Archive | family RSS feed for this section

time and timing

22 Sep

These thoughts and these words have been floating around in my head for a few months now, but I have been waiting to write them. I am not sure why exactly, perhaps to soak up exactly what it is that I have been feeling so strongly. This is what it boils down to: time and timing, both, and how lucky I have been this year for these two things to collide for me.

I have had months and months of time with my family and friends, the opportunity to re-connect in old ways and connect over new ones. And I have had the right timing to do so, but also the right circumstances, for which I only have the universe to thank for. One tiny example is that of my best friend from high school moving back to the Emirates over the same time period as me, to a neighbourhood new to us both but to a city that we left in 2003. There have been many more serendipitous ‘collisions’ such as this one and I have brought many of my ‘pieces‘ together (the Middle-East during an Arab Spring no less, Mauritania and my father, French and my childhood friends, my mother and her gentleness). Full and complete.

Now, it is time to leave. I am getting on a plane tonight and moving to a country in Central-West Africa that I have never been to before but that holds some of the ‘pieces’ I mention above (Fulani language/culture, the opportunity to speak French daily) and I am hopeful it will bring me new growth and challenges. I am moving in with a man, which is a big step for me romantically, and something that I have not yet attempted at the age of 26. Along with the hopes, I have my fair share of doubts and questions, but I would rather have those than regrets.

Here comes change!

Advertisements

Worlds

30 Apr

This was originally posted at Gender Across Borders and can be found here complete with old photographs. It’s my little contribution to a cool series of writing, This AND That, which features ‘stories from women whose identities have crossed paths along the lines of gender, culture, ethnicity and nationality’.

I knew which worlds I belonged to from the start.

When I was four years old, having just moved to the United Arab Emirates from my birthplace of Kuwait, I approached a couple in a restaurant. ‘You’re from the Philippines’ I said, pointing to the lady, ‘and you’re from here’, I said to her partner in the traditional white dishdasha. He smiled broadly, and playfully asked, ‘And you, little one, where are you from?’  I am noos-noos. Arabic for half-half.

It didn’t take me long to realise that I was much more than half anything. That the English part from my mother was as complex as my Mauritanian background, inherited from my father. That I could have been Senegalese and not Mauritanian if my father had been born on the other side of the Senegal river, where his Halpulaar community is from, had colonialists not arbitrarily split the countries in two.

I cultivated what I learned in the French education system; Voltaire and civil liberties alongside verlan Parisian slang. I accepted that I belonged to the waves of the Indian Ocean, it taught me how to swim and fight for breath.

As a teenager I lost myself, in literature and in my imagination. I was both black and white, slave and slave master, woman and man, oppressed and oppressor. I was a metisse in the French Caribbean, a mulatto in Brazil, a half-caste in Britain. As my perception evolved, I found myself to be claimed by various nationalities depending on where I was in the world- Indian, Cambodian, Moroccan, Venezuelan, Egyptian- a whole host of countries completely removed from my genetic pool. If I followed the old-school of thought which states that you should see yourself as society sees you, I would be utterly and totally confused. Because in this crazy 21st century of ours, where borders and travels become much more fluid, there is not one society. There are many societies to follow, many religions to practice, many languages to learn. Many songs to sing; this is our blessing and our curse.

I see myself in both my grandmothers, one Mauritanian and one English. They are a part of me, and as much of me as each other. I am not discounting the vast differences in their upbringing and way of life, but there was a lot of sameness, too. They both married, bore children, suffered miscarriages, lost husbands. My grandmothers took risks and loved. Joy and sorrow, passion and reason. They both lived.

When you come from different worlds, and when these worlds come together, this forces a visceral awareness of others. At the age of four, my awareness was just beginning, but it has continued to unlock many more conversations and connections since then. I have spoken with female labourers in India, smiled at women toting babies on their backs in Ghana, and walked beside abaya-clad Emirati women in luxurious shopping malls. The basic joy of human contact has intensified my belief; parallel universes interconnecting with our own. I knew which worlds I belonged to from the start.

Now

1 Apr

12 months ago, I was in London maniacally preparing for a work trip to India and Nepal. This was how I spent my April: spending time with an organisation working with deaf-blind children in rural Gujurat;, visiting the biggest red light districts in Mumbai; celebrating Nepali New Year (2067!) in the pure mountain air of Pokhara where street children as young as 6 stick their heads in plastic bags to sniff glue.
Over the course of three weeks, I was inspired, challenged, and humbled. And I still haven’t found adequate words to describe the Mumbai brothels I entered in particular, or the energetic children (they are just children) whose mothers work in them.

This was the first of intense work trips for me in 2010. I returned to India and Nepal to visit NGOs, as well as Bangladesh and Cambodia in August. In terms of personal travel, I had the most beautiful romantic time in the south of France and Italy. And in June, my love and I broke up, in Australia of all places. I escaped to Switzerland in November to visit some close friends I hadn’t seen for a long time. 10 countries in 2010.

I ended the year in a state of exhaustion- a tiredness that was partly physical, but mainly wearing in emotional and mental ways. All this to say, I took a huge decision, to leave my job after 3 years in an organisation which had been so good to me, and move in with my parents for a few months for the first since I left home in 2003. This was a simple choice in many ways, that of spending quality time with my parents, both of whom I enjoy being around, in the sunshine of the Middle-East where I grew up. But I was still terrified. I have been very goal-oriented over the last few years, and as I was ringing in the New Year in January, one of my first thoughts was, ‘Now what?’
So I have worked hard to remove the ‘what’ from that question, and just bring the ‘now’ to the centre, closer and closer. I have been able to take a step back and appreciate things for what they are. To focus on personal relationships, to reconnect with my parents as an adult, to make time for friends. I feel rested and stronger. My brain has reassessed certain experiences and made healthy space for some new ones. Some things I will process for a long time, some images I will keep with me, and that is okay too.

This has turned out to be a transitional time, one that I connect a bit with ‘coming of age’, which I know is traditionally associated with a young person’s transition to adulthood but which I now feel people go through at different points throughout life. Perhaps that is why it is a theme that is come up in all of the books I have read since the start of the year (more detailed post about the first few just below).
In all of these books, as different as they are, I have connected with the ideas of growing, questioning, longing, adapting, changing. All characters seem to be questioning their life, finding themselves in situations they might not have prepared for, eventually changing in ways they might not have predicted. I suspect this might be me projecting a little, an Anais Nin case of ‘we don’t see things as they are, we see things as we are’. How do you see things right now and are you happy with what you are seeing?

pieces

27 Mar

I’ve been listening to Fairouz this morning. It is really reflective of my mood right now, the strangest feeling of nostalgia and introspection. Conflict and peace.

I long for familiarity. Home. This is part of an ongoing struggle, one that lies in knowing my identity is based on so many different little pieces, sometimes contradictory, sometimes linked to places and people I have no claim to anymore.

Over the past 6 and a half years, I have strongly connected to the U.K., where my mother is from. This hasn’t been an effort or struggle in any way (despite what some people seem to assume), and I think that is down to the logic of the term ‘mother tongue’ – my mother passed on her language, words and habits firsthand and that sort of bonding is strong wherever it is you are brought up. But when I used to think of England, it was mainly the regular summer memories in my maternal grandmother’s kitchen that would come to mind (the kitsch wallpaper and cups of tea with ginger biscuits!), and my experience has obviously expanded drastically since I have made my own life here.

My relationship with my father’s background is more complex and manifests itself differently. My father never sat my sister or I down and consciously taught us about his country, but by being around him (and occasionally the Mauritanian/Senegalese community in Abu Dhabi), it is something we felt and lived.
I have a memory of being quite young, reading a book about capital cities and realising that I hadn’t actually been told what the capital of Mauritania was. I quickly scrolled down all of the unfamiliar names, Nairobi, N’Djamena, Niamey… I came to Nouakchott, Mauritania, and thought I know. I knew Nouakchott as a word, even though I had never explicitly been taught it. And that is how I feel about my relationship with my father: a lot of the learning has been second-hand, and much less direct than what I have taken from my mother. I don’t know if this is down to male/female, father/daughter relationship, or to my dad being a very private man, but my relationship with him and consequently with Mauritania, Senegal, and Halpulaar culture feels somewhat diluted if still extremely intense.

Then there are links that do not ‘belong’ to me: the Middle-East, a French education (which created an interest in French politics, an understanding of the French way of thinking/sense of humour, French music, friends, etc…). There is something that feels difficult about being an outsider to a culture you feel very close to.

I miss hearing Arabic every day, I miss Abu Dhabi and the Allahu-Akbar call to prayer outside my apartment…looking out and seeing men spilling out of the Mosque and into the street, repetitive bowing and kneeling…. paralleling my mother’s yoga movements in the living room.

When I am in a nostalgic mood like this one, I wonder if I will ever feel full? Satisfied? I suppose my contentment cannot lie on the feeling of those pieces coming together, but sometimes I so desperately want them to.

“People are always shouting they want to create a better future. It’s not true. The future is an apathetic void of no interest to anyone. The past is full of life, eager to irritate us, provoke and insult us, tempt us to destroy or repaint it. The only reason people want to be masters of the future is to change the past.” (Kundera)

Mauritanian gathering

2 Aug

I hide behind my father as we wait for someone to answer the doorbell. I must be small, only four or five, because it seems as though the pile of shoes by the door is almost as big as I am. Big shoes, little shoes; flip flops, and school shoes. Pink sandals and green trainers poking out. At the time, I already know what this means. A lot of people are already inside.

I have an image than spans years: The door swings open, and my dad slips his shoes off,  gesturing at me to do the same. I can smell the cooking and it’s already in my nose, in my hair, in my skin. Thieboudienne, rice and fish.

My father. He is sharing this, as he is sharing me, yet everything feels complete.