Happy Thanksgiving. I have so much to be grateful for; you first and foremost. Friends and families--people--are what make life worth living and so beautiful. In this season, what better way to be grateful than to share with those less fortunate than us. Please consider, when you are giving thanks for what you have, to remember the beautiful people I have come to know here in Africa. It’s ripe time to talk about and present to you Abdoulaye and Zacheria’s letters. I believe that this process is the best way that I can envision helping them. I am sharing their stories with you so that, if compelled, you can share some of your financial resources to help them realize a better life. And in the spirit of giving, please take the liberty to share this blog entry, and earlier ones about them, with others who may be open to helping. In this age of the Internet, it would be wonderful to reach a tremendously large audience and together create life-changing realites for my friends here. The two men are not related, but have become my closest and most reliable Senegalese friends. Unfortunately, most formal avenues for aid, especially in the form of start-up funds/capital formation, are not available for individuals. Most of that money goes to cooperatives, groups of villagers, and women, since females have traditionally been marginalized in their income-generating potential in many poor countries. In short, a hard-working man here has few avenues to escape his dead-end reality. I cannot change all of Africa, but with your help, I am determined to help Zach and Abdoulaye. With that said, they and I are continuing to research non-governmental organizations (NGOs) in Dakar and in cyberspace for other avenues of support. It has been a humbling and a learning process for me, and an empowering and hope-filled one for them. The collection of funds will last as long as it takes to help them get started. If you feel you can help, with ANY amount (the cost of a latte or of a Lazyboy), please let me know by emailing me at eliasjkhalil@yahoo.com and we can arrange the logistics of your donation. You can also choose to remain anonymous, and I will respect that request.
I do not want to inundate you with sadness, because the reality is that they have both a resignation to their situation and a resiliency to do whatever it takes to make life work. In the process they love to laugh and have good times, as do we all.
Following are Zach and Abdoulaye’s letters, respectively:
Dakar, 24 November, 2008
Dear Friends,
I would like to begin with my most respectful and cordial greetings. My name is Zacheria and I went to school through the 9th grade, which is the end of middle school here (High school is the equivalent of 10th to 12th grade). Afterwards, I stopped school, but not of my own volition. My mother fell gravely ill at the start of the new school year, which would have been the beginning of high school for me. As we are a poor family, we had to choose, with the little money that we had, to take mom to the hospital or to register me for school and buy school supplies. I chose to take care of my mother. Afterwards, I went out to look for some work to help feed the family. Two years later, my dad died. A few years later, I lost my mom as well. Truly, it’s really difficult, and I am the only son of my mother.
I am a security guard at an apartment building, and I earn $160/month. I work 60 hour weeks, which translates to about $.65/hour. With that amount, I have to pay the rent, food, transportation, electricity, and water. I buy all my water, as I don't have running water in my rented room. Currently, I share a single bedroom with a friend, and we are obliged to share the bed, because I do not earn enough to rent my own room. In the end, I cannot escape from the vicious circle. I am 30 years old and have been working in the same job for 8 years, with which I really cannot envision a future. With my youth behind me, I would really like to begin a project that could help me create a future.
Thus, I would like to be helped with some capital to either buy a taxi or begin raising cattle. To purchase a used taxi, I would need approximately $8,000. After living expenses and the cost of gasoline, I would hope to bring in a profit of $75-$90/month. To buy 3 cows, which would be the minimum number necessary to make the change from my current position worthwhile, would cost around $1,500. By raising the cows and starting to breed and sell them, after living expenses, I would envision being able to save about $50/month, which would allow me to start building a future. The difference between the two projects is how soon each would generate revenue. The taxi would be immediate, while the cattle would necessitate months before realizing any revenue.
I am relying on your comprehension to appreciate my sentiments, and I am grateful for any consideration.
My sincerest gratitude,
Ngor Zacheria Bakhoum
Dakar, 24 November, 2008
Dear Friends,
I am a young Senegalese man who is 31 years old, originally from the village of Palmarin. My name is Abdoulaye Diop. I am the oldest child in a polygamous family with many children.
I did university studies in Dakar, and I have two degrees in Business Management. Currently it is impossible to find work which is commensurate with my education, and I have been looking for such opportunites for years now.
I am forced to do manual labor in a warehouse, and I earn $190/month, which is not enough to live on. Moreover, my younger brother, who studies at the unversity, is living with me, and he receives no financial aid for his education. I share my salary with him, which means that there are days where we do not eat.
I would like to start my own business in transportation, that is, buy a station-wagon taxi (seats seven passengers), which would bring in daily revenue. That income will enable me to make a better living and break out of the vicious circle that is my current situation.
I am requesting financial aid to purchase a vehicle that would cost around $6300. I ask if you could contribute according to your ability. I will be very appreciative if you could help me start my own business.
Thank you very much,
Abdoulaye
Monday, November 24, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
The U.S.--Who is welcomed?
Monday was a tough day. Abdoulaye, who has been a true friend since my arrival, had an interview at the U.S. Embassy for a tourist visa. I had helped him fill out the forms and cover some of the corresponding fees. To have an interview, you must make a phone call to a certain phone number which is charged to the applicant in the amount of $16. The applicant then has the right to 8 minutes on the phone to arrange an interview. The applicant must bring several passport photos, proof of employment with stated salary, and proof of a flight reservation to the U.S. which costs around $10. When granted the interview the applicant must pay a processing fee of $130 regardless of interview outcome. U.S. Immigration law is crafted in the exact opposite spirit of judicial law. Any applicant--including those interested in just a 30 day tourist visa--is, by law, assumed guilty of intent to permanently immigrate. The onus is upon the applicant to prove beyond a doubt that he or she is sufficiently rooted at home: married, children, homeowner, bank accounts, and a salary large enough to dissuade the applicant from looking for a better-paying job opportunity in the U.S. If the applicant is single, rents a room, works in a supermarket warehouse, doesn’t have significant savings, then he--I’m speaking of Abdoulaye--is found by U.S. law to be guilty of the potential to stay illegally in the U.S., and is denied a 30 day tourist visa. The fact that he has American friends who have provided paperwork that attests that they will host him in the U.S. makes no difference. The fact that, by his friendly nature, he has served as the unofficial and often indispensable cultural and city guide for the Fulbright teachers for the past 3 years, helping us make sense of this place and really appreciate our experiences, makes no difference. He is not allowed to step foot in the land of immigrants.
After Obama’s election, Abdoulaye was truly inspired, as are millions of individuals worldwide, that anything is possible. A simple 30 day visit to America. To see with his own eyes what is possible in the land of opportunity. To come back to Senegal with a strengthened resolve to achieve. To really believe the sky is the limit. To visit so many friends in America who would love to welcome him as a small sign of gratitude for all he did for them during their time in Senegal.
A 30 year old who would like to make a 30 day visit. A man who wants to leave his dead-end job to build a sustainable future. A man who would like to continue to support his brother and his parents, and his other siblings, and have enough money to be able to meet a woman and eventually marry and start a family. When he called me after the interview, he told me, “Elie, c’est dur.” “Elias, it’s hard.” He repeated this simple phrase several times, started to choke up over the phone, then broke down and started to cry. I joined in.
Simple hopes...dashed in a world that is not so simple.
After Obama’s election, Abdoulaye was truly inspired, as are millions of individuals worldwide, that anything is possible. A simple 30 day visit to America. To see with his own eyes what is possible in the land of opportunity. To come back to Senegal with a strengthened resolve to achieve. To really believe the sky is the limit. To visit so many friends in America who would love to welcome him as a small sign of gratitude for all he did for them during their time in Senegal.
A 30 year old who would like to make a 30 day visit. A man who wants to leave his dead-end job to build a sustainable future. A man who would like to continue to support his brother and his parents, and his other siblings, and have enough money to be able to meet a woman and eventually marry and start a family. When he called me after the interview, he told me, “Elie, c’est dur.” “Elias, it’s hard.” He repeated this simple phrase several times, started to choke up over the phone, then broke down and started to cry. I joined in.
Simple hopes...dashed in a world that is not so simple.
Here's The Latest...
Listening to a piece on the BBC radio, about Axel Rose releasing an album after 12 years in the making, has put me into a Rock mood. I’m sitting here listening to Aerosmith, singing Dream On right now. As is often the case, the windless heat of yesterday has disappeared and given way to a beautiful breezy morning. The one down side is that when I leave the doorwalls open for the air, layers of sand cover the floor and every surface in the house...and I am on the 6th floor! The locals tell me there is a wind that will come in a month or so that will literally shower us for some time with Sahara Desert sand; I’m told I’ll have difficulty seeing in front of me. I guess it’s time to buy a pair of shades from one the hundreds of peddlers outside.
Just wanted to check in and tell you a bit about the week. The recovery from the accident included nursing internal bruises around the ribs which has made sleeping on my right side nearly impossible. Going to work this week involved catching taxis as quickly as possible, for I was not emotionally ready to walk much along the streets and relive disturbing images of my accident. I got xrays and nothing serious turned out; I visited the Embassy nurse who said to take it easy for another week. If things don’t improve, she said to make an appointment for a complete examination. My energy level is down, which has frustrated me and obviously prevented me from exercise, running, or baseball =:(
I had dinner with the Public Affairs Officer and his wife at their nicely appointed and Embassy-provided apartment in a downtown high rise. Last week, the day before my accident, I was one of several guests at the Ambassador’s residence. So lately, I have literally been wining and dining with the diplomats; it’s been right up my alley. Additionally, one of my friends here (Carolyn) who works at the Embassy, left keys to her house for me and Inge, one of the other Fulbright teachers. We treated ourselves to a nice evening and dinner there with Tom (the other Fulbrighter) and Abdoulaye, as Carolyn’s cook made us salmon and stuffed Capitaine, a delicious local fish.
I have always thought rasta and braids worn in the U.S. by many, including Bob Marley fans, are so emblematic of being carefree and fundamentally “chill”. So, after many weeks of inquiry, I have located someone who said she could fabricate and attach braids to my hair, my oh so thinning and weak hair. It’s a process common among women, but rare among men, because in general we have such short hair. Generally, guys who wear rasta/braids are sporting their real hair, which has grown impressively long. Well, to make a long story short, Fatima started on my hair yesterday. After more than 5 hours of pulling and twisting and sewing and braiding, about 2/3 of my head is done. I couldn’t sleep last night from the pulling sensation of the braid on my scalp and because of their physical presence which prevented my noggin from finding the pillow. I don’t know how people do it! Fatima is coming back today for probably another 3 hours, but I think I’ll have her undo what she’s done than to complete the process. I have taken a couple pics at this point which I can share with you; the novelty just isn’t cool enough to justify the pain (and the fact that I should only wash my hair once a week). In any case, it has been a relatively cheap experiment. In the U.S., for women, such detailed work could cost upwards of $200. I paid $5 for materials and $10 for labor. Gotta love this place!
Just wanted to check in and tell you a bit about the week. The recovery from the accident included nursing internal bruises around the ribs which has made sleeping on my right side nearly impossible. Going to work this week involved catching taxis as quickly as possible, for I was not emotionally ready to walk much along the streets and relive disturbing images of my accident. I got xrays and nothing serious turned out; I visited the Embassy nurse who said to take it easy for another week. If things don’t improve, she said to make an appointment for a complete examination. My energy level is down, which has frustrated me and obviously prevented me from exercise, running, or baseball =:(
I had dinner with the Public Affairs Officer and his wife at their nicely appointed and Embassy-provided apartment in a downtown high rise. Last week, the day before my accident, I was one of several guests at the Ambassador’s residence. So lately, I have literally been wining and dining with the diplomats; it’s been right up my alley. Additionally, one of my friends here (Carolyn) who works at the Embassy, left keys to her house for me and Inge, one of the other Fulbright teachers. We treated ourselves to a nice evening and dinner there with Tom (the other Fulbrighter) and Abdoulaye, as Carolyn’s cook made us salmon and stuffed Capitaine, a delicious local fish.
I have always thought rasta and braids worn in the U.S. by many, including Bob Marley fans, are so emblematic of being carefree and fundamentally “chill”. So, after many weeks of inquiry, I have located someone who said she could fabricate and attach braids to my hair, my oh so thinning and weak hair. It’s a process common among women, but rare among men, because in general we have such short hair. Generally, guys who wear rasta/braids are sporting their real hair, which has grown impressively long. Well, to make a long story short, Fatima started on my hair yesterday. After more than 5 hours of pulling and twisting and sewing and braiding, about 2/3 of my head is done. I couldn’t sleep last night from the pulling sensation of the braid on my scalp and because of their physical presence which prevented my noggin from finding the pillow. I don’t know how people do it! Fatima is coming back today for probably another 3 hours, but I think I’ll have her undo what she’s done than to complete the process. I have taken a couple pics at this point which I can share with you; the novelty just isn’t cool enough to justify the pain (and the fact that I should only wash my hair once a week). In any case, it has been a relatively cheap experiment. In the U.S., for women, such detailed work could cost upwards of $200. I paid $5 for materials and $10 for labor. Gotta love this place!
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Outdoors
Cutting through the crystal blue water, gliding along almost effortlessly, it was hard to believe I was in Dakar. Ten days ago, a new acquaintance took me along for my first foray in kayaking. We walked along the petite corniche, a seaside road that is peppered with upscale hotels, private gyms and clubs. This road is hidden below the surface streets, almost along the side of a mountain. (There is a reason why downtown is called the plateau.) We rented a two-person kayak, and very quickly I found myself on what seemed to be the open waters of the Atlantic. From one vantage point there was no land in sight; from another, the waves converged from differing directions crashing against the black rocky cliffs. The view of the skyline was even new for me. In total, it was another surreal experience that defines what it means to be here in West Africa. Throw out every dominating image you have in your head, because it’s surely only one small slice of the pie that is this continent.
From the kayak, I could also see the Isle de Madeleine, an uninhabited island about 3 kilometers off the coast that I had visited the previous weekend. A nature lover’s paradise that boasts tremendous, sprawling Baobab trees, and is a migratory home to hundreds of species of birds during the breeding season. A real treasure. The island also houses a cove which is like an inland lake that is turquoise blue and radiates in the perpetual sun of this land.
The evening previous to the kayaking, I participated in my first run with the HHH (Hash something something). It’s billed as a running group with a drinking problem, or a drinking group with a running problem. Apparently they exist as chapters all over the world. People get together to do a designated run set up by the course leader. Invariably the course is more like a scavenger hunt, as one can only continue running if little arrows written with chalk can be spotted to indicate your next direction. You typically run in a group, or in packs, and sometimes there are false arrows that mean you have to turn back to the main route. Once the right path is recognized, the leaders yell out “On On” and everyone echoes the chant and continues the chase. In the end, you gather, sing some songs that everyone except you knows, get initiated in some way or another if you’re a new member, and then drink the beverage of your choice. It was quite an experience, at times really cool, at times kinda cult-like. In the end, it’s a great way to meet new people, and that’s how I met Clara who took me kayaking.
Oh by the way, did I mention that all these excursions are happening in November, and the temperature is 85 degrees with full sun? Who said Africa is not for you?!
From the kayak, I could also see the Isle de Madeleine, an uninhabited island about 3 kilometers off the coast that I had visited the previous weekend. A nature lover’s paradise that boasts tremendous, sprawling Baobab trees, and is a migratory home to hundreds of species of birds during the breeding season. A real treasure. The island also houses a cove which is like an inland lake that is turquoise blue and radiates in the perpetual sun of this land.
The evening previous to the kayaking, I participated in my first run with the HHH (Hash something something). It’s billed as a running group with a drinking problem, or a drinking group with a running problem. Apparently they exist as chapters all over the world. People get together to do a designated run set up by the course leader. Invariably the course is more like a scavenger hunt, as one can only continue running if little arrows written with chalk can be spotted to indicate your next direction. You typically run in a group, or in packs, and sometimes there are false arrows that mean you have to turn back to the main route. Once the right path is recognized, the leaders yell out “On On” and everyone echoes the chant and continues the chase. In the end, you gather, sing some songs that everyone except you knows, get initiated in some way or another if you’re a new member, and then drink the beverage of your choice. It was quite an experience, at times really cool, at times kinda cult-like. In the end, it’s a great way to meet new people, and that’s how I met Clara who took me kayaking.
Oh by the way, did I mention that all these excursions are happening in November, and the temperature is 85 degrees with full sun? Who said Africa is not for you?!
Labels and Lebanese
I have been hesitating to write this piece, as I believe my thoughts are premature. Yet passion knows no time, and the expression of emotion is what makes us so human. For many of you reading this entry, you are well aware of who I am and from whence I have come. I am someone who constantly battles the use of labels to categorize, for they seem to do more harm than good. Yet, at the same time, it’s so hard for me not to use some of those very labels to express my own identity. Behind every generalization and stereotype is some truth, but also so much contradiction. I have spoken previously of diversity, and presently I am reminding myself of the reality of that word. In the end, as different as we all are, individually or collectively, we are all indisputably human.
Humanity binds us much stronger than anything that we let divide us.
With that preface, I am already straying from my intended topic, but then again, a reflection of who I am and how I write: an Arab who revels in the use of language, for in it one finds all the emotions of life.
What does it mean to be Lebanese? I have thought I knew that answer for a long time. Growing up in a Lebanese-American home; traveling to Lebanon to connect with my ancestral origins; doing graduate work in the language, culture, religions, and politics of the land; I thought I was a living emblem. Coming to Senegal has turned that notion upside down. For me, being Lebanese means recognizing and embracing the struggle of the hard realities that life can throw at you. Being Lebanese means cultivating an open spirit and mind, for we are often found in lands where we are the minority, and a smile wins more friends over than a frown. Being Lebanese means learning the local languages and customs to adapt properly and hopefully move beyond survival to success. Being Lebanese means having a profound faith that God will not abandon you if only you trust Him. Being Lebanese means sharing that faith with others--not through proselytizing, but through actions of openness, sincerity, compassion, and giving. Being Lebanese means being proud of your heritage, and identifying yourself as either not being Arab or being a different type of Arab. Being Lebanese means enjoying living, demonstrating a joie de vivre. Being Lebanese means listening to beautiful music or poetry in Arabic, knowing that those words and rhythms have no rival in stirring the soul. Being Lebanese means preparing and eating food with family, friends, and strangers, for nothing epitomizes more our genuine love for one another and respect as equals, than breaking bread together. Being Lebanese means looking out for the family first and yourself second. Being Lebanese means that the group, village, and common good are more important and more natural than individual gain. Being Lebanese means greeting people with “habibi” “albi” “hayati” “noor al’uyooni”--my beloved, my heart, my life, the light of my eyes--because whoever you are, we really mean it! Being Lebanese means hugging and kissing and touching each other, for the human touch is the most powerful manifestation of love for one another.
I have been here close to three months, arriving with great expectations. If the Lebanese here were anything like my definition, I would feel right at home. Unfortunately, my perception of reality here could not be farther from the truth. God bless Imperialism, Colonialism, and Capitalism. You see, around the turn of the last century when the United Kingdom and France took control of much of Africa, in order to fuel their own growth, both powers looked for intermediaries to be on the frontline, dealing with the daily realities of conquest. All joking aside, it is not unlike the current situation in Iraq, where the U.S. has hired defense contractors to do the work of the government’s bidding. In Africa, the British chose the Indians and the French chose the Lebanese. Through the course of the century, with the end of colonialism, those intermediaries stood much to gain as the new power brokers in those soon-to-be newly independent countries. So though independence brought some semblance of autonomous decision-making and self-determination by the indigenous population, much of what made the economies run was still in the hands of foreign minorities: the Lebanese largely in West Africa, and the Indians in East Africa.
The Lebanese here in Senegal are an inward-focused people. Yes, they have mastered the local language, yet they have chosen to dismiss the local culture. They control the lion’s share of business, from dairy processing facilities to high-end department stores to hotels to all the valuable real estate, and everything in between. In fact, they are battling, somewhat successfully, against the ongoing Chinese economic invasion of the continent. There are now three or four generations of Lebanese here, many of whom speak only French and Wolof, not a word of Arabic, and call themselves Africans. In fact, although Lebanese by blood, many have no interest in visiting Lebanon; it’s just an abstract, ancestral homeland; not a relevant, current reality. With that said, they have been cultivated into greed-driven merchants. Money drives them above and beyond any other force. One is only of interest to them if they have something to gain from that person. They, in my opinion, do not deserve to be called Lebanese.
A favorite biblical verse states: “The just man shall flourish like a palm tree, like the cedars of Lebanon shall he grow.” This verse has not been lost on the centuries and millennia of Lebanese in the world; I have seen it in the United States, in Australia, in Lebanon. What I see here is an abomination.
Personally, I expected great welcomes and demonstrations of hospitality. I have stopped waiting. I had one contact here (a couple) because they are relatives of someone back in Detroit. After I had delivered their care package from Detroit and a Sunday spent together, I have not seen them again. They told me about their two sons--both in their twenties--but I have not met them. They would be logical buddies. I have never been invited to their house for a (Lebanese) meal, and they were “instructed” by their relatives back in Detroit to look after me. I think after we had a conversation about my career and reason being here, they must have surmised there was little to gain from me. After all, I am nowhere near their socioeconomic level. In fact, in the same conversation, I asked if their sons had Senegalese friends (I mean Blacks of course), they abruptly said no and that I should be careful mixing with them. And they were the family, who because of family, should have demonstrated great Lebanese hospitality. I have been to grocery stores, furnishing stores, cafes, all run by Lebanese--some Christian, some Muslim. I have introduced myself as Lebanese American...not even a warm handshake or smile. I even told one Lebanese lady that I did not have my mother here so I needed a Lebanese mom; she chuckled, said she would have me over for dinner, and be my Lebanese mom. I have seen her on several occasions since; no dinner, just superficial, shallow words. I have been to the Maronite church three times, and not one person has come up to me to greet me--not even the priest, after he had met me the first time and I was told he was so fun-loving. I went to a high-end nightclub with a $20 cover. The place was 95% Lebanese, for only they could afford to lead such a New York/Paris lifestyle. In fact, the club flew in the D.J. from Paris just for the weekend. I saw some Lebanese there from stores I patronized, but no one struck up conversation with me. Either I’m delusional, or these people are genetic anomalies. It’s funny that couple told me to be careful about mixing with the Senegalese, when even with great effort, I CANNOT mix with the Lebanese. It’s funny and sad that the first to invite me to dinner were Senegalese who don’t have bank accounts, but those with the means hoard their food.
There’s a great piece written by Khalil Gibran that is called, “You Have Your Lebanon, I Have Mine.” In it he bemoans the focus by others on politics, greed, and division; while he defines his Lebanon by the beauty of the mountains, springs, and smiles on the faces of farmers and peasants. I think a lot about that piece now. Thank you Khalil Gibran; I knew we had more in common than just a name.
Humanity binds us much stronger than anything that we let divide us.
With that preface, I am already straying from my intended topic, but then again, a reflection of who I am and how I write: an Arab who revels in the use of language, for in it one finds all the emotions of life.
What does it mean to be Lebanese? I have thought I knew that answer for a long time. Growing up in a Lebanese-American home; traveling to Lebanon to connect with my ancestral origins; doing graduate work in the language, culture, religions, and politics of the land; I thought I was a living emblem. Coming to Senegal has turned that notion upside down. For me, being Lebanese means recognizing and embracing the struggle of the hard realities that life can throw at you. Being Lebanese means cultivating an open spirit and mind, for we are often found in lands where we are the minority, and a smile wins more friends over than a frown. Being Lebanese means learning the local languages and customs to adapt properly and hopefully move beyond survival to success. Being Lebanese means having a profound faith that God will not abandon you if only you trust Him. Being Lebanese means sharing that faith with others--not through proselytizing, but through actions of openness, sincerity, compassion, and giving. Being Lebanese means being proud of your heritage, and identifying yourself as either not being Arab or being a different type of Arab. Being Lebanese means enjoying living, demonstrating a joie de vivre. Being Lebanese means listening to beautiful music or poetry in Arabic, knowing that those words and rhythms have no rival in stirring the soul. Being Lebanese means preparing and eating food with family, friends, and strangers, for nothing epitomizes more our genuine love for one another and respect as equals, than breaking bread together. Being Lebanese means looking out for the family first and yourself second. Being Lebanese means that the group, village, and common good are more important and more natural than individual gain. Being Lebanese means greeting people with “habibi” “albi” “hayati” “noor al’uyooni”--my beloved, my heart, my life, the light of my eyes--because whoever you are, we really mean it! Being Lebanese means hugging and kissing and touching each other, for the human touch is the most powerful manifestation of love for one another.
I have been here close to three months, arriving with great expectations. If the Lebanese here were anything like my definition, I would feel right at home. Unfortunately, my perception of reality here could not be farther from the truth. God bless Imperialism, Colonialism, and Capitalism. You see, around the turn of the last century when the United Kingdom and France took control of much of Africa, in order to fuel their own growth, both powers looked for intermediaries to be on the frontline, dealing with the daily realities of conquest. All joking aside, it is not unlike the current situation in Iraq, where the U.S. has hired defense contractors to do the work of the government’s bidding. In Africa, the British chose the Indians and the French chose the Lebanese. Through the course of the century, with the end of colonialism, those intermediaries stood much to gain as the new power brokers in those soon-to-be newly independent countries. So though independence brought some semblance of autonomous decision-making and self-determination by the indigenous population, much of what made the economies run was still in the hands of foreign minorities: the Lebanese largely in West Africa, and the Indians in East Africa.
The Lebanese here in Senegal are an inward-focused people. Yes, they have mastered the local language, yet they have chosen to dismiss the local culture. They control the lion’s share of business, from dairy processing facilities to high-end department stores to hotels to all the valuable real estate, and everything in between. In fact, they are battling, somewhat successfully, against the ongoing Chinese economic invasion of the continent. There are now three or four generations of Lebanese here, many of whom speak only French and Wolof, not a word of Arabic, and call themselves Africans. In fact, although Lebanese by blood, many have no interest in visiting Lebanon; it’s just an abstract, ancestral homeland; not a relevant, current reality. With that said, they have been cultivated into greed-driven merchants. Money drives them above and beyond any other force. One is only of interest to them if they have something to gain from that person. They, in my opinion, do not deserve to be called Lebanese.
A favorite biblical verse states: “The just man shall flourish like a palm tree, like the cedars of Lebanon shall he grow.” This verse has not been lost on the centuries and millennia of Lebanese in the world; I have seen it in the United States, in Australia, in Lebanon. What I see here is an abomination.
Personally, I expected great welcomes and demonstrations of hospitality. I have stopped waiting. I had one contact here (a couple) because they are relatives of someone back in Detroit. After I had delivered their care package from Detroit and a Sunday spent together, I have not seen them again. They told me about their two sons--both in their twenties--but I have not met them. They would be logical buddies. I have never been invited to their house for a (Lebanese) meal, and they were “instructed” by their relatives back in Detroit to look after me. I think after we had a conversation about my career and reason being here, they must have surmised there was little to gain from me. After all, I am nowhere near their socioeconomic level. In fact, in the same conversation, I asked if their sons had Senegalese friends (I mean Blacks of course), they abruptly said no and that I should be careful mixing with them. And they were the family, who because of family, should have demonstrated great Lebanese hospitality. I have been to grocery stores, furnishing stores, cafes, all run by Lebanese--some Christian, some Muslim. I have introduced myself as Lebanese American...not even a warm handshake or smile. I even told one Lebanese lady that I did not have my mother here so I needed a Lebanese mom; she chuckled, said she would have me over for dinner, and be my Lebanese mom. I have seen her on several occasions since; no dinner, just superficial, shallow words. I have been to the Maronite church three times, and not one person has come up to me to greet me--not even the priest, after he had met me the first time and I was told he was so fun-loving. I went to a high-end nightclub with a $20 cover. The place was 95% Lebanese, for only they could afford to lead such a New York/Paris lifestyle. In fact, the club flew in the D.J. from Paris just for the weekend. I saw some Lebanese there from stores I patronized, but no one struck up conversation with me. Either I’m delusional, or these people are genetic anomalies. It’s funny that couple told me to be careful about mixing with the Senegalese, when even with great effort, I CANNOT mix with the Lebanese. It’s funny and sad that the first to invite me to dinner were Senegalese who don’t have bank accounts, but those with the means hoard their food.
There’s a great piece written by Khalil Gibran that is called, “You Have Your Lebanon, I Have Mine.” In it he bemoans the focus by others on politics, greed, and division; while he defines his Lebanon by the beauty of the mountains, springs, and smiles on the faces of farmers and peasants. I think a lot about that piece now. Thank you Khalil Gibran; I knew we had more in common than just a name.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Caring
Life is funny. One day it provides you with so many people and experiences, and the next can be void of the human touch. It’s Friday again, the day without classes for me, and I’ve been sitting here not doing much. You can call it convalescence. I call it boredom. I have successfully eaten breakfast and lunch and taken a shower. I finished another book, this one by the Intercultural Press called Into Africa. Most recently, I checked my emails until the power went out. I am not leaving the apartment today because I was ordered to rest for three days by the doctor. Yesterday morning I was walking home from work. The boulevard has a median with only one lane on its western side and three lanes on its eastern side. The tricky thing though, is that there are two lanes for each direction of traffic. After crossing the first lane and reaching the median, you still have another lane with traffic coming in the same direction, and then two more lanes with opposite moving traffic, yet with no median separating them from oncoming traffic. A strange system to say the least. I crossed the first lane, mounted the median, but forgot to look to my left and only looked to the right for oncoming traffic. No sooner than I stepped down, I was struck by a fast moving mini-pickup that propelled me into a somersault in the air. I came crashing down on the pavement in front of the vehicle and blacked out. I came to after a minute or two, but still had the wind knocked out of me. A crowd had already formed, many individuals coming to my aid, checking to see that I could move. It was surreal. Needless to say, just this writing exercise is surreal. After a couple minutes, the driver of the vehicle helped me up and into his vehicle. Witnesses gave their names and wanted to come along to make sure I would be taken to the hospital. In the end, I murmured to take me home. The thought of being in a hospital in a foreign country, with foreign languages and faces, and possible interminable waits--as I already had surmised that my situation was not life-threatening--would be too much to handle. The man and his brother drove me home, all the while being in a state of numbness and shock. When we arrived, he helped me out of the car, and I quickly spotted Zacheria, my dear friend and building security guard. Zach came over and I motioned to the man to explain to Zach what had happened. Zach displayed great attention and concern. He took the man’s contact information, as the man offered to come back to take me to the hospital if desired. Zach walked me upstairs to my apartment, helped me to the bed, brought me water and an ice pack for the bump on my head, then went about contacting a doctor. Here, there is a service called SOS Medecin, where a doctor will come and make a housecall upon request. Zach was steadfast in checking on me while waiting for the doctor downstairs, and requesting and waiting for the driver to return to bring money to cover my doctor and prescription fees. The doctor came and determined that I had suffered shock and bruises. He suggested that I have some xrays taken of my neck and back. I am scheduling an appointment as I write this entry. Meanwhile, my friend Abdoulaye had called just to say hello. When I told him what had happened, he said he would come over immediately after work. So, around 6 p.m., both Zach and Abdoulaye were here to make sure I had everything I needed. Shortly thereafter, the driver who hit me, called to check up on me. So, in the midst of a potential tragedy, I was showered with such caring, compassionate people. Zach informed me that he wouldn’t see me today, as right before my accident, he received word that a family member had died in another city, and he would be gone the next two days for the funeral. Abdoulaye offered to stay the night, and said he would be back later today. I received concerned calls or visits from five other people. I’m fine. In the big scheme of things, the story could have ended very differently. I’m so fortunate. And most of all, I am blessed, that in this country, communal living is not just a term used in the tourism books, but is one that came to life so fully when mine was threatened.
Thank you.
Thank you.
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