With Thanks

When I reflect on my past nine months in Juba, I have a lot to be thankful for. I am grateful to be in a setting where I’m consistently tested, challenged, and forced to grow—that my work doesn’t lend itself to stagnancy, laziness or complacency. I wake up every morning with the opportunity to present my best self, my most giving, accepting, kind self, or the alternative of allowing my worst self to rear its grotesquely ugly head. I probably see more of the worst days than I care to admit, but there’s something about the vulnerability, the exposure, the rawness—of feeling such extremes with such consistency—that it feels like a gift somehow, an opportunity to become a better person. I’m grateful for the passage of time in healing old wounds and allowing myself forgiveness. I am thankful for the patience of our national staff, who after all they’ve experienced and witnessed and suffered through, have the ability to accept the shortcomings of their khawaja office mates and gracefully manage my ever-changing moods. I am grateful for my colleagues and housemates who have become my proxy family—and like most families—we have grown to appreciate and accept the flaws and weaknesses in one another, as much as we enjoy and welcome the good. Regardless of our individual stresses and differences of opinion, we set aside our own needs to offer up generosity, compassion, and understanding time and time again. I’m appreciative for the inexhaustible support of my parents—their loyalty in remaining engaged in my life given other obligations and the challenges of time and distance; without them, I would not be capable of sustaining this lifestyle. I am thankful for the friends that despite the years of absence in their worlds are committed to staying a part of mine. I have reconnected with friends I assumed were gone from my life this year, and am amazed by the significance they continue to hold, and the acknowledgement that those complex, complicated pieces of our stories haven’t been minimized by time or life experience. I am forever grateful for these people to remind me of who I was, and how they’ve contributed to the woman that I now am. I even hesitate to say I’m thankful for the modern technologies of Facebook and Skype-without which I would not be able to watch my nieces grow or hear my mother’s laugh. I feel blessed to have been born an American woman, born into privilege that I have in no way earned but benefit from no matter where I am on the globe. It is thanks to this privilege that I’ve been granted the opportunities I have, and been witness to a side of the human condition I never dreamed imaginable. It’s through this lens that I try to be mindful to never take things for granted. I’m appreciative to observe this period of South Sudanese history and participate in the transition of a new nation. I’m grateful to have seen new corners of the world this year, the opportunity to be reminded why the world is such a complex, incredibly beautiful place. I’m thankful for the unexpected joys that arise in the most hectic of days; I’m encouraged with the possibility of new friendships and the meaning they hold. I am thankful that my nieces and nephew have all been born in good health, and their mothers continue to have the strength and dedication to nourish them into beautiful little human beings. I am opening myself up to the possibility of something new—giving myself over to the space of not knowing and believing in myself enough to give myself completely. I am thankful for the daily brilliance of the Juba sunset. I am blessed that my family stays strong in mind and body, and that regardless of how much time has passed, home will always be home.

A Merging of Worlds

I should have known that Istanbul was a magical place, after hearing from absolutely everyone what an incredible city it was. Doesn’t take much to drink the Kool-Aid in a place like this. But more than its unique reputation of being the perfect blend of contemporary and tradition, Europe and Asia, Islam and Christianity—Istanbul was precisely everything I needed it to be—a completely different world from anything I’d ever experienced, with little to no agenda guiding my days. And nights filled with sleep—glorious, uninterrupted, deep, magnificent sleep. For a directionally challenged, single white female, Istanbul was the perfect backdrop to reconnect with my nomadic, traveling self. The constant flattery from men half my size was comical, with endearing comments like “Your eyes are doing crazy things to my head,” and “You are strong woman, like German!” I oddly welcomed the engagement, if nothing else to have a seemingly informative conversation about Turkish culture and their undying commitment to blue eyed women travelling alone. I find Turks to be honest, humorous, incredibly hard working, and eager to please. The narrow streets are filled with short, round men with tobacco-stained teeth sipping apple tea, with equally round women donning head scarves ushering small children down the sidewalk. Fat street cats harassing restaurant goers, young boys with insanely hip hairdos, the smell of apple tobacco wafting from hookahs. Istanbul is a beautiful place.

My days usually began with a vague idea of what I’d like to do (after a breakfast of olives, cheese, and homemade jams), but basically led to a lot of wandering, random encounters, assistance on public transportation, standing in long lines for seemingly critical historical landmarks (the Blue Mosque actually blew me away, even though the smell of tourists’ feet was particularly distracting), and fumbling through conversations with people who speak little to no English. Spent hours looking for the Grand Bazaar, only to find it’s closed on Sundays; hopped on and off the tram, only to find out I was not even travelling in the right direction; arrived at the hamam with no bathing suit, where a very large Turkish woman in a red lace bra gave me the scrub down of my life, a slap on the cheek, called me Lady Gaga, and our cackles echoed from every tile in the place. I met some wonderful people—shared meals and honest conversation, giggled over my own insecurity and cultural faux-pas, and learned about the culture over countless beers with strangers. Each afternoon, the city came alive with call to prayer, echoing from mosques from the seven hills, with minarets poking through the skyline, and it was something that always forced me to take pause and recognize where I was. Along the same street, you are passing a woman in full burqa, a young girl in the latest styles with sexy boots and tight jeans, an old man puffing apple tobacco from a nargileh, a young business man draining a draft beer. It is tolerance; it is Istanbul both old and new, in its most beautiful forms.

There were many moments in the past few days where I found myself wishing I had someone to experience these misadventures with, yet I recognize that if I hadn’t been alone, my experience would have been completely different; the perspective would have shifted to something shared, not completely mine, consumed by my own thoughts and observations and impressions. What I love about travelling solo, and always fail to remember it until I’m doing it again, is how it connects us as humans on a very basic level; it reminds me of the good in people, the commonality of humor and kindness that makes us who we are. And it’s refreshing and world-opening and somehow life giving—that I’m leaving here feeling this distinct possibility of something new—that the energy in my world is finally starting to shift. I feel ready to get back to Juba and appreciate what I have there, focus on making things better for myself, hopefully starting with a plate of baklava on my lap.