The Mystique of the "Unfulfilled Idealist"

"Sit down, go ahead and make yourself at home," my Peace Corps recruiter smiled, waving me to a comfy soft swivel chair. She was older, perhaps early 60s, and had an incredible flare of energy surrounding her. The purple streaks she had dyed at the sides of her otherwise silvery temples matched her dangling purple earrings. "My women in Morocco made them for me," she said, catching my glance. My women? I thought with quick irritation. WHO do YOU own exactly? I tried to brush away this offhanded remark.The room was bright, filled with warm August Seattle sunshine, yet it was sparsely furnished except for the table and chairs. A huge map of the world settled itself perfectly on the wall behind my recruiter's left shoulder. Just in case I forget what I'm getting myself into, I thought dryly. It's only the whole world in front of me.

I applied for the Peace Corps July 1st, in the middle of the organization's 50th anniversary of service abroad. As I sat in that swivel chair two months later, waiting for my recruiter to begin asking questions my mind was swirling, mainly from a desire - an absolutely compelling, consuming desire - to share what I've seen, heard, witnessed, and learned over the last few years and to prove that I was ready for whatever task the Peace Corps could throw at me. I had worked hard for this moment. I had dreamed of joining the Peace Corps since junior high, and with sudden stark clarity, I realized that this interview was "it." This could be the beginning of the next chapter in my life. A little jolt of excitement shot through me and I resurfaced from my thoughts, tearing my eyes away from the map and back to my recruiter's silvery-purple hair.

The questions were rapid and successive, ranging from "Why do you want to be a Peace Corps volunteer?" to specific questions about my skills and various qualifications and how I can contribute to the Peace Corps mission. Because of my experience teaching/tutoring primarily English at both the middle school and collegiate level, we quickly affirmed that I would be most competitive in the final selection process as an English teacher. That gave me the opportunity talk about how I've worked with students with a variety of learning styles in the past, and how my aspirations as a Peace Corps volunteer stem from wanting to use the privilege and means that I possess to provide the tools and resources necessary to enable people around the world to empower themselves.

Considering my immersion in racial justice and post-colonialism studies throughout the last year however, I couldn't help but wonder before walking into the Seattle recruitment office: could the Peace Corps be considered a form of neocolonialism? As volunteers are we fostering good will and earning the trust of communities for the right reasons? Is the organization as idealistic as its founder, John F. Kennedy intended? Are the "good works" volunteers pursue directed by local, organic actors and only supported by skilled American volunteers?  There's nothing more destructive than creating relationships of dependency that continue to ingrain inequities rather than foster autonomy. And while I didn't necessarily say this as bluntly during my interview (although I hinted heavily) I think that Peace Corps service, if conducted without a consciousness of patronizing behaviors, can actually do more harm than good. Anytime you have a Westerner (especially a white, blond, blue-eyed woman like me - an incredibly stereotypical image), coming into a generally impoverished community that may or may not have colonialism in its recent history, it can potentially send the same message that was sent for decades or even centuries before: we're here to "save" you because you need help, and we know best.

Speaking only from my own experiences, such a script - of perceived cultural inferiority when compared to the grandeur of the West, especially the United States - seems to have become overwhelmingly adopted and internalized by "othered" peoples. This remains incredibly disturbing, especially because when I travel, I become a personal embodiment of everything America represents. Hence, I find it problematic placing myself in a position of power in which I would be heralded as an "outsider" coming in to "fix" a community's problems in only 27 months.

I struggled with this for many months, trying to decide which direction to go. When I showed up to the interview, I wanted to hold conviction in whatever decision I had made. But it made me wrestle with some ideological demons.

In the end, I decided that it was precisely because of my doubts to serve that I must go. And don't mistake me: I don't doubt my ability to adapt and thrive in any environment in which the Peace Corps places me. I understand the highs and lows of culture shock, believe me! Rather, I came to realize that the doubts about my role and authority within the community I would serve give me the very consciousness and awareness necessary to be an effective and respectful Peace Corps volunteer. I'm sure there are mistakes made, by everyone. But overall, I have something to contribute to the world, to help make the world a little bit better of a place. Acting with humility and respect, I intend to help someone help themselves.

Of course, I'm sure I'm so completely naive, not having entered service or even basic orientation and training yet. This may be just a bunch of idealistic, romantic regurgitations from a liberal arts student hell-bent on creating something good and beautiful in a world that people love to hate so much.

But then, my recruiter's departing words come back to me, with a swish of those purple earrings: "We're always looking for the unfulfilled idealist - someone who actively envisions how the world ought to be."

If that's the case, then I can guarantee that you've found just the right woman for the job, ma'am.

Finals Week.

Because I have a lot on my mind and I'm too tired to write anything worthy of being read by anyone...this sums it all up anyways.

Thanks xkcd for helping me procrastinate (http://xkcd.com/137)

Acts of Listening

I had an ephiphany today.  At 8am.

It was inspired by a tiny blurb on the "Positivity" feed I wake up to every morning. This morning's post was a quote from Rachel Naomi Remen - a doctor who's battled Crohn's disease for the past 48 years, and worked to reform the medicine into a holistic practice.

She said:
"The most basic and powerful way to connect to another person is to listen. Just listen. Perhaps the most important thing we ever give each other is our attention...A loving silence often has far more power to heal and to connect than the most well-intentioned words." 

I sat back sleepily for a moment and thought about this, my space heater whirring as I spun slowly in the chair at my desk. Am I a good listener? "Of course!" I thought. It's something that I make a conscious effort to do everyday...and it's like people just know that I'm a sponge for their purging. People have shared things with me before - secrets, both joyous and tragic - that I've felt surprised yet honored to be entrusted with.  But is this sense of trust fostered because I'm a good listener? Have I ever responded to someone's confessions, dreams, or desires with loving silence? What even is "loving silence"? Couldn't that get horribly construed somehow? Misunderstood as indifference?

Sighing, my internal volleying unresolved, I got up and sprawled myself across my bed, propping myself up with a pillow, and grabbing my book. I'll admit that with all the reading I'm required to do I've resorted to speed reading, aka skimming the text looking for key words and thematic elements that are good class discussion starters or paper topics. It's become a key survival skill in college.

That being said, as I began reading Animal's People by Indra Sinha, I realized this wasn't a book I wanted to rush through - that as I passed the 30 page mark, then 55, then 80 in the span of about two hours, my painfully slow progression through the novel gave me more time to understand the deeper meanings of the lesson the author was trying to teach. I highlighted things, I underlined my favorite passages, I even laughed at the subtle humor that I would have normally missed had I flown through the words without looking for their soul. It's been so long since I've slowed down to actually listen to a narrator's story. It frightens me how good I've gotten at hunting out the linguistic cues, the kernals of contradiction, and the forumulaic mechanisms that give novels structure. But that's not what reading is about.

The act of reading is in fact an act of listening. When you take the time to hear out the narrator through to the end, there becomes less of an urge to interject in ways that cause you to alienate yourself from the whole literary experience. Perhaps, to listen with "loving silence" then is to pause long enough to attempt understanding on ones own accord. Because we, as readers, cannot confront authors directly, we must learn to listen with such "loving silence," or risk gutting the very books that attempt to reveal the most complex parts of our humanity.

The Freezing Inferno (& other stories)

I may not live in Garrison Kellior's Minnesotan paradise of Lake Woebegone, but I'm wearing my fleece lined spandex under my jeans, along with three shirts, a fleece hoodie, scarf and a pea coat (like Randy in A Christmas Story, "I can't put my arms down!") Andddd, it gets worse. I hate to admit it, but Heidi and I camped out in front of the oven a few days ago, turning the dial to 500 degrees and putting our faces and hands on the edge of the open door, smiling contentedly. The scalding waves of heat felt heavenly, well, because it's cold here at the Inferno (pardon the pun...or don't).  

Oregon State Capitol, Salem OR - As viewed from Ford Hall

That being said, it's the last week of classes before finals and campus is alive with the caffeinated buzz of Willamette students writing essays and studying for exams. It's hard to believe that this semester is almost over! Only a few essays and a presentation stand in between me and my winter break. Next semester will bring thesis... and (gulp!) graduation. But as always, I'm taking it a day at a time. And frankly, I'm always excited about new horizons. 

Thankfully, the cold weather has brought us some beautiful skies that are so striking and clear, that the world feel infinite, bleeding into the universe like the new bra that turns everything in your washing machine bright pink. The orange, crimson, and gold leaves were blown away in the last storm, leaving the trees starkly naked. All the leaf blower fanatics had a party the next day, sparking their obnoxious machines to life and blowing leaves in one direction only to have a light wind scatter them again. I feel like Sisyphus would have a laugh if he could observe one of my neighbors, who did leaf duty everyday for nearly two weeks. Unfortunately, getting "rid" of the leaves in his yard meant blowing them all under Heidi's suburban, which we didn't discover until Thanksgiving (and who goes to complain to their neighbors during Thanksgiving? exactly.) In any case, all we need now is a blizzard to envelop campus, to soften the ever-clutching grip of academics on students' brains and bodies. I know I'd appreciate a good snow ball fight. Oh, and don't forget making makeshift sleds out of Goudy trays... :D

Morning fog, looking across the Quad toward the Clocktower - from Eaton Hall

This week Willamette held its 15th Annual Star Tree Lighting Ceremony, which is easily my favorite Bearcat tradition (not including the annual Prospie Day body-painted streaker run in the spring). I missed it last year during my time abroad and almost missed it AGAIN this year because of some conflicting schedule issues. But, I made things work, and was able to nibble on cookies, listen to the choir sing carols, and join the countdown until the five huge sequoias, the tallest on ANY university campus in the United States, were lit up with twinkling color. I then had to run back to Smith Auditorium to play in the Christmas concert which we put on for free for the Salem community. While  "The 12 BeBots of Christmas" weren't featured this year, Grant still donned one of his traditional "ugly sweaters" to conduct the band, and a flute octet played an arrangement of "All I Want for Christmas (Is You)." The band of course played Anderson's Sleigh Ride, and finished the concert with an audience sing-a-long carol piece.

The Star Trees - from the Quad

After the concert I met up with Peter, and we ended up justifying a dinner at Adam's BBQ! Whenever I eat there, I never fail to smear half of what I order on my hands and face. Yet, between mouthfuls of pulled pork and fried cornbread (hey, we're rowers lol) and later snuggling up and watching Love Actually together,  it was wonderful to put aside the hustle and bustle of life for the evening for good food, good conversation, and lots of laughs. Oftentimes, life is twice as fun when you get to share it with someone.

That hustle and bustle however cannot wait forever. I have to start working tonight on the final essays due over the next few days. But at least I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. After all, it's only the end of the beginning. There's so much more to come :)

In Spite of Ourselves

Tonight is one of those nights in which my love for life fills my heart in wave upon wave of gratitude. It is nights such as this one that in pausing to reflect upon the craziness of the everyday grind, I can revel in the simple grace of putting aside pursuits of the future to enjoy the present moment. This moment.  Right now. To just "be." To breathe, smile and reconnect and reflect upon our journeys with ourselves and each other.

A year ago I spent Thanksgiving in Amman, Jordan. I had stayed home from classes that day because I was incredibly ill, toting a 101 degree fever and muscle aches. My host family didn't even come in to check on me. Because of this, my mood fluctuated radically between anger driven mostly by my helplessness, and sadness spurred by a desire for my mother to bustle in and start fussing over me. I felt absolutely alone, and absolutely miserable. Everytime I'd be awake long enough for these feelings to begin seeping in, I'd quickly roll over and smush a pillow over my head to bury such feelings in distant fever-ridden dreams. Of course, the harder I pressed the soft pillow against my ears, it seemed the more they would ring...

...Except the ringing in my head turned out to be insistent ringing of my cell phone. My neighborhood girls, calling me during the late afternoon Amman traffic jam, while piled into the backseat of a taxi, gave happy shrieks into the phone that made me wince. "Don't forget Karina, you promised to bring that ancient five month old bag of instant Idaho spuds for us to whip up!" Claire begged playfully. "Rachael is scrounging around Carrefour for sliced turkey, and Laura even found some canned cranberry sauce! This is going to be a perfect Thanksgiving dinner!"

"That's great." I mumbled. "Freakin' mumtaaz."

"Seriously dude, it's going to be awesome!" Becca took her turn yelling into the phone.  I could imagine Rachael, Laura, and Erin grinning and nodding their heads excitedly in solidarity. Their Arab taxi driver must think of his four American passengers were shwei crazy.

"Look girls, I'm really sick," I admitted. "No promises I'll be able to make it tonight." This news was met with cold rejection.

"No, Karina you're coming even if we have to drag you out of bed. We'll see you at 6pm, my place," Clair retorted. Then as if to soften the toughness of her stance, they all screamed, "We love you khteerrrrr, bye!!!" and hung up. A small smile had replaced the scowl on my face. Maybe this is what I needed after all.

I wobbled into Claire's host-family's house a few hours later. A small table piled high with goodies met my eyes. Sliced turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, yams with kosher marshmellows...even some stuffing. The highlight of the night though may have been Claire's freshly baked pecan pie, my favorite.

Of course, what made Thanksgiving in Amman a Thanksgiving that I'll remember for a long time wasn't so much about the food (although it did help to relieve some of the nostalgia). It was about the amazing women I got to share it with. We were all thousands of miles away from our families in the USA, but we had made a family of each other.

And so this Thanksgiving, as I find myself back in the States, but again surrounded by people that I love, I just feel so incredibly lucky. From being happily welcomed into Peter's family gathering in Tacoma (which included poker, wine, touch football games, and lots of hugs), to reuniting with my Mom and Pop and my various sets of adopted "relatives," I see how families, in whatever form they may come, learn to love each other in spite of themselves. In spite of our struggles. In spite of our flaws. In spite of any stubbornness to prove one's independence and individuality. If anything, coming home from my time abroad has taught me to be more grateful for these unquestioned, nonnegotiable networks of support. We know that the people we try the hardest to push away, will always take us back.

And thus, there's so much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving, in spite of ourselves.

A Woman Alone

It never ceases to amaze me how surprised people are when they discover that I am traveling alone, whether internationally or even within the United States.

Fortunately though, I often find that my seeming "loneliness" opens many special doors throughout the world. In Jordan or Lebanon, it means getting invited into the sacred space of someone's home to meet their family, and sip on delicate cups of "shai wa nana" while nibbling on mamoul (or if you're reallyyyy lucky baklava or knafa!). In Croatia, it can even get you a drink or two on the house from a pitying bartender.

On the otherhand, announcing your "aloneness" (I do not use the word "loneliness" on purpose) aloud and without timidity can also cause flickers of confusion to dart across the faces of curious inquirers. "You mean you chose to travel by yourself?" their eyes challenge. But why???

"I'm having a great time... ALL BY MYSELF"  -- acquired at the Museum of Broken Relationships, Zagreb, Croatia

To help explain this, I return to one of my favorite YouTube videos titled, "How to Be Alone" (as shown below). As the short expose illuminates, learning how to be alone can be one of the most difficult but important life skills that one can achieve, especially in an increasingly connected world where two to three degrees of separation is all that exists between you and members of your local community. 

But like any skill, being alone takes practice. You have to work on it in order to feel more comfortable with it. 

I travel alone for the freedom of letting my feet wander: of choosing my own destinations, allowing myself to get "lost" along the way, and understanding how to best keep myself company. "Lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless," the narrator mentions, highlighting its ability to unburden oneself from the boredom of routine or the pressure of public image and social cues. For example, what's the longest amount of time that you've refrained from speaking? Five minutes? An hour? Try going a whole day. When you're alone, you allow yourself to get inside your head more than usual. You give yourself the time for self-reflection. Once you get accustomed to the immediate differences that occur when leaving friends and social obligations behind, flyin' solo (as I fondly refer to it) is something that one adjusts to naturally. 

Besides, even if you feel like you're traveling alone, you are of course never completely alone. Just turn to the nearest human-being next to you and invite them out for a coffee. :)

"Remember who you are..."

Its raining again.

I´m enjoying the sound of it whoosh outside my open window. Its muggy here. Hot. Even sprawled out on my bed, I´ve used up all the cool spots and am compelled to migrate to the window to look out and watch the sheets of water pound the gravely road outside Valentina´s house into muddy puddles. Of course, my sleeplessness may also have something to do with the quantity of rakia (the unofficial national drink that everyone brews in their basements...) I´ve been consuming lately, or perhaps the many thoughts churning in my mind...probably both. 

Today was an incredibly intense experience: physically, intellectually, maybe even spiritually. We ventured to Srebrenica and Kravica - testaments to Bosnia´s brutal war that began nearly 20 years ago.

I rode shotgun this morning on our drive out of Bijeljina, with Valentina behind the wheel. It was a cloudy morning with watery sunshine that broke through intermittently and illuminated the bright green of surrounding farmland. I especially love such roadtrips for their ability to promote deeper conversations - they allow you to think outloud and discuss difficult subjects without the pressure of eye contact or the possibility of escape. Instead, your thoughts free to twist and wind around in your mind like the road before you. 

We talked about many things...mostly of course the feasibility of developing a unified Bosnia in the face of continued nationalism of the Bosnian Serbs, Croats, and Bosniacks. We talked about genocide, and the disparities between the truth and ´propaganda´ that construct men such as Ratko Mladic - who ordered the execution of 8,000 Muslim men and boys in Srebrenica - as ´heroes.´

The reminders of war and historic rivalries are everywhere in BiH...plazas with glorified monuments, and rows and rows of sun-bleached, rain-hardened headstones at the entrances of each town. Peace feels tenuous here. Fragile. It feels like war could happen again. That fear keeps people suspicious, and glancing every-so-often back to the local hills that filed to protect all three groups from unimaginable acts of violence.

Srebrenica is surrounded by such hills, beautiful and green and rolling down into the valley.  The five of us mingled sombrely through the thousands of headstones. Faceless people, with stories I don't know...such a reality threatens to make this massacre only another paragraph in the history of humankind. But frankly, it was impossible for me to remain detached. I took time reading name after name of the men, many who had been my age when they were executed. It only took a little imagination drawn from studied historical events to visualize myself here, gazing at these same hills, and realizing that I would die so undignified. I imagined families being separated on the first day, and fathers and sons dying next to each other on the last.

We left Srebrenica with heavy hearts. The car was largely quiet, a rare occurrence for our loud and opinionated group. Right before we had gotten into the car, the old woman Valentina had chatted up for us told us the story of her family's suffering. The woman looked weathered. Her dark, leathery skin crinkled into a quick smile, an incredibly surprising phenomenon. When I wasn't watching her face, I couldn't take my eyes off of her hands: smooth almost, like polished wood worn down by frequent use. It made me suddenly unsure about her age. She became timeless.

The woman eventually grasped my hand and led me over to the museum, a part of the memorial area I had overlooked. Inside my eyes were met with horrible images: a doll with its mouth slit, left on a shallow grave as a warning to all, barbed wire handcuffs removed from exhumed bodies in mass graves, and rows upon rows of evidence boxes.

As we sat quietly, watching the churches and mosques of other villages pass by our car windows, I couldn't help but think back to something a student said to Valentina the night before: ˝Fine, go to Srebrenica,˝ he said. ˝But remember who you are.˝

Remember who you are.

In other words, do what you feel you must do, but do not betray the memory of Serbian heroism. Witness but do not necessarily accept Bosniack propaganda. They claimed to have suffered more under ¨Serbian aggression,¨ but wait! Look at what Serbs have suffered! We have suffered too! Bring them to Kravica as well, and they will better understand our story.

Thus, remember who you are is an incredibly loaded statement, especially coming from an incredibly clever seventeen-year-old Bosnian Serb.

It is impossible to designate events on an empirical scale of suffering. It makes mediating such comments increasingly difficult to redirect. I thought I would have more answers by now about how to help Bosnia move forward, but if anything I am becoming more paralysed by the incredible power cultural memory has on exacerbating and perpetuating existing divisions.

Tonight is our last night here in Bijeljina. Perhaps Orasje will reveal another side to the questions surrounding Bosnian identity...

The World is my Soapbox

“Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.” -- Miriam Beard (from, The 50 Most Inspiring Travel Quotes of All Time)

It never gets old for me, challenging everyday conceptions of space and time. 30-something hours ago I was home, and now I am halfway across the world. Its a thrill that settles in my stomach, like the butterflies that accompany a first date, every single time I head for the airport. Airports symbolize more than annoying 3-ounce bottle rules, body scanners, and strange sweaty seat buddies (you know who I'm referring to). For me, airports represent adventure, freedom, and the potential of going literally anywhere in the world. It presents infinite realms of possibility.

As I find myself in Belgrade, Serbia, attempting to read street signs in the Cryllic alphabet and witnessing the many echoes of old Yugoslavia, I am slowly realizing that this part of the world is truly different from everything that I've ever experienced. What does it mean to travel the Balkans? What defines its people, languages, culture, and music? I wonder what I will come away with when I leave this seeming region of exceptionally visible national pride...

I have a feeling that the next few weeks hold the potential to transform, and continue to build upon the experiences that have changed my views of the world. It began in Zimbabwe and Jordan, and continues again this summer. I am travelling to Bosnia-Herzegovina (BiH) with three colleagues, spending the next three weeks with BiH highschoolers that we mentored and facilitated discussions on democracy during their exchange-leadership program at Willamette this past spring. These 'kids' (aka, soon-to-be-functioning-adults) are literally the product of civil war. Thus, the future of Bosnia and any prospects for justice or long-term reconciliation rests on their shoulders. Hopes for peace could again crumble with the aftershocks of genocide: nationalism, ethnic hatred, distrust of ones neighbors lack of forgiveness, and religious intolerance are only a few challenges they face.

But! As always, there is hope! (As the die-hard optimist, you couldn't expect any less from me of course haha). These young Bosnians are intelligent, genuine, candid, and so incredibly motivated to change their own communities and hence create a new BiH - a nation that supports democratic ideals of liberty tempered by social responsibility - a nation that can heal ancient wounds not through the suppression of identity but rather through the embrace of differences.

Obviously, I've turned the world into my soapbox. What can I say? I'm not one to censor myself.

because the future comes a day at a time.

TGITh (because Thursdays = Fridays in my world)!

I'm sitting in the lounge of the PSU gym watching the Nigeria-Germany game of the FIFA Women's World Cup. I'm very excited! Soccer is something that I will always love, and can find camaraderie with any fan around the world as futbol is indeed the world's game.  It's weird to think that last summer I was watching the Men's World Cup from ex-pat bars in Zimbabwe sipping on SoCo and lemonade. How times change :)

I'm fully settled into my life in Portland. Jake and I have resolved our differences, and he's even become quite affectionate! I think, as with most human beings, change can be a scary, unpredictable, stressful thing that can bring out the weaknesses in ones character; even stoic felines. 

The thing is, change in its rawest form doesn't tend to last very long. It's a marked period of fluctuation followed by the establishment of a new routine.  Now that I'm living in Portland, it means waking up, going rowing or studying for a few hours, catching the bus, people watching for about 15-20 minutes, attending Arabic class for the next three hours racking my brain for vocabulary and conjugations, spending a good hour or two at the massive PSU gym and then getting home to throw dinner together before collapsing into bed and doing it all again.

Exciting?

Actually, it kind of is! I even have the weekend Farmer's markets and socializing with friends to spice things up!

Instead of spending another month with my family, I decided to carve our a new space, create a new thread in my life quilt of new adventures. I fill each day to the max because, well, why not?? I have a focus to my efforts here that I didn't when I was home...probably because in all honesty I was too comfortable there. Sleeping in until 11am everyday, watching marathons of NCIS, and having meals become the highlight of my day doesn't make for a productive or happy self. What's more, I lacked the self-discipline to break out of a cyclic blah-ville .

So, I forced a change, and Portland became my outlet.

Portland is a wonderful city, and I've taken a lot of joy in exploring the various neighborhood vibes near my apartment and PSU's campus. I have started a list of restaurants, cafes, and shops, splitting them between my favorites and ones I want to try in the future. I know how to get around the city better than ever. 

Yet even now I'm looking to the next change: Bosnia.  My departure date is only three weeks away...it's totally snuck up on me! Time to crack that guide book that's been sitting on my bookshelf for way too long :)

Growing Pains.

You know it's going to get interesting when by day three, mental notes-to-self are too numerous to account for: unplug the microwave, don't overfill the tea kettle or risk boiling overflows, open the bathroom door when you shower, push the toilet handle down all the way and HOLD it or else it will feign plugged-ness like a kid who plays sick to try and stay home from school.  NICE TRY toilet. No, I did not miss my bus this morning despite your best attempts to fool my newfound talent for early arrival. Take that you and your sniffly little toilet complaints elsewhere. In this little studio apartment I reign QUEEN.

Well, sort of. Like any obnoxiously bold statement (you know what they say about men in super-sized pickup trucks...) I am obviously trying to make up for some faulty, crippling insecurity in my life. 

To be honest, it's not even an arch rival human being. It's a cat by the name of Jake.

This little man-cat thinks he's the coolest cat around. And he probably is, but that's not really saying much because as far as I know, he may be the only cat in the building, aside from the little yapping creature next door that really should qualify as anything other than a dog. But I digress.

Jake is a beautiful tabby with attitude to boot. When I was in the process of moving in, he was on his best behavior for his momma, playing cute, purring, letting me pet him...now all I get is clawed swats at my ankles from under the table; stealthy ambushes that leave me licking my wounds. 

I thought I was the human here?!

Apparently, Jake has other ideas. In an attempt to play the bigger person (cat?) by not reacting to such behavior, I seem to be encouraging more of the same, not less, from Jake. The boredom that I had hoped would plague Jake and then cause the abandonment of his evil plans after he realized he wouldn't get a rile out of me has faded along with the hope of reciprocative interest. All I can say is that I'm in this studio apartment for three weeks and we both better make it out better than where we're starting. It can only go up from here.

Indoor Tornado Warnings.

It's almost midnight, and I've just started to pack for my move to Portland. It may be just a hop skip and a jump from my little town in Washington, but its far enough that it takes some planning...and I'm discovering that since my last travels I've made little progress in streamlining my preparation process. There's crap all over the floor, stacks of books, piles of (clean/dirty?) clothes, and electronic cords...did a tornado swipe through my room in a mere 20 seconds???? I don't know how this happens sometimes!

I should say though, that I do best under pressure. I just need the extra incentive of a countdown to get my butt moving and into packing mode! T minus 8 hours til departure...

I'll be attending PSU and taking Arabic courses. I'm subletting a cute little studio in NW Portland and commuting to class. I'm a bit nervous as I'm enrolled in an intermediate colloquial class because that's all that was available for the summer session. It's inevitably going to be quite above my comfort zone...but if all I did was stay with what I knew, then I would never grow.  So, I will accept the the mistakes, embarrassment, and struggles, along with the development I know I'll be pushed to make along the way.

Here's to a new adventure not so far from home, but challenging enough to warrant some worries. I CAN'T WAIT!

Revisited Horizons

It happened over a pile of garlic fries and a blue cheese "hill-billy" burger at the Ram, right before Spring Break. My parents, tired (and admittedly worried) of my uncharacteristic moping, poor attitude, polar mood swings, and overall grumpiness, had decided to stage an intervention.

Being my parents, they of course knew that the best way to get me to engage with them was by appealing to my stomach...and/or by getting me riled up about political things that I care deeply about. Turns out, they got quite a bit of both that evening. Everything that had been weighing on my shoulders for the last few months since getting back to the States and all the thoughts that, unable to be released by an incredible plague of writer's block, remained trapped inarticulately in my mind, became topics of conversation that night.

We of course started out on the benign, safe, lovable, easy subjects like school and rowing, but it wasn't long until it turned towards a rehashing of recent news. My mom, the Gladys Cravitz and gossip queen of my life, of course had to inquire into the relationship realm first: Had I talked with Phil since the breakup? (no) Did I want to? (yes) Would I? (probably not) Why? (because I had rationalized myself out of contacting him again, mainly because it still hurts. Plus, I was in the process of getting used to the fact that a lot of things in Jordan will always remind me of him/us. I'm okay with that. I want to heal. I know it was real...just not realistic I guess). My answers, much more calm and reasonable than the last tearful conversation, seemed to please my Mom. I could see her sizing me up with those all-knowing eyes, as she reached across the table to squeeze my hand. Emotional grade? B+

It was an easy transition into talking about Jordan then of course, something that as I took a bite of my fatty burger seemed a long way off from the hummus and falafel of Hashem's. But I settled right into it. Jordan makes me think of sandstorms, long pants, Sanoodii wa ustrahtee, shai, Muna, Majd, my beloved neighborhood girls, CIEE staff, camels, Petra, Aqaba, taxis, taxi drivers, wandering through cities and getting lost, retracing my steps, walking with purpose like a local, speaking Arabic, thinking in Arabic, realizing that my English is now peppered with colloquial Arabic and thus getting odd looks from strangers...

I miss Jordan so much. Once I get started talking about it, I don't want to stop. It makes me ignore the glazed over faces of my listeners for just a few minutes longer than what is polite. But I can't help it. I know I'm teetering dangerously on the edge of romanticizing my experience there now that significant time has passed.  I've been able to fall right back into expected social behaviors of the USA without consequence while living vicariously through the Facebook statuses of my CIEE friends who have stayed for another semester. It lets me smile and nod along, while lounging around my house in the USA in my usual sports bra and shorts (major haram).

In any case, my parents are some of the few who don't glaze over when I tell them in no particular order more of my favorite stories. I also revisit my time with  IOM Iraq alot; how I lived the life of a professional adult, writing reports and conducting research that people usually get paid to do in their careers. I've had a taste of the future, and I want more. Because of my time with IOM and the U.S. Embassy in Harare I have begun to think of a career relating to international migration and protracted refugee conflicts. It's a relatively new and exciting field, one that is demanding experts, policy makers, and lawyers. I think I finally hear my calling. I tell my parents so. They look incredibly pleased that I've escaped the wishywashy meaning-of-life career limbos typical of a liberal arts student. I grin excitedly, but warn them I haven't made any promises. Abroad experience/Future Plans Grade? A/A-

Finally, we discuss the politics of revolution sweeping across the Arab world. It's something I've followed on Al-Jazeera obsessively. It's distracted me in class, while rowing out on the river, and kept me from my homework. It's a movement I somehow feel tied to, as if the Egyptians' struggles are mine too. I know it sounds ridiculous. How can a white blonde American girl feel justified in "identifying" with the millions of impoverished and oppressed peoples in the Middle East? Around the world? Especially with the degree of privileges I benefit from. At its best, my "connection" is superficial, but I've ignored it and decided to let my overall identity as a human being overwhelm my doubts. Perhaps it was the eerie realization that the hostel I stayed in in August was literally 2 blocks from Tahrir Square. Perhaps it was thinking of the kind Egyptian men we chatted with who were genuine, kind, overwhelmingly generous and respectful. I don't really pray, but I prayed a couple nights thinking of these men, their faces in my mind with their families, for their safety.

Then there was increasing violence in Lebanon, another beautiful country that humored my love of culture and adventure. Photos revealed protesters in the very square in Tripoli where I ate baklava and caught the bus a month earlier. Beirut similarly became transformed into roadblocks, fiery tires, and protests. I was on edge as the weeks unfolded seeing how Jordan, my host-country, would respond. Then came the discussion of Palestine.

It was a series of issues that evolved into one of those typical heated family discussions that I love so much. My family is an incredibly loud force in public, considering its only the three of us. :)  We stayed in the booth long after the couples and families in the surrounding booths departed, enjoying our conversation and the time together. Political awareness/family bonding Grade? A (for effort)


Much has happened since that intervention, but it was a turning point in my reintegration in the USA. Until then I didn't really know where I belonged; or rather I felt like I belonged in too many places. It was with this realization that I found a label: I was experiencing the a full-blown 5 step grieving process of denial, sadness, anger, bargaining, and acceptance, with lots of nostalgia thrown into the mix. I had spent the last year and a half planning for the 8 months while abroad but hadn't considered an exit strategy.These places all became familiar to me and mark a stage of my life that I will never ever be able to return to. It was truly a once-in-a-lifetime series of events, people, places, and times. I am still coming to term with that, but am much more confident in finding a way to look forward now.

Who knew that my family and a massive dose of Americana would help push me over into the next part of my life... to the next horizon. 

I was here...

Protests and government upheaval in Lebanon... Peace is a relative term these days.

In a weird way, I wish I was here again to witness this...but only if I could be invisible.

Protesters pray in the street - Tripoli, Lebanon (BBC)

Lebanese troops were called out to reopen roads closed off by protesters - Beirut (BBC)

Demonstrators rally near the grave of Rafik Hariri - Beirut (BBC)

 Burning tires blocked the main road to Syria - the regional power broker which backs Hezbollah (BBC)

Re-entering the matrix: USA

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you,” Maya Angelou once wrote. Indeed, as a student returning from nearly eight months abroad, nothing could be closer to the truth. I departed in June 2010 for Harare, Zimbabwe to work as an intern with the U.S. Embassy. After my three months there, I headed north for Amman, Jordan and spent almost five months traveling and studying in the Middle East. When I left the United States, I floated in a cloud of tremendous excitement and optimism. All I knew was that that particular mentality was better than the petulant alternative. Despite having little idea of what to expect, I flew out of Seattle that sunny June day ready to embrace the new opportunities and adventures that waited literally half-a-world away.

However, now upon returning home I’ve floundered in truly expressing what I’ve witnessed to even my closest family and friends. The agony of untold beauty, hidden wild places, incredible people, diverse faiths, colorful languages, and joyful living due to or despite circumstance, is something that has changed me forever. To truly understand such things, one has to actually smell the spicy freshness of mint tea, hear the grumbling of Bedouin camels, walk by the bomb-blasted Lebanese buildings from recent civil war, banter nimbly with good-humored taxi drivers, and feel a smile flutter to ones lips at the mention of King Abdullah II’s name.

The hardest thing about returning “home” from living abroad is realizing that I have in my absence, fostered a sense of belonging in other “homes” throughout the world. Frankly, it almost feels like I don’t know where I belong anymore! When I left Jordan, I had finally reach the point where I homesick only for my own family and simple luxuries like clean laundry. Back in the states however, the novelty of returning to the US of A matrix has already worn off. Life seems predictable, boring, narrow-minded, and too easy. People around me are obsessed with body image, schedules, routines, and popular fads. The other day, when I overheard a woman complaining about how her bottled water tasted a little bit too chlorinated, I had to restrain myself from turning around and snapping, “Well ma’am, at least you HAVE clean water to drink!”

All these mixed emotions reflect how my views of the world have shifted. Its not that I was never aware or educated about how people across the globe live; it’s more like the attachment of faces and names to struggles I previously viewed through the lens of an objective scholar have transformed such issues into being my struggle too.

But the random person, the casual stranger on the street doesn’t know I’m judging them for their stereotypical behaviors. I can’t blame them for not asking about my experiences, and not releasing the “agony” of the stories I have yet to tell.

And I know that’s unfair of me to be upset about that. I know I can’t blame the people in the States for misunderstanding what they can’t relate to. But sometimes it’s just so frustrating, especially in the current national climate of “Islamophobia” where Arabs are the punch line, and Qur’an burning is deemed by some to be a fair and necessary technique for "revenge".

Such people haven’t met my Palestinian friend whose family’s village could soon be or is already threatened by Israeli settlements. It’s difficult to truly grasp how it feels to stand in front of armored vehicles on a street corner, or pass through a Hezbollah-controlled roadblock that causes you to sequester the churning knot in your stomach to the darkest corner of your mind. They haven’t stayed up all night singing and laughing along to pop-Arabic music, or danced the dabka. They haven’t witnessed the ability of the hijab to actually empower Muslim women.

The coming months are going to be a crucial time for processing my thoughts and channeling my conclusions into a positive narration that my friends and family can actually benefit from. I never want to come across as condescending or be so upset about having left behind the life I had in Zimbabwe and Jordan that it taints the next few months that I spend at home. I think any feelings of alienation will dissolve slightly as soon as I reconnect with my other friends who have also been abroad and are maybe going through similar issues. In developing an ability to express my stories, I instead wish to reveal my experiences with a candid alacrity that motivates others to travel and see for themselves the lifestyle I’ve lived for the last eight months. Also, while I fear that I will be pulled into “compartmentalizing” my experiences, I believe that returning to the private journal that I kept throughout my journey will help remind me of the greater complexities, and help me gradually reintegrate into American society with a healthy perspective. The incredible amount of personal growth I’ve experienced is overwhelmingly due to dealing with the stressors, challenges, and corresponding rewards from being abroad. Thus, telling the “untold story” openly is an important component in inspiring the next group of students to go abroad.

Eventually, I too will be the unknowing stranger...the one that can't fathom the true impact of someone else's experience. So, I will savor my own memories, and hope to be as patient as those who will deal with my cultural growing pains over the next few months.