What is International Women's Day?

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to be amongst ministers and high-level government officials attending the 14^th annual Delhi Sustainable Development Summit. The conference showcased a host of highly recognizable names, including Kofi Annan as the keynote speaker.

 

As one of only a few women in my office, I am always acutely aware of the gender disparity around me. Upon first glance, I was excited to see so many young women attending the conference.

However, once the conference began, those women disappeared. I realized that those women were the organizers; the women behind the scenes. They introduced the sessions, welcomed the speakers and moderated the discussions. They were in essence, transition women. Their value was held in their ability to make sessions to run smoothly, rather than to share their knowledge or experience. Their superficial presence was an attempt to placate gender advocates with a thin façade of allowing women to be present without actually participating.

A feeble attempt to include gender sensitivity in the conference was to include a gender panel discussion. Seemingly an afterthought, the session was in the afternoon of the last day with five of the six panelists being men. It was clear from their presentations that there were just as surprised to be presenting, as we were to hear them.

There is something incredibly frustrating about International Women’s Day. Perhaps it’s the patronizing way that the day is honored. It reminds me of the older man in my office, telling me that I’m beautiful. I feel like I should be flattered, but its delivery rubs me the wrong way.

I asked around the office about the significance of the International Women’s Day. What is women’s day? What is the purpose? My admiring colleague told me “It’s a day that men sleep under the bed”. While others told me that “it’s just a reason to have a party.” Their incredulous stares made it clear that the intention of the day has nothing to do with promoting women’s equality.

Nonetheless, Addis Ababa was a flurry with events throughout the city. My organization, not to be outdone by the potential PR buzz of International Women’s Day, is hosting its own event.

My organization will invite dignitaries and their wives to plant trees. Admittedly, I work for an environmental think tank and re-greening initiatives are a part of our mandate. However, I must admit that I was disappointed with the superficial and uninspired attempt at promoting gender equality. Here we are, an environmental think tank, with a plethora of evidence indicating how the adverse effects of climate change and environmental degradation disproportionately affects women.

As if that weren’t compelling enough, we are surrounded by examples of those effects on a daily basis. We live in a city where women walk 5-10 kilometers a day down the mountain with several kilos of firewood on their back. We live in a city where pollution from burning plastic and exhaust hangs heavy in the air. We live in a city with nearly no green spaces for its 4 million occupants.  We live in a city with landfills that house hundreds of residents within its confines. The effects of poor environmental management have palpable consequences on women and our response is to have a photo opportunity with an ambassador’s wife planting trees.

It feels like the Delhi conference all over again. Women are in the room but not in any empowered capacity. I’m disappointed that at 2014, we are still having the same conversations about gender inequality, yet not at all surprised since this is the superficial approach we take at addressing the issue. 

It is another missed opportunity.

Last night I watched a man die.

Yesterday, I was having a shitty day that seemed to keep getting worse. I left work early because it was too frustrating to be in the office. Feeling a bit emotional, I resisted the urge to drink at three in the afternoon. After a good cry, I resolved to attend a circuits class to get out some pent up restless energy.

Totally unmotivated to go workout, I somehow managed to convince 2 friends to join me so I wouldn't back out. After the warm up, I'm feeling the endorphins running through my veins and I'm starting to feel better; happy with my decision to stay sober and have a productive outlet.

For those who’ve never done circuits training, but it can be a bit intense. It's not uncommon for people to stop and rest while others continue on. So no one took extra notice when an older man sat down in the corner for rest. He was laying down on a push cart with his arms splayed to the side. A few people periodically checked up on him and then hopped back in the training circuit.

A few more minutes passed and people stayed by his side longer than normal. A small crowd grew around him. His face turned a ghostly white. His hands locked up in a claw position.  He started convulsing. His breathing stopped...

The rest of us were remotely aware that something terrible was happening in the far dark corner, but we couldn't really see. He was wheeled out of the corner. Not handicap accessible, he couldn't be rolled out of the gym. In the doorway, someone started giving him CPR. Panic started to escalate as the seconds tick by and reality of the severity of the situation sunk in. He was still not breathing.

People frantically tried to locate emergency numbers to call an ambulance. A few people try to counter the naive Western assumption that an ambulance would come in a timely manner. A few of us gently urged to take him immediately to hospital instead of waiting. The idea was rejected for fear of stopping CPR would do more damage.

The air being forced into his lunges gurgled out, as if rejected by his body. Someone took off his sneakers to help circulation. 

After several calls, an ambulance was dispatched. His chest heaved from the chest compressions. Finally, consensus was reached that it was better to take him to the hospital in a private car rather than wait for an ambulance that has been known to take up to 3 hours to arrive. The group continued to move with haste, but whispers had already infiltrated their thoughts. It was too late. He was already dead.

They lifted the pushcart and carried him to a pickup truck, where they continued to do CPR. They sped off into the night.

As I stood staring at his forgotten sneakers strewn on the cold pavement, I could hear the shrill ambulance siren in the distance.

When people ask me what is the hardest thing about living in Ethiopia, my answer is not expected food-related answer. Instead, I find that the hardest thing about living in Ethiopia is being constantly faced with your own mortality.

It’s too hard to accept the fragility of our existence; our solace lies in the routine of our expectations. Only when something shakes us from this monotony, can we see how quickly misfortune can happen; how quickly we can lose everything. But humans are incredibly resilient.  Our coping mechanisms are quick to suppress the revelation, as it disrupts our comforting concept of reality. 

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.