It was a surreal experience, seated “VIP” at the community peace building soccer game. To my right, my mother and to my left a chief. Many chiefs. And who was I? As each new dignitary arrived, I would shake hands and flash a nervous grin as they analyzed my seemingly out of place seating. I was rocking a “Ghanian” dress, but one customary to the South. At that, most woman wore jeans and a tshirt. I was only slightly out of place. My time in Nandom, Ghana has been one that I will never forget. With a population of 7,000 – my mothers former peace corps home welcomed me with open arms. It has been almost 28 years since mom stepped foot in the town that defined her 20s and set the path for her future. As the only peace corps volunteer in the remote village, she was forced to quickly adapt – coming from the hustle and bustle of Chicago. I think “remote” is an understatement. We took an hour flight north from the capital Accra and then took another 6 hour drive to get to Nandom. When we finally arrived we stayed at a local guest house, each with our own rooms. Boasting the basic amenities, it was a comfortable stay. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to adapt to changing environments, immersing myself wherever my plane landed next but Nandom, Ghana provided me with culture shock I had never previously experienced. I don’t know what I can say about the sights, sounds and culture that distinguish the town from any other city I’ve been to but it was a reality check. Even though I’ve lived in our nations capital for a mere 6 months, I’ve grown sheltered and safe. Accustomed to routine and the bubble that is Washington DC. Our trip was short and sweet. But my mother had the opportunity to relive her peace corps days while I shockingly lived vicariously through her. It was only fitting I came to visit Nandom at the same age my mother was when she first moved here.
How was visiting one of the oldest and largest slave castles in all of Africa? In one word – emotional. Hearing the harrowing 3rd person account of the Africans that were captured, imprisoned and sent as human cargo to the West was unsettling to say the least. The African slave trade began in the 15th century and continued well into the 19th century. Ghana, known then as the Gold Coast was a major hub for trade, at one point primarily human beings that were carted around the world like cattle. We visited the holding cells that shackled thousands of African men and women who would wait for weeks and months, sitting in their own human waste, for a ship to take them as cargo to a foreign land. It was haunting to know that millions of people had passed through the halls. Many dying before even making the voyage. As I’ve grown older, the question of identity has always been difficult for me. So many aspects of my heritage are a mystery to me as is the case with so many other African-Americans. In addition, having spent 18 years living abroad – no where has really felt like home. Coming to Ghana gave me a chance to understand some of my heritage. Though I will never know if my ancestors passed through the dungeons of Cape Coast, I am humbled by the stories of millions who were torn from everything they ever knew, surviving the torture and torment of captivity, sent across the ocean packed like sardines, and beginning a life of enslavement in a new world. While the days of formal legalized slavery are over, we still live in a society where institutionalized racism exist. We are far from the days of a color-blind society. As we become more politically correct, we ignore the realities of the systematic disenfranchising of blacks and legal ramifications of the very institutions and people who are meant to be protecting us. Now is the time to have the conversation.
My most recent article on Ebola:
Coauthored with a colleague:
Words cannot even express the gratitude I have for the 16 students who met with me for over two hours divulging deep details of their lives. They interacted with me as open books, not withholding a single detail. While the seminar held was mainly to conduct a workshop on CV writing, I had them talk about a series of questions I had emailed to them before hand.
On Saturday we discussed some of the questions, and it was such a fruitful discussion, with answers I wasn’t even expecting. Comments and stories ranged from sexual assault by male employers to blatant discrimination due to being a Gazan refugee (very different legally in comparison to Palestinian non-Gazan refugees). I am in awe of the perseverance and determination of some of these girls despite cultural, social, family and institutionalized inhibition to their success. My next blog piece will cover what was discussed and how their spirits have yet to falter and how organizations like Hopes for Women gives them the emotional and financial support to accomplish their dreams.
It makes me so grateful for all the opportunities I have in my life and as well as truly inspired. In a country that relishes on Jordanian nationality, in my opinion a response to the diminishing of the ‘Jordanian’ identity (plight of Palestinian, Iraqi and now Syrian refugees) the young women have overcome a great deal. They want rights, equality and the same opportunities as every young woman in the country, better yet in the world. I cannot image the workshop being any more successful and I am forever thankful to have met them
After a day of being cooped up in the house reading the works of feminist researchers lecturing on how I should represent the
experiences of other women “without misrepresenting, misappropriating, or distorting their realities,” I realized I needed to get out of thehouse.
All day I had contemplated why understanding feminist principles of research is important and how research on women especially in vulnerable states (Palestinian women refugees) requires a consciousness that transcends the basic formula of collegiate research. But, that’s not what this post was about..more on that later.
This is about the beautiful King Hussein Gardens that stretch over acres of rolling Jordanian hills. It sits on the outskirts of Amman and was a pleasant distraction from the hustle and bustle of city life.
While we were there, we also saw what I presume to be the King Hussein Mosque…I could be wrong. Unfortunately I was unable to enter due to not having a scarf to cover my head (I usually never make this mistake). We also ran into a group of school girls who commented that my 3 male companions looked like the singers of One Direction…now that might have been a bit of a stretch but these 13 year old girls were in love.
The day ended at a dive-restaurant, not up to any
American firecode with people packed in like sardines, cigarette and shisha smoke polluting the air as mainly men downed their 4th or 5th glass of Arak (a local liquor that taste like licorice), in downtown Amman where I ate everything imaginable for a sheer $5. I can’t get enough.