Besides "my own personal Hajj", I am also going back to Ethiopia to learn more about how the disgusting and inhumane land and foreign aid policies imposed by the Zenawi regime play out on the ground...
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Hajj
In about a month, I will be traveling back to Dembi Dolo, Ethiopia, the small town I entered life in, for the first time in 26 years. The last time I was there was the age of five, before my family left for good to start our lives here in the United States. The mind of an immigrant is a peculiar place. One of my favorite authors, Chimamanda Adichie, put it best when she said "No longer fitting into the place she left, and never feeling at home in her new place, the immigrant's home becomes her mind."
When I tell people that I left Ethiopia when I was five, the immediate response is usually, "Well I guess you don't really remember a lot about it then, huh?" On the contrary, that part of my life is with me in every moment of my life. The way I relate to the world has all to do with those first five years, and the few years after arriving here. Never feeling quite a part of it all. Knowing in a deep way that something has been left behind, but without any tangible way to access the loss. The immigrant in me lives with the profound sense of loss, as if it is woven into my flesh, my memories and my heart. This is not some dramatic statement of tragedy, but a very real and lived sentiment that many friends with similar experiences have expressed to me.
It's been a balancing act, life. . . Culture, and for the immigrant- the all too elusive state of "belonging". What is that? How do people who have that sense of home/roots feel? Is it the same for everyone? Of course, probably not, but it is a question I've asked myself in various episodes of my life. For me, this trip that I'm about to take in about a month involves many things. There is a reason that I've gone to Africa on three different trips, and have not gone back "home" to Ethiopia yet. I am 32 now. And the time feels right. "This is my won personal Hajj", I tell friends.
What will it be like? How will I respond to the poverty I see- knowing that it could have very well been me in that situation? How does our old house look now? How will I be viewed as an American there? And what about the cultural oppression of my ethnic group(Oromo)? Will I finally be able to decode the message that was imprinted in my mind, on my heart so long ago by the land, the air, the rain? And what is home? But most of all I am looking forward to actualizing a long-time fantasy of mine-- laying on the ground, hugging it for a good while.
When I tell people that I left Ethiopia when I was five, the immediate response is usually, "Well I guess you don't really remember a lot about it then, huh?" On the contrary, that part of my life is with me in every moment of my life. The way I relate to the world has all to do with those first five years, and the few years after arriving here. Never feeling quite a part of it all. Knowing in a deep way that something has been left behind, but without any tangible way to access the loss. The immigrant in me lives with the profound sense of loss, as if it is woven into my flesh, my memories and my heart. This is not some dramatic statement of tragedy, but a very real and lived sentiment that many friends with similar experiences have expressed to me.
It's been a balancing act, life. . . Culture, and for the immigrant- the all too elusive state of "belonging". What is that? How do people who have that sense of home/roots feel? Is it the same for everyone? Of course, probably not, but it is a question I've asked myself in various episodes of my life. For me, this trip that I'm about to take in about a month involves many things. There is a reason that I've gone to Africa on three different trips, and have not gone back "home" to Ethiopia yet. I am 32 now. And the time feels right. "This is my won personal Hajj", I tell friends.
What will it be like? How will I respond to the poverty I see- knowing that it could have very well been me in that situation? How does our old house look now? How will I be viewed as an American there? And what about the cultural oppression of my ethnic group(Oromo)? Will I finally be able to decode the message that was imprinted in my mind, on my heart so long ago by the land, the air, the rain? And what is home? But most of all I am looking forward to actualizing a long-time fantasy of mine-- laying on the ground, hugging it for a good while.
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