to reject this on the basis that it’s completely unnecessary and moreover, promotes rampant consumerism and materialism?

These thoughts and others circled the heavy fog of concern in the room. The challenge seemed insurmountable, and there was only one thing that could calm their nerves. They headed to the kitchen for a good ol’ slice of cake and a mugga hot chocolate.

Riddah

Taking a cab in Senegal can be a painful experience. Before you get in, you have to explain where you're going and a whole debate over cost insues. You give your price, he gives his, you tell him to lower, he does, but not enough, you pretend to walk away, he calls you back and tells you to get in.

In Egypt, sometimes the traffic is so crazy, they just say "get in, get in!" and everything is discussed later. Most of the time, you tell them where you're going and when you get there, you hand them what you think is appropriate and get out before they say anything.

Erin Moores (friend from Canada who is in Egypt for a visit), Heba Bahgat (childhood friend who now lives in Egypt) and I went to Alexandria last weekend, and after one cab trip, I gave the cabbie a few rolled up bills and got out. I turned my shoulder and saw him put it in his money stash, without even counting it to see how it was.

Heba called it "Riddah", which means complete acceptance of what God has in store for you. I thought it was sad in one way - his life is probably such that he takes whatever he is given and that's it, even if it is less than he deserves. But mostly I thought it was beautiful - to have that kind of tranquility at the end of the day. ie. This is what God wanted for me, and I cannot ask for more.

I find that kind of attitude is much more present on this side of the world. And in the midst of greediness or ambition, or maybe just lack of faith, we lose track of it in North America.

Anyways, I won't give a detailed posting of Egypt as half of you have already been here, the other half have known me long enough to know what Egyptians are all about!

But I will refer you to a blog post by Erin, who is a wonderfully talented writer that has yet to come out of the literary closet:

http://www.travelblogger.net/members/mooresie/index.html?action=ViewTravelBlogs&tbid=901&beid=3545

Here are some pics with Erin and Mariam (family friend's daughter) along the Nile and with my new favourite cousin Nada (and Yasmine, her aunt!)

I'll be home in less than a month!