Lost In Her Eyes

We were gathered there to celebrate her 81^st birthday. A couple of years ago, her husband passed away and her Alzheimer’s kicked in high gear. As her mental capacity deteriorated, an army of friends and family gathered around to support her. This day was just another poignant example of their unrelenting dedication.

She used to sing in the church choir. Unable to continue this passion, the choir came to her. When I arrived they were already sitting in the living room around a keyboard that had been set up for the performance. After kisses and handshakes, I took my place alongside the rest of the choir.  She was sitting on the couch between her brother and son. Sheet music was passed around, and I struggled to keep up with the fidel.

Her brother stood up, thanked us for coming and led us into a prayer. Meanwhile her son guided her to the chair placed in the middle of the room. Refusing, she instead toured the perimeter of the room, finally returning to her original spot on the couch. The choir began to sing. Her face was buried in the sheet music trying to follow along, however within a few minutes, she stood again.

It was all in her eyes. Her heavy, half-obstructed, glazed eyes. Her face was contorted to a permanent state of disorientation. I remembered all too well what that feeling was like. Behind her on the wall was a framed wedding picture. Catching my eye, my neighbor told me that picture was 63 years old and proof of the advantages of early marriage. The walls were covered with many blown up family portraits. Behind me sat a picture of guest of honor in her twenties, rocking an Angela Davis fro. Her eyes told me of her cheerful yet rebellious spirit.

She wandered around trying to escape this place that didn’t make sense. She moved around as if someone was continually altering all of the rules. She knew exactly what she wanted to do, but couldn’t figure out how to do it. She knew where she wanted to go, but the route changed. She didn’t know that the distorted path was transformed until she was standing inches from the wall.  Beyond frustrated, her mind betrayed her body’s instincts. The incongruent reality gave her no refuge from her mental anarchy.

While she tried to adjust to the new rules, people rushed by her side to persuade her sit down. Her independent and defiant nature was unrelenting. The choir sang while her heartbreaking search for the correct route continued.

An hour later, we took a chai and cake break. We sang Happy Birthday while her son coaxed her to blow out the candles. To us, the inverse candles read 18. She looked at all of us, trying to understand what was happening. Her frazzled eyes rolled over everyone in the room. But there was just too much to take in. Cameras flashed. People clapped. Singing voices overshadowed hushed whispers. Feet shuffled uncomfortably. A nearby dog incessantly barked. Curtains billowed through the windows. Glasses clinked as the cook shuffled between the kitchen and adjacent living room.

It was too much. Baffled and near tears, she hid her head in her hands. The jovial atmosphere that we desperately attempted to create was wrapped in an overlay of despair. Despite our best intentions, I felt like we were making things worse. Stiffened with heightened emotion, my neck ached. Eating our cake and drinking our chai, I tried to suppress the intense sadness that washed over me, not sure if others were struggling to do the same.

Her younger brother stood up. Choked up, he thanked us again. While I missed most of his words, I understood the tender message. I lowered my eyes, trying to contain the swell of emotion. Memories of watching my mother’s own deterioration and her eyes of hopelessness flooded my mind. Emotionally depleted, he wiped his nose and sat down.

Her eyes drew me in. In them I saw a lifetime of memories lost. The years of anguish etched on her face could not eclipse her smoldering eyes of determination. She continuously wrestled her reality to make the world make sense again - to find her way home. She was trying to piece together a puzzle with all of the wrong pieces. But her efforts were in vain. With every passing moment, everything around her became increasingly shrouded in mystery and her world even smaller.

As we made our way out of the door, I was relieved to leave. The unexpected emotional afternoon took its toll on my heart. Silent and distant, my companions worried that I was bored. Unable to articulate how I felt, I weakly attempted to dispel their fears that the afternoon was anything but mundane.

Without using words, she told me her story. She was more dynamic than her tiny five-foot frame suggested and this was more than a birthday. Despite life’s seemingly insurmountable struggles, she trudges on. It was all in her eyes and they stayed with me well beyond that afternoon.

Embassy Road

In an impromptu decision to make the most of my long layover in Egypt, I decided to explore Cairo for the afternoon. As the airport bank teller flipped through every page in my passport to find a clear spot to place my transit visa, it was apparent that I needed to get more passport pages.

Within a week of my arrival, I mustered enough courage and spatial understanding of the city to venture out to the US Embassy. Early in the afternoon, I found myself crossing the main road, which was entirely under construction, towards the ever-elusive bus stop. As I dodged construction trucks and climbed over the mountains of torn up cement, dirt and rusted pipes, I carefully made my way towards the detoured traffic. As I patiently waited on the side of the road inhaling the billowing exhaust and dust as young men hung out of the windows shouting out their destinations. After a couple of attempts, I climbed into the back of a rusted out minibus with a dozen other passengers.

Three detours and one fuel pit stop later, reaching the last stop in the crowded downtown area, we all piled out of the van. I hastily moved through the crowds of people trying to find the next minibus. Scanning the crowd, I saw a well-dressed priest, looking as out of place as I felt. He donned a crisp long black robe with gold and silver embroidering. Drawn to his presence, a bearded homeless with dead eyes was immediately intrigued. Weighed down from layers of mud-caked clothing, he laboriously shuffled toward the priest clutching a log in his right hand.  He gestured for priest to kiss the log. Bewildered, the priest waved the jilted man away. Not to be cast aside, the man threatened to strike the priest with his log instead. As I watched the scene escalate, I created more distance from the deranged man.

Despite my subtle maneuvering, he caught a glimpse and bee lined it for me. He sidled up next to me and unabashedly gawked at me. I tried to dodge him by deftly cutting through the constant stream of traffic. I was fast, but he would not be discouraged. He was staring so hard at me that I could feel his eyes crawl all over my body. With opposite goals in minds, we jockeyed for better positions while I continued to look for the minibus that would whisk me away from this uncomfortable situation.

Frustrated by the constant repositioning, he reached out and violently clutched my hand. Squeezing my fingers and pointing to my ring, he slurred something. Forcing me to a stop, I wrenched my hand free, yelling my indignation with my limited language abilities. In no mood to prolong this experience, I walked away quickly, looking for an attendant to ask for directions. Seeing the homeless man still following me, a fellow commuter hissed a few threatening words that stopped my bearded stalker in his tracks. He slinked away and was swallowed up by the mass of constantly moving cars and people.

Safely on my next minibus, we trudged up a lengthy hill heading towards the Entoto Mountains. From the spacious front seat, I watched the city disappear behind me. Oversized ministry buildings passed on both sides and the masses of people dissipated.  Farther up the hill, passing the National Museum and Addis Ababa University, the cascades of people reappeared. Shops and cafes line the street to meet the demand of students and tourists.

Even farther still, we climbed. Again, the people disappeared. We were nearly out of the city when I saw a large sterile building surrounded by security on my right. Daring to be noticed, the embassy sits on a large campus with a massive steel building as its centerpiece. Sorely out of place, I wondered what Ethiopians think of this over-the-top edifice. Distracted by its commanding presence, I hadn’t noticed that we stopped. The driver nudged me, indicating that this was my stop. I hopped out of the bus and walked towards the main entrance. Feeling immediately underdressed and self-conscious, I wondered if they would let me inside. Over an hour since I started this journey, a sigh of relief swept over me as I opened the heavy metal doors. Greeted by multiple security guards, one of them said, “Sorry, we have closed”.

Feeling defeated and exhausted, I slowly made my way back down the hill trying to accept this as a lesson in patience and managing expectations. My western philosophy has deceived me into thinking that I can control my surroundings. However, I also moved here with the full understanding that I would be leaving my American comforts behind. This journey was a reminder that everything will happen in its own time despite our schedules. Next week, I will try again.

Ethiopia Reconsidered

I just finished my Peace Corps service in the summer of 2010 when I visited Addis Ababa for the first time. The trip was the culmination of years of various foiled attempts. My Ethiopia obsession and expectations swelled stronger as each plan fell through.

Still accustomed to the village life of a volunteer, I was in awe before the plane’s wheels skidded on tarmac. Catching stolen glances of the city from my coveted widow seat, my mind flooded with anxiety and excitement. Whisked from the airport in the early hours of the morning, too dark to see and too jetlagged to understand, my uncle escorted me to his home in the heart of Addis Ababa.

The next afternoon with fresh eyes and again in the luxury of my uncle’s car, I soaked in as much of the city sights as I could.  As we made our way through the city, I felt like I was transported to another era. I immediately associated Addis with Athens.

This beautiful bustling city was a sight to be seen. The landscape was so much more vast and impressionable than I anticipated. The iconic 1970’s style architecture speaks of a time when the city thrived. Everywhere I look, I see remnants of the disco era: pale yellow and green décor, vintage cars, mustaches, slim fitting bell-bottom jeans, etc.

Addis Ababa looked as if it were frozen in time. Sometime in the late 1970’s, at the peak of it influence, things stopped. Light layers of dust cover the city, as if to highlight the elapsed time of a forgotten empire.

The irreconcilable realization is, of course, that the city and its 5 million inhabitants didn’t defy the passing of time. This interruption in ascendancy was caused by a confluence of factors: droughts, famine, civil strife, border tensions, and politically instability just to name a few.

Within five years of my initial visit, I no longer see Addis as a city that is slowly eroding around itself. Very visibly, it is revamping to become a modern metropolis. The entire city is full of endless construction sites. As Addis Ababa’s population swells, condominiums are popping up everywhere in the thousands. Entire communities are being manufactured to alleviate the crushing demand for city housing.  Infrastructure has improved drastically over the past few years. Airports, roads and railway tracks are being laid all over the country to further extend the interconnectedness of a growing economy.

New African Union headquarters

While transportation remains a nightmare during these growing pains, it’s encouraging to see Addis regain its stride. While infrastructure improvements throughout the country have exponentially increased the quality of living, the equality of living grows more disparate. 

It is clear to me why Ethiopia is still mourning their former leader of 21 years. Despite his well-deserved human rights’ criticisms, there is no arguing the economic and infrastructural improvements the country now enjoys. One of the fastest growing economies in Sub-Saharan Africa, Ethiopia has reported double-digit growth for the past eight years. Decentralization catalyzed improvements across all sectors especially access to health care.

While there is something hauntingly beautiful about living amongst the historic relics, it is heartwarming to watch the city blossom to its potential in front of your eyes. Even as this city revamps its world image, similar feelings of marvel resonate with me even today. While the road is still long for Ethiopia to reach its full capacity, at least it’s paved for a smoother ride.

What About the Girls?

The pavement on 135^th is pulsating with competing stereos. The street is blocked off for the entire width of the neighborhood. This Summer Saturday morning is dedicated to the annual celebration that is Harlem Day. Vendors line each side with everything from bootlegged DVDs, African art, black power propaganda, the usual suspects of fried food, gourmet cupcakes, a voter registration booth, and a live ESPN radio broadcast. The traditional Harlem character was mixed in with a sprinkling of gentrification.

Too early to eat fried food, a crowd quickly gathered around the ESPN sports commentator, Stephen A. Smith, who was spouting off the usual sports stats. Sitting with the quick-witted analyst was a white man who looked slightly uncomfortable under the curious scrutiny of a swelling pack. After a brief introduction, we learned that he is a program director of the local lacrosse league. He spoke about the need to encourage urban youth through a team sport like lacrosse to create tomorrow’s leaders. Through lacrosse, which is an admittedly upper middle class sport that is often confined to the New England states, he believed the transformative power of this unconventional team sport. As a former lacrosse player, his words spoke to me and I was proud to hear this public endorsement, especially in Harlem.

Unfortunately, within a few minutes it was clear that his words of encouragement and enthusiasm were targeted for adolescent boys, not girls. Immediately enraged, I whispered to my boyfriend, “What about the girls?” Fully aware of my athletic past, he shrugged and told me that I should ask. I waved off the suggestion, as I didn’t see this as an opportunity to agitate gender disparity norms during this festive day. Besides, the middle-aged men who surrounded me would surely be annoyed with my slighted inquiry. My indignant attitude shrunk back to its previous anonymous and silent audience member status, listening to a show that is designed to keep me in the shadows.

 

Sensing my discontent, my well-intentioned boyfriend, offered to ask the radio personality for me. Further fueling my feelings of marginalization and alienation, I wanted to scold him that I was not a damsel in distress that needs a man to do her bidding. I can stand up for myself.

The scene played out in my head. If I had asked the question, I imagined men grumbling under their breath or walking away while the analyst makes some lowbrowjoke at my expense. The fictional scene played out again, except this time my boyfriend asked. While still generally ignored, he was heard. A few eyebrowsraisewhile the analyst directs the question to his guest, who flusters around for a politically correct answer without actually saying anything of substance.

Why were the scenes so different? I’m not sure what is worse: the fact that my predictions could be right or that I had them in the first place. Instead of immediately asking the question, I was acutely aware of my audience and how my defiance would be perceived due to my gender.

Uncomfortable with this incongruence in beliefs and actions, I could feel myself trying to rationalize my reticence. A progressive gender equality endorsement is weighted heavier when it is coming from a man in this testosterone-filled audience. My question would be too loaded and make people feel uncomfortable.Accentuating the disparity between me and the dominantly male audience, it would bring them acutely aware of what I had been feeling since I had arrived. While if a man asked, there would be different implications.

Women are immediately written off as bitter feminists when questioning the status quo. There is an implicit assumption that she is adversely affected by some clichéd sad story and is now lashing out and is overcome by her emotions. The legitimacy of her argument is overruled by her gender.  Conversely, men’s motives for gender enlightenment are rarely analyzed.

Hesitant to be pigeonholed as a feminist, I am often reluctant to speak my mind. Feeling conflicted between my desires to assert my feminine independence with wanting to engage men to join our cause through proactive supportive actions. Years of repressive culture has ingrained in me that I am inferior in ways that are beyond my consciousness.

Looking back at my subliminal influences, I gained my first impressions of gender relations from the media. Through movies, I learned how a woman’s value is intrinsically linked to their physical attributes, their happiness is defined by their relationships (or perhaps more notable, the lack of relationships), and their success is measured through their maternal capabilities.

Those influences played an indirect role in my silence that day. Through this systemic marginalization and alienation, I had become unknowing accomplice that bolstered the status quo. As I walked away, contemplating the importance of challenging the current state of affairs weighed on me. My comfort in conformity is overshadowed by my unremitting marginalized dignity.

I will be an active participant in my life instead of the passive recipient that I am expected to be. I refuse to allow myself to perpetuate this cycle of alienation and indignity through soundless inaction, instead I vow to engage the system at every level and challenge its inequalities, one question at a time.