Welcome to Saraintheworld. I will try to describe, in word and frames, all the magnificent little things that make up a journey. Not only the grand stories but indeed all the small details that together constitute a life. The blog is ordered chronologically from bottom up.
Sara
Sep 2009: 100 things
On a beach in Tel Aviv, bored and restless (the catalyst for creativity) I started scribbling things down on my notepad. Things that I would like to accomplish in my life. Some of the things on the list I have already accomplished, some I would like to try again, and for others, there are no way to measure the success rate of them. Obviously there are others, which are not even listed here. Since I am quite happy about the list, I thought I would share it. The items are in no way in prioritized order. Here goes:
1. Experience Carnevale in Rio de Janeiro.
2. See the northern lights.
3. Doing something without understanding why.
4. Get to know my neighbours.
5. Climb a mountain.
6. Finish reading all the books that I own.
7. Buy art.
8. Be the best in the world at something. Suggestions accepted.
9. Not use internet or TV for a month.
10. Photocopy my butt on a photocopier.
11. Raise a child.
12. See a tornado.
13. Be employed by myself.
14. Help a friend in need.
15. Help a stranger in need with no questions asked.
16. Be able to point at car engine and name real parts in it.
17. Sort and re-read notes from university.
18. Tell someone my lifestory with no details spared.
19. Inspire someone.
20. Give speech in public without being nervous.
21. Juggle more than two things in my hands.
22. Pick a top 3 of favourite songs.
23. Do the right thing even if it’s against the law.
24. Steal a sign (not because it’s the right thing to do, but for the fun of it).
25. Attend a wedding.
26. Climb a tree.
27. Live in a foreign city.
28. Go to Tahiti.
29. Learn Hebrew and/or Arabic.
30. Practice my French and have a fluent conversation in it.
31. Own a guesthouse in a warm country, or work in one.
32. Make good falafel. Like – really.good.falafel.
33. Write book about my life.
34. Learn how to drive a car.
35. Own car painted with flowers.
36. Find out about family roots.
37. Skydive.
38. Learn how to do the Ali G. hand throw.
39. Love unconditionally.
40. Work for organisation that aims to make the world a better place.
41. Swim with dolphins.
42. See blue whale.
43. Go to Greenland.
44. See Rwanda.
45. Teach. Anything.
46. Meet Obama.
47. Remember what side the heart is in.
48. Write journalistic material.
49. Make photo exhibition and sell something to someone unrelated to me.
50. Get stuff published.
51. Go to burning man festival.
52. Go to love parade in Berlin.
53. Have a garden or a roof terrace.
54. Get a husky dog.
55. Fly in a helicopter.
56. Do a roadtrip across an entire country.
57. Stay hopeful.
58. Make one piece of clothing and wear it in public.
59. Do something I am afraid of.
60. Be less afraid.
61. Have a job completely unrelated to my education.
62. Never stop questioning.
63. Experience one Roskilde festival where it isn’t raining.
64. Accept that people are entitled to crazy opinions and avoid trying to change their mind.
65. Make someone of completely different opinions than me, change their mind.
66. Be able to do 25 push ups – not on the knees.
67. Have a green plant and not kill it.
68. Get tattoo.
69. Understand the world and the people in it.
70. Be Buddhist for a day.
71. Be Muslim for a day.
72. Be Jewish for a day.
73. Be Christian for a day.
74. Take part in voodoo and/or other witch doctor ritual.
75. Attend a court case as witness, jury, defendant or plaintiff.
76. Learn how to dance mambo or salsa.
77. Come up with number 77 on the list.
78. Hear the life story of at least 5 people.
79. Know how to small talk comfortably.
80. Be economically independent and able to care for myself.
81. Save up for old age even if it is a boring thing to do now.
82. Go live with a desert people for a while. (Almost wrote dessert people – that would be great too!)
83. Finish MA.
84. Be hypnotized.
85. Learn to snorkel without swallowing saltwater and without almost drowning.
86. Discover island and found new community – “the beach” style.
87. Dance all night long in Tokyo.
88. Build something out of wood and use it.
89. See the Pyramids.
90. Smoke Nargile and play chess - with an old man in Cairo.
91. Experience a football game in a British stadium and cheer with the football fans.
92. Talk to an American hillbilly from Texas. Ask him/her about trucks and/or oil.
93. Meet someone who invented their own religion. Join it for a while.
94. Let a dice decide something for me.
95. Go to Teheran. Speak to young people about their dreams.
96. Have people spend more than 38 seconds on my webpage.
97. Take a swim in each ocean of the world.
98. Be patient.
99. Reread Bourdieu and understand it all.
100. Come up with the next 100 things to do.
Aug 2009: Discovering Bukowski
Having recently discovered the strangely pessimistic, yet hopeful, words of Charles Bukowski, I felt like sharing one of many favorites:
If we take:
if we take what we can see-
the engines driving us mad,
lovers finally hating;
this fish in the market
staring upward into our minds;
flowers rotting, flies web-caught;
riots, roars of caged lions,
clowns in love with dollar bills,
nations moving people like pawns;
daylight thieves with beautiful
nighttime wives and wines;
the crowded jails,
the commonplace unemployed,
dying grass, 2-bit fires;
men old enough to love the grave.
These things, and others, in content
show life swinging on a rotten axis.
But they´ve left us a bit of music
and a spiked show in the corner,
a jigger of scotch, a blue necktie,
a small volume of poems by Rimbaud,
a horse running as if the devil were
twisting his tail
over bluegrass and screaming, and then,
love again
like a streetcar turning the corner
on time,
the city waiting,
the wine and the flowers,
the water walking across the lake
and summer and winter and summer and summer
and winter again.
Aug 2009: About the complete and utter disregard for humanitarian concerns
Let’s paint a picture.
30 policemen in combat uniforms.
Helmets, bulletproof vests, shields.
Entering a church in the middle of the night.
Children, women and men in the middle of the night gathering in a corner, chairs to protect themselves.
Children crying, wetting themselves, mothers pleading, fathers and brothers yelling.
The policemen are there, to arrest the men, put them on busses, and send them away to an unknown future in the hands of their persecutors.
During the last three months, about 60 people have sought sanctuary in a church in Denmark. They have done so, as their requests for asylum have been rejected by the Danish government. They have sought refuge, fearing persecution and violence if they were to be sent away.
They are afraid to return to a country in shambles, some because their home regions are dangerous to return to, some do not have homes anymore, and some will be personally persecuted if they set foot there.
They have sought asylum in Denmark, for many of them – years and years ago. (Denmark has the highest processing time in Europe on asylum cases – see article below). They have waited for the bureaucratic wheels to start rolling, while sitting in asylum centres waiting, and now – up to 11 years (!!) later, they have been rejected asylum. This means, among other things, that some of the people do not know the language where they will be sent; they have no social network there, and will not be able to follow school since they cannot read the language. Some families will be split up, since some youngsters have turned 18, and therefore gotten their own asylum case, but have no proof of persecution in the homeland (since they have not been there since infancy). That is, of course, to leave out the immense psychological problems the waiting times in centres have caused.
Politicians, police and people in general, supporting the repatriation, have cowardly hid under the banner of “we are just following orders”, and “the law is the law – everyone must abide”.
I am left awestruck by the arrogance.
Denmark is directly responsible for many of these people’s fates, not only as a democratic member of the international society, that has ratified all conventions regarding refugees, but even more so, as a partner in the - illegal – invasion of these people’s country in 2003. Need I point out the irony?
I-l-l-e-g-a-l war.
Furthermore, UN experts have pointed to the fact, that there are fully grounds for asylum for these people, since they come from areas listed as being so dangerous, that being from there is in itself cause for asylum. Even if that was not enough, Danish legal experts have stated that the law gives plenty opportunity for humanitarian asylum: there are no excuses based in the law, to send these people away from our doors.
The government has furthermore insisted that a repatriation agreement is at hand with the Iraqi government. When the latter argued that this was not the case our dear politicians threatened to punish them, by withdrawing bilateral aid. Since the Iraqi government still deny that a repatriation agreement exists, the fate of the repatriated group is unknown.
We have to see these activities in context. During the last months (well, years I guess) a scary atmosphere has evaded the Danish public debate. It has become yet more acceptable to say things, that only ten years ago would have been deemed racism. The Danish tabloid “Ekstra Bladet” regarded it as their responsibility to start a personal smear campaign (with major journalistic flaws) against the refugees, saying they were free loaders, liars and in no danger at all.
Even though the politicians are responsible, I think we have to look at ourselves. Who are voting for these people to represent us, and why do they do so? Why are we so afraid? Why do we care more about the latest celebrity scandal, than people suffering at our doorstep? Why do we need to write these clichés again, and why does no one listen? How is it possible, to decide to close ones eyes and ears and completely disregard everything else, in an almost childlike way?
I think it is safe to say, that Denmark can no longer keep up the idyllic image of good Samaritans, from WW2. The selfless acts of the fishermen ring hollow in the Danish history, after last night, when combat clad police went into a church sanctuary.
60 people. We cannot find places in our midst or hearts for 60 people. I am so ashamed.
(In danish) By danish author Carsten Jensen
(In danish) By Anton Geist
(In danish) By rabbi Bent Melchior
(In danish) On waiting time in Danish asylum centres
Jan 2009: Den kulturlige akse
(Apologies to the english-only speakers. How inconsistent of me. Well... )
Det danske samfund er i disse år præget af en yderst polariseret debat omkring aspekter som alle har med vores ide om Danmark som et ensartet homogent fællesskab. En debat som langt hen af vejen opstår ved, at mange tilsyneladende mener eller tror, at lighed er lig med enshed. Især har begrebet integration fået en helt særlig plads i den offentlige retorik og i politiske projekter.
Integrationsbegrebet bruges i flæng af politikere og i folkemunde generelt om en lang række processer og ideen om integration bliver en legitimerende faktor for en lang række indgreb som ikke nødvendigvis fremmer – af og til nærmest omvendt – udefrakommende menneskers indlemning i det danske samfund.
Antropologisk forskning med solidt fæste i folks levede virkelighed har i mange år vist, at flygtninge der kommer til Danmark er top motiverede for at komme i arbejde og at de aspekter som flygtninge selv italesætter som afgørende for et godt liv, har at gøre med normalisering af deres situation – det vil sige at bosættelse, uddannelse og arbejde skal være på plads så man er i stand til at forsørge sig selv og sin familie.
Hvorfor oplever vi så problemer? På den ene side praktiske problemer hvor (til tider fordrejede) statistikker viser at de udefrakommende ikke kommer i arbejde og har en høj kriminalitetsrate, og på den anden side ideologiske diskussioner hvor flygtningene beskrives som problemer der ikke kan eller vil ”give noget tilbage” til det samfund, som de da burde være taknemmelige over at få lov at bo i.
Der er flere svar på dette. Et svar handler om den klientgørelse som megen forskning viser finder sted i al håndtering og italesættelse af flygtningenes liv og levevilkår. Istedet for at generere handling og fri vilje er der nogle institutionaliserede strukturer som gør mennesker afhængige af hjælp ved at konstruere dem i kategorier som ofre og især som et problem der skal løses. Istedet for at sætte igang, fastholder man og fratager alt handlingsrum. Samtidig er der en række strukturelle processer som hindrer deres inklusion på arbejdsmarkedet – dette vender jeg tilbage til.
En anden forklaring handler om den kontekst hvori integration bliver så vigtigt et projekt i den danske bevidsthed. Integration kan handle om en lang række forskellige processer som ikke nødvendigvis har med indvandrere at gøre. Da integrationministeriet blev oprettet var ingen imidlertid i tvivl om, hvem der var målgruppen. Når integration (ofte egentlig i den reelle betydning assimilering) bliver så vigtig for mange mennesker, handler det om, at vi i høj grad forstår det at være anderledes som en kulturel eller etnisk faktor. Vi konstruerer anderledesheden langs en etnisk akse ud fra Danmark som et forestillet homogent fællesskab hvor alle vores interne ”anderledesheder”, som ikke kan forklares med etnicitet og kultur overses, glemmes og ignoreres. Dem der ser anderledes ud, er anderledes.
Muligheden for at der kunne være sociale, strukturelle eller politiske årsager til folks handlinger bortkastes til fordel for den simple og letforståelige forklaring om kultur. At selv vi såkaldte etniske danskere byder på ekstrem intern variation – at også danske mænd begår æresdrab, at også danskere kan være ekstremister, og at mange mennesker der ikke gør som de bør i en samfundsmæssig optik (misbrugere, kriminelle, hjemløse mv) ligeledes kunne være mål for samfundsmæssig integration, er fuldstændig glemt. På grund af ideen om vores arv som et helt, rent samfund som ikke behøver åbne os for verden, som ”ikke skylder nogen noget” – konstruerer vi ligenu alle forskelligheder som vi ikke synes at kunne leve med, langs en etnisk akse.
Når integrationspolitik på grund af disse faktorer så bliver til praktisk udlændingepolitik, og har en dobbelsidet formålsformulering – på den ene side at integrere ”de fremmede” men på den anden side også at signalere udover den danske grænse at ”her kan man ikke bare komme og få”, på grund af krav fra en voksende vælgerskare herom, får integrationsindgrebene modsat effekt end de er tænkt. Mangen politiker har sat lighedstegn mellem tålelige forhold for nydanskere og en øgning – ja ligefrem en folkemasse - af nye indvandrere fra syd. Denne kompliceren og besværliggøren for de nye danskere, har desværre også den side effekt, at de mennesker som vi har tilladt at være iblandt os, tilladelser og alt, bliver passificerede – mod deres vilje. Mennesker bliver afhængige af overførselsydelser – netop den effekt man søgte at undgå, og dermed fremmedgjorte fra den danske nabo som jo ikke vil have dem her, og forstærker derfor deres bånd til fællesskaber af andre indvandrere, hvor de kan finde mennesker i samme situation, netværk og støtte. Et aktivt handlingsrigt valg – man fristes til at skrive fornuftigt valg – men en vending som i politisk retorik ses som reaktionær, traditionel, bagvendt og disintegrerende.
Istedet for blot at acceptere at de mennesker der nu engang lever ved vores side er danskere som os. At danskhed ikke nødvendigvis betyder blå øjne og forkærlighed for rugbrød og bar hud, men at vi ved at indlemme disse mennesker som ligeværdige samfundsborgere kan give dem en chance for at bære deres del af byrden – ved at inkludere dem istedet for at ekskludere dem med sanktioner, økonomisk diskriminering og retorik fokuseret på vores forskelligheder, men i stedet lægge fokuset hvor vi har en fællesmenneskelig referenceramme. Og tillægge vores medmennesker en mere kompleks forståelse for deres valg, handlen og liv så vi ikke reducerer dem til simple kulturbærere uden handlekraft og refleksion.
(Udgivet i Konggraas vol 1)
Dec 2008: Going Home
So home I went. After a beautiful and soul soothing vacation in gorgeous Zanzibar we made our goodbyes and headed home.
Arriving in Copenhagen was mindblowing. Of course we knew in our minds that it would be cold and grey, but the bodily experience was somewhat different. It really struck me by surprise that there was absolutely no light in the sky. I had to keep asking what time it was since it felt like it was evening all the time. Confusing. Like the infamous culture chock but in reverse. Is it possible? Can you forget what you know in merely 4 months?
Well of course we got used to all of it. It is wonderful to see well known faces and once again be in the great company of friends and family. But I gotta admit that all the things I was longing for in Dar, is the things that now makes me long for Dar. The neat, clean streets with people that follow rules and cars with drivers that are sober and do have driving licences. Where is the chaos when you need some? Where is the crazy and the absurd?Â
We went home without really going home. With one apartment subletted and one not ready for move-in, we are staying with family and friends for another week. Still havent unpacked, actually or mentally in a place of our own. But then again, if the homes of dear friends and family arent home, then what is?
The fieldwork went well. Our intuition has now officially been confirmed by the appropriate authority - our Supervisor: We've had "interesting observations and there is potential for an interesting thesis". Not bad.
Thank you everyone in Dar who helped make our stay wonderful by welcoming us into their lives, homes and offices.
Sala
27 Oct 2008 On Ready-Packed Boxes
It struck me yesterday, once again, how in the pit of ordinary days, when we don’t notice ourselves and don’t reflect on it, we all too often try to simplify everyone else in order to categorize the world into manageable units that are easily dealt with and easily interpreted. We see people as merely carriers of an all determining culture, religion or gender, unable to see the dynamic process that shapes everyone into more than just women or more than just members of certain tribes or ethnic groups – a process that entails so much more than just our nationality or gender.
It feels like we repeatedly fail to see the complexity of the other – the complexity that we demand should be part of the story of our actions. We fail to see people as the complex individuals we ourselves wish to be recognized as. Instead of individuals with intentions, fears, thoughts, dreams, secrets, joy and who knows what, we reduce others into muted static figures representing a homogenous mass of sameness.
Someone recently said to me, that stereotypes are there for a reason. I am not sure. I think the reason they are there has more to do with the ease with which some people fit other people into neat little stacked boxes, so as to always have a ready-packed opinion without having to think too much, or without actually having to try an empathic manoeuvre or two, than they have to do with reflecting reality. Stereotypes are about fitting the world into easy categories, defining both self and other in the process.
Simplifying others has all days been part of creating grounds for animosity and atrocious actions. Language echoes in eternity and do indeed have tangible consequences in the world. It shouldn’t be necessary to mention that many a genocide began with simplifying other groups of people thereby distancing them from ourselves. I’ve heard a lot of people interject here, saying that calling someone something wont create another holocaust, and that is probably true. But the truth is also, that it is very difficult to see the big picture when you’re only a tiny fraction of it. Language alone wont spark of a holocaust, but it will definitely be part of the context within which history proceed. That is to say, that not all simplification leads to violence, but that most large scale violence entails a process of diminishing the victim group by simplifying them and perhaps eventually dehumanize them through metaphors. Be it Tutsi to cockroaches in Rwanda or Jews to rats in Germany. Of course it is not always of this immense scale. It is the same social mechanism at play when we in the west reduce our African neighbors to mere objects of development, that all encompassing concept through which Africa is defined. It reduces people to muted victims that we can dutifully try to save as the infamous white man’s burden.
Anyway I am not pleading for a militant political correctness; we do have to be able to speak freely about everything. But we also have to reflect on our actions and see other human beings for what they are – fellow human beings that are a lot more than bearers of some gender, religion or culture. The form your neighbor takes might be different but in substance we all laugh, love and hate. At the end of the day we all sleep.
08 Oct 2008: A Queen, A Thunderstorm and a President
So this week turned out to be rather eventful. Appropriately it all began on Monday where Eva and I decided to spend the day catching up on transcribing interviews and writing fieldnotes. A bit after noon, Eva called me up on the phone telling me that there would be a free concert with Caroline Henderson that very day, due to the Danish queen and prince being on an official visit in Tanzania. We quickly agreed that the transcriptions and fieldnotes could be postponed a bit more, and decided to go.
Since we had no idea what time the concert would be carried out, Eva called the embassy to get the information. At the embassy the lady asked her if she had not been invited to meet the queen “like all the rest of the members of the Danish community in Dar”? (We were not aware of any such community, but guessed that she merely meant the sum of Danish people who for some reason reside in the same area – hmmm). We had not received any invitations, since we are both here on a tourist visa (sssssh don’t pass that on – it’s just that they never answered our request for a research visa so in the end we just had to go and hope for the best), but we agreed that we did want to shake hands with the queen and that no invitation was to be no hindrance to our mission. So Eva called back, said that there had clearly been a mistake since she had received no invitation even though she was registered at the embassy. To this the ever patient and sweet lady-at-the-embassy replied that we could try to just show up with our passports and see how it went.
Now this was 2 o’ clock – and the-lady-at-the-embassy had said that the meeting with the queen would be at 3. So in exactly 10 minutes, I showered (well let’s be honest – it was more of a symbolic pouring water on my head to look showered), looked desperately between dusty shorts, dirty t-shirts and flip-flops to find something just remotely resembling an outfit that I could meet the queen in – found clean underwear (since it was laundry day this was the most time consuming task – but I just kept hearing this inner voice going “there is no way you’re shaking hand with the queen while going commando.” I’m in no way a royalist – but I suppose that inside any good girl there is a little voice going – “don’t meet the queen when bare-assed”) Anyway; ten minutes later I was in a taxi, trying frantically to explain to Michael the taxi driver that I was in a slight hurry since I was meeting royalty – all in Swahili of course. Long story short (too late for that), we arrived at the location a few minutes before 3, paid Michael the taxi driver who looked evermore puzzled when he dropped us of at the police officers mess and went through the metal detectors. We were in!
Feeling awfully smug and smart, we strolled into the completely empty concert area giggling at our own shear brilliance, walking straight into a tightlipped serious looking lady wearing a dress from the early 80s, who directed us straight back out again, saying that it was really way to early and that they were nowhere near ready to receive guests. Not feeling so brilliant, we retreated to the parking lot where there was a busy flow into the building of caterers, security personnel and embassy staff. We asked a woman what time the whole thing was supposed to start to which she replied that it would probably start at around 5 o’ clock - two hours later. I then told her that it had said 3.30 on our (still non-existing) invitations, making her look a bit concerned. Not much later, when we had emerged ourselves in a newly arrived group of very young ms volunteers, the lady came back and said that since the invitations had said 3.30 we could come in now. They all looked confused and puzzled – since their non-imaginary invitations had probably not said 3.30. In we went and with hardly any effort we convinced the pretty ladies sitting on the guest lists that we indeed belonged and should be allowed to enter. Minutes later we were sipping cold white wine and eating “kransekage”. Yum! So, we met the queen, the prince and the Danish minister of development (I would have wanted to give the latter a piece of my mind but she kept slipping away into interviews) – and we got to see Caroline Henderson. The funniest part of the day was definitely the getting in part. The queen didn’t really make an everlasting impression that I will cherish forever and ever and never wash my hand. The cake did though.
The next day was Obama day. Or as it is perhaps more commonly known; the day of the American election. We went to work in the day and had agreed to watch it in the night at Eva’s house since ours has no television. We sat up until midnight, all yawning and stretching and therefore decided to go to sleep for a while until the first estimates would be aired at 3 am (Tanzanian time). At 4 in the morning, I was woken up by a massive ear ripping blast. For half a minute or so I was convinced that it was some sort of explosion until it dawned on me that it was thunder. But thunder as I have never in my whole life experienced it. The sky was completely lit by continuous lightning, and when the heavens opened up and water came – rain is not the right word – the ground and the sky was literally as one. Water started coming in through the windows and doors, and the storm was – well for a lack of a better word - it was almost biblical. The dogs in the neighborhood were going mad barking their throats out and Ron turned around and said in a sleepy, murky voice; “maybe McCain was elected and the earth is flipping out”. We tried to go back to sleep but neither of us hardly closed an eye. At around 6 Ron got a fever and was getting really sick. I went up to get some pills for him, and found Eva and her mother in law in front of the television, anxiously waiting for the results. At around 7 they announced Barack Obama president, leaving us all jumping up and down in the otherwise so neat and well arranged sofa arrangement all the while people was calling and texting the happy news – making the phones jump and make sounds as well. While watching the victory speech we all swallowed a bit harder and blinked a bit extra, and I can only speak for myself when I say that I truly felt part of a historical moment in time – even all the way down in Tanzania.
The thunderstorm continued for most of the day, leaving people stuck in their homes, with roads flooded and drainage systems completely overflowing. Luckily Harold drives a jeep-looking car (ok so I’m not a car wiz – it’s a big car made for off road driving – I think), so we were escorted home through the floods, heading straight to bed. I will leave it to anyone to interpret the events, all I know is, the thunder and lightning made the evening very memorable and certainly gave it a dramatic feeling. It felt appropriate.
Since then both Ron and I have been fighting off some nasty stomach infection. We’ve been feverish and sleeping for three days straight, head over bucket, body over mind. Luckily, I am up an alive today, hoping that sweet poor Ron will come around tomorrow. The things we are willing to endure for adventure and experiences. It’s so worth it.
15 Oct 2008: Zanzibar
I better do what I can to warn all of you who are reading from grey and rainy Scandinavia. The following might be a bit influenced by our trip to Zanzibar, a trip that infused me with new energy and inspiration, but also with that happy buzz that might be a bit annoying to others when it translates into constant talk of postcard beaches and palm trees. The thing is, it is so hard not speaking in clichés when they are true. I promise next time I’ll write something dark and cynical to create some form of balance.
So, we just spend a long weekend in Zanzibar. Warm lush and vibrant Zanzibar that washes all the city dirt of your feet and replaces it with white sand. Zanzibar that has one of the most intriguing towns I have visited. The narrow and busy alleyways of Stonetown always get to me. The almost magic sense of being in an era left behind. It’s like the small streets drags you into their maze and swallows you whole, only to spit you out in the other end, amazed touched and wanting more. Getting lost in its bustling lanes full of men in beautiful traditional white shirts, barefooted children, people on bicycles, racing scooters and fruit carts, is in no way scary as getting lost can be, but rather makes you hope that the streets will never end, never sleep.
Sitting on a broken stairwell in a corner, you might see the whole world go by and come back, and never get bored. Hear the wisest and the dumbest words, see the most stunning and the most horrendous people you will ever see, smell the vibrant scents of tobacco smoke, cinnamon and ripe fruits, alongside the odors of burned garbage, spilled petrol and wet dog that just rips your nose apart. Feel that you are the center of the universe as well as the smallest and most insignificant creature in the world. And of course love and hate, at the same time, being pulled in to every single little shop set of for the many tourists that come through these streets. Go in to the small antique shops since you can’t help yourself, buy ugly t-shirts or wooden figures – just because the old woman in the doorway smiled in that particular way.
Stonetown is definitely the place to be if you always find yourself awing at old, once beautiful, once mighty – buildings. The city oozes of old colonial times – men selling Ivory tusks, white men drinking and smoking in gentlemen clubs, arab sheiks building empires. And at the same time it is the gateway for most tourists to the rest of the island.
Driving through the island is a treat as well. Everywhere you turn your eye, cinnamon trees, black pepper plants, tangerine trees, Jackfruit and dorian, and the smell of cloves in the air. It is definitely one of the places in the world where I would like to keep my kitchen garden. I will spare you the details of the bounty like palm bearing turquoise water beaches, and just say that the weekend was just what I needed. Lovely food, blasting sun, no hurry and good company. It was just the right cocktail. It didn’t even matter that we had to wait 3 ferries and 6 hours more than expected to get home to Dar on Monday. And the seasickness back was also worth it, although there was a moment in all my nauseated dizzy logic, where I promised myself to never go to sea again. Until the next time of course.
25 Sep 2008: About Another Dog
Pole or Pole Sana is the term you use in Kiswahili in a wide range of situations where you wish to express sympathy, ranging all the way from a randomly mumbled apology for bumping into someone to the deep-felt empathetic condolence offered as console for hard times or lost ones. It simply means “sorry”: sorry I hurt you or just simply that you’re sorry for someone else. A term that we do not really have in Danish where only the first meaning is covered with “undskyld”. Say “pole” twice (polepole) and it means slow. But that’s a whole other story. Anyway, all this rambling about means of expressing sorrow, empathy, remorse, grievance or repentance arises from an incident that involves yet another dog. When I initially set out to describe life in Tanzania, I certainly did not imagine it would involve this much talk about dogs but here goes.
In the car back from a karaoke night (no performances on my part, an intended one on Eva’s) we were dropping Eva off in her Mbezi Beach neighborhood before heading home. Driving along the road – bumpy and dark as ever – we all of a sudden saw a dog of unspecified type running out on the road. Ron heroically tried his very best to avoid it but apparently it was of the kamikaze kind because it just followed the car, ran right in front of it – and believe it or not – ran directly towards: yes; the headlights. There was no time or place to avoid the poor dog, which rolled under the car with a high pitched squeal. Ron hit the brakes and as the car came to a stop we could hear – oh horror and grief – that the ill-fated animal was still alive and apparently stuck under the car. In the next few seconds I was trying to block out the squeals with all 10 fingers in ears, while Ron contemplated how he would kill the suffering dog off. After a short while it just stopped silent. Poor little dog – death by moving vehicle cannot possibly be a reasonable – let alone good -way to go if there ever was one. He suffered and squealed for seconds only, but the sounds are still ringing high before my inner ears. So – Pole Sana little dog.
10 Sep 2008: About a Dog
Once again I have reached the humid sweet air and the busy streets of Dar es Salaam. The images, smells and sounds greeting me getting off the plane at Nyerere International Airport, signifies in so many ways that I am now somewhere else. That I have reached an entirely different continent and so my skin is bustling with an almost tangible excitement and pure joy to be back.
Over the last 10 days I have been enriched with many experiences – some entertaining, some of a more questionable character and some just plane absurd. In this last category falls the story of the missing dog.
After a day of work and a night of socializing with friends, we arrived home at our little house in a middleclass neighborhood of Dar es Salaam where we live, at around midnight. When in bed, minutes away from sleep, we heard the dogs barking and someone beeping their car horn outside the gate. Realizing that it was 1 o’clock in the night, we found this turn of events to be rather worrying. When requesting to know the identity of the nightly guests, they told us in a stern voice that they were police. Again – due to the time and the fact that the unwanted guests were dressed in civilian clothes rather than uniforms, we thought it might be best not to open the gate and instead called on our friend and host who were now also awake and up. When demanding to know the intruders errand, they told him, that there had been reports that a stolen dog had been seen locked up inside our house (This information, it turns out later, was given by a greedy handy worker who wanted the award promised for the dog).
Initially we didn’t believe one word of their intended purpose. Had it been about a dog they would surely have showed up in the day rather than in the middle of the night. At the same time, they would be rather unskilled thieves, if they were trying to rob us now that they had awakened everybody and made their presence known. We then asked them for their police car registration number and their names in order to confirm their story with the police chief. They declined supplying this information and in the dark it was impossible to make out the number plate of the car through the gate.
After many hours and many phone calls – in the eternal competition of “who can get the most important person on the phone the fastest”, and now with 3 police cars (the initial one, one that came to check what was going on and a third that we had called), a Knight Support unit (private security company), a bunch of neighbors and one drunk Indian friend who had parked his car across the driveway, closing in the first police car, all in our driveway, and after a dog expert (yes! They had brought a dog expert from across town) had confirmed that our Kali was not the dog in question (thank god she is so unbelievably untrained that she responds to no one – not the trainer and his clicking device – and not us either), we could go back to sleep. The neighbor in question is a prominent lawyer who was clearly completely abusing his powers, believing he could go around all official channels. In the end he turned out to look like the fool – particularly when one police officer in utter disbelief exclaimed: “So we’re all here because of a dog!!?? I mean – I would understand it if we were talking about a cow – but a DOG?”
Anyway – at 4 o’clock we returned to the house – convinced that that would be the absolute end of it. But the very next morning the man returned to demand an apology from our host – because he had told him to fuck off. An apology. After having harassed us all night long. Obviously he did not receive one – instead he was told to fuck off once more.
Research-wise everything is rolling along very well. We’ve had to change our focus a bit since it proved difficult to gain access to the people we’d initially imagined to be our informants. Instead we’re now focusing on implementation of human rights - on the link between policies and practice namely the professionals working to break abstract policies down into applicable projects, by raising awareness, analyzing policies and much more. Thus, we are taking part in a lot of these exiting activities – next week we are to observe a radio program that works to raise awareness in the local communities, we have been invited to take part in a week of police training where legal organizations train police on domestic violence issues that are otherwise often disregarded as private matters at the police stations, and in a human rights conference week. I am loving having a reason to ask people all sorts of interesting questions that would be deemed inappropriate outside the realm of the intimate interview situation. So far people have enlightened and shocked us, been friendly, been warm and welcoming as well as strange and incomprehensible.
Of course there have been the obligatory communication problems and the occasional day of culture chock, but nothing that can’t be overcome with an evening on the roof with beer and friends, a night of karaoke at the Irish pub or a weekend at a paradise get away. The myth of the lone and tormented anthropologist in the jungle, who never leaves the field, always enmeshing herself in the ways of the people surrounding her, seems like a mere relic of the past, and I am happy to say that valuable data can be produced in good co-anthropological company.
April 2007: Holy men and 10 liters of labaneh
So this latest entry will be of my trip to the so-called holy land of Israel. Holy it is if you are to judge by the amount of religious people that flows into the city of cities in the week of Easter and Passover. It just so happened that that was the exact week I was there, and it was quite the sight.
Starting out in a kibbutz situated between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem we were welcomed with open arms and lots of food. Ah the food. Epic. Kibbutz mean “gathering” in hebrew, and the general idea of a collective community really is appealing to my socialist little heart, although I guess the problem of forming a social circle – in this case with high fences around it – is not only very inclusive but also quite exclusive. Today it seems that the kibbutzim in generel are no longer the alternative to the capitalistic world that it used to be. It still was a heart warming experience though, and I was certainly touched by the warmth and love I was welcomed by.
The next big thing scheduled was Jerusalem. I will spare you and not go on about the feel of history and ancient civilisations although I would like to. Jerusalem is a complex place of which I only saw a small part. The city is magnificent despite of - or maybe because of - the tensions that it hosts. Politics aside, I spoke to the man upstairs both in front of a certain wall and inside the church of the holy sepulchre. Unfortunately I did not get a chance to see the dome of the rock on the temple mount and it looks so stunning from afar. I am convinced though, that I would have gotten the same guy on the line if I went there as well. Oh excuse me. Same woman.
Next in line was a beautiful pessach evening with a very big family and a very impressive patriarch, and with all rites observed. Luckily most was translated carefully to me, which made the evening of bible readings so much more enjoyable. At the point when people started spanking each other (in a friendly manner might I add) with some sort of vegetable, as part of the ritual, they all looked at me, apparently concerned if I was going to jump out the nearest window, but having seen my share of – mmm outlandish rituals – I was doing just fine being spanked myself.
And so our adventure turned towards the southern town of Eilat. And towards less serious travelling, helped along with music and drinks. Luckily we were taken care of, by just the right kinda people, and so we ended up in “Gaby's bar”. Now in this place of ancient times, there is actually an actual Gaby. He’d been standing in the bar for – was it 17 years – when we walked in. But he was a good sport and stayed long enough to pour the best beers in the world. Almost the best... Then he threw us out on our asses. Perfect. I love character combined with alcohol combined with tired persistence.
And so we returned to the wicked city of Tel Aviv. Where I could very much imagining living. Which i both hate and love. Actually that goes for the whole thing. So many contrasts. I hate the arrogance towards outsiders – 'that just wont ever know what we know', but I love the self irony and sarcasm.
Very little ethnographic observations on this small vacation. Damn it. I blame the beer.
Sara
Sep 2009: 100 things
On a beach in Tel Aviv, bored and restless (the catalyst for creativity) I started scribbling things down on my notepad. Things that I would like to accomplish in my life. Some of the things on the list I have already accomplished, some I would like to try again, and for others, there are no way to measure the success rate of them. Obviously there are others, which are not even listed here. Since I am quite happy about the list, I thought I would share it. The items are in no way in prioritized order. Here goes:
1. Experience Carnevale in Rio de Janeiro.
2. See the northern lights.
3. Doing something without understanding why.
4. Get to know my neighbours.
5. Climb a mountain.
6. Finish reading all the books that I own.
7. Buy art.
8. Be the best in the world at something. Suggestions accepted.
9. Not use internet or TV for a month.
10. Photocopy my butt on a photocopier.
11. Raise a child.
12. See a tornado.
13. Be employed by myself.
14. Help a friend in need.
15. Help a stranger in need with no questions asked.
16. Be able to point at car engine and name real parts in it.
17. Sort and re-read notes from university.
18. Tell someone my lifestory with no details spared.
19. Inspire someone.
20. Give speech in public without being nervous.
21. Juggle more than two things in my hands.
22. Pick a top 3 of favourite songs.
23. Do the right thing even if it’s against the law.
24. Steal a sign (not because it’s the right thing to do, but for the fun of it).
25. Attend a wedding.
26. Climb a tree.
27. Live in a foreign city.
28. Go to Tahiti.
29. Learn Hebrew and/or Arabic.
30. Practice my French and have a fluent conversation in it.
31. Own a guesthouse in a warm country, or work in one.
32. Make good falafel. Like – really.good.falafel.
33. Write book about my life.
34. Learn how to drive a car.
35. Own car painted with flowers.
36. Find out about family roots.
37. Skydive.
38. Learn how to do the Ali G. hand throw.
39. Love unconditionally.
40. Work for organisation that aims to make the world a better place.
41. Swim with dolphins.
42. See blue whale.
43. Go to Greenland.
44. See Rwanda.
45. Teach. Anything.
46. Meet Obama.
47. Remember what side the heart is in.
48. Write journalistic material.
49. Make photo exhibition and sell something to someone unrelated to me.
50. Get stuff published.
51. Go to burning man festival.
52. Go to love parade in Berlin.
53. Have a garden or a roof terrace.
54. Get a husky dog.
55. Fly in a helicopter.
56. Do a roadtrip across an entire country.
57. Stay hopeful.
58. Make one piece of clothing and wear it in public.
59. Do something I am afraid of.
60. Be less afraid.
61. Have a job completely unrelated to my education.
62. Never stop questioning.
63. Experience one Roskilde festival where it isn’t raining.
64. Accept that people are entitled to crazy opinions and avoid trying to change their mind.
65. Make someone of completely different opinions than me, change their mind.
66. Be able to do 25 push ups – not on the knees.
67. Have a green plant and not kill it.
68. Get tattoo.
69. Understand the world and the people in it.
70. Be Buddhist for a day.
71. Be Muslim for a day.
72. Be Jewish for a day.
73. Be Christian for a day.
74. Take part in voodoo and/or other witch doctor ritual.
75. Attend a court case as witness, jury, defendant or plaintiff.
76. Learn how to dance mambo or salsa.
77. Come up with number 77 on the list.
78. Hear the life story of at least 5 people.
79. Know how to small talk comfortably.
80. Be economically independent and able to care for myself.
81. Save up for old age even if it is a boring thing to do now.
82. Go live with a desert people for a while. (Almost wrote dessert people – that would be great too!)
83. Finish MA.
84. Be hypnotized.
85. Learn to snorkel without swallowing saltwater and without almost drowning.
86. Discover island and found new community – “the beach” style.
87. Dance all night long in Tokyo.
88. Build something out of wood and use it.
89. See the Pyramids.
90. Smoke Nargile and play chess - with an old man in Cairo.
91. Experience a football game in a British stadium and cheer with the football fans.
92. Talk to an American hillbilly from Texas. Ask him/her about trucks and/or oil.
93. Meet someone who invented their own religion. Join it for a while.
94. Let a dice decide something for me.
95. Go to Teheran. Speak to young people about their dreams.
96. Have people spend more than 38 seconds on my webpage.
97. Take a swim in each ocean of the world.
98. Be patient.
99. Reread Bourdieu and understand it all.
100. Come up with the next 100 things to do.
Aug 2009: Discovering Bukowski
Having recently discovered the strangely pessimistic, yet hopeful, words of Charles Bukowski, I felt like sharing one of many favorites:
If we take:
if we take what we can see-
the engines driving us mad,
lovers finally hating;
this fish in the market
staring upward into our minds;
flowers rotting, flies web-caught;
riots, roars of caged lions,
clowns in love with dollar bills,
nations moving people like pawns;
daylight thieves with beautiful
nighttime wives and wines;
the crowded jails,
the commonplace unemployed,
dying grass, 2-bit fires;
men old enough to love the grave.
These things, and others, in content
show life swinging on a rotten axis.
But they´ve left us a bit of music
and a spiked show in the corner,
a jigger of scotch, a blue necktie,
a small volume of poems by Rimbaud,
a horse running as if the devil were
twisting his tail
over bluegrass and screaming, and then,
love again
like a streetcar turning the corner
on time,
the city waiting,
the wine and the flowers,
the water walking across the lake
and summer and winter and summer and summer
and winter again.
Aug 2009: About the complete and utter disregard for humanitarian concerns
Let’s paint a picture.
30 policemen in combat uniforms.
Helmets, bulletproof vests, shields.
Entering a church in the middle of the night.
Children, women and men in the middle of the night gathering in a corner, chairs to protect themselves.
Children crying, wetting themselves, mothers pleading, fathers and brothers yelling.
The policemen are there, to arrest the men, put them on busses, and send them away to an unknown future in the hands of their persecutors.
During the last three months, about 60 people have sought sanctuary in a church in Denmark. They have done so, as their requests for asylum have been rejected by the Danish government. They have sought refuge, fearing persecution and violence if they were to be sent away.
They are afraid to return to a country in shambles, some because their home regions are dangerous to return to, some do not have homes anymore, and some will be personally persecuted if they set foot there.
They have sought asylum in Denmark, for many of them – years and years ago. (Denmark has the highest processing time in Europe on asylum cases – see article below). They have waited for the bureaucratic wheels to start rolling, while sitting in asylum centres waiting, and now – up to 11 years (!!) later, they have been rejected asylum. This means, among other things, that some of the people do not know the language where they will be sent; they have no social network there, and will not be able to follow school since they cannot read the language. Some families will be split up, since some youngsters have turned 18, and therefore gotten their own asylum case, but have no proof of persecution in the homeland (since they have not been there since infancy). That is, of course, to leave out the immense psychological problems the waiting times in centres have caused.
Politicians, police and people in general, supporting the repatriation, have cowardly hid under the banner of “we are just following orders”, and “the law is the law – everyone must abide”.
I am left awestruck by the arrogance.
Denmark is directly responsible for many of these people’s fates, not only as a democratic member of the international society, that has ratified all conventions regarding refugees, but even more so, as a partner in the - illegal – invasion of these people’s country in 2003. Need I point out the irony?
I-l-l-e-g-a-l war.
Furthermore, UN experts have pointed to the fact, that there are fully grounds for asylum for these people, since they come from areas listed as being so dangerous, that being from there is in itself cause for asylum. Even if that was not enough, Danish legal experts have stated that the law gives plenty opportunity for humanitarian asylum: there are no excuses based in the law, to send these people away from our doors.
The government has furthermore insisted that a repatriation agreement is at hand with the Iraqi government. When the latter argued that this was not the case our dear politicians threatened to punish them, by withdrawing bilateral aid. Since the Iraqi government still deny that a repatriation agreement exists, the fate of the repatriated group is unknown.
We have to see these activities in context. During the last months (well, years I guess) a scary atmosphere has evaded the Danish public debate. It has become yet more acceptable to say things, that only ten years ago would have been deemed racism. The Danish tabloid “Ekstra Bladet” regarded it as their responsibility to start a personal smear campaign (with major journalistic flaws) against the refugees, saying they were free loaders, liars and in no danger at all.
Even though the politicians are responsible, I think we have to look at ourselves. Who are voting for these people to represent us, and why do they do so? Why are we so afraid? Why do we care more about the latest celebrity scandal, than people suffering at our doorstep? Why do we need to write these clichés again, and why does no one listen? How is it possible, to decide to close ones eyes and ears and completely disregard everything else, in an almost childlike way?
I think it is safe to say, that Denmark can no longer keep up the idyllic image of good Samaritans, from WW2. The selfless acts of the fishermen ring hollow in the Danish history, after last night, when combat clad police went into a church sanctuary.
60 people. We cannot find places in our midst or hearts for 60 people. I am so ashamed.
(In danish) By danish author Carsten Jensen
(In danish) By Anton Geist
(In danish) By rabbi Bent Melchior
(In danish) On waiting time in Danish asylum centres
Jan 2009: Den kulturlige akse
(Apologies to the english-only speakers. How inconsistent of me. Well... )
Det danske samfund er i disse år præget af en yderst polariseret debat omkring aspekter som alle har med vores ide om Danmark som et ensartet homogent fællesskab. En debat som langt hen af vejen opstår ved, at mange tilsyneladende mener eller tror, at lighed er lig med enshed. Især har begrebet integration fået en helt særlig plads i den offentlige retorik og i politiske projekter.
Integrationsbegrebet bruges i flæng af politikere og i folkemunde generelt om en lang række processer og ideen om integration bliver en legitimerende faktor for en lang række indgreb som ikke nødvendigvis fremmer – af og til nærmest omvendt – udefrakommende menneskers indlemning i det danske samfund.
Antropologisk forskning med solidt fæste i folks levede virkelighed har i mange år vist, at flygtninge der kommer til Danmark er top motiverede for at komme i arbejde og at de aspekter som flygtninge selv italesætter som afgørende for et godt liv, har at gøre med normalisering af deres situation – det vil sige at bosættelse, uddannelse og arbejde skal være på plads så man er i stand til at forsørge sig selv og sin familie.
Hvorfor oplever vi så problemer? På den ene side praktiske problemer hvor (til tider fordrejede) statistikker viser at de udefrakommende ikke kommer i arbejde og har en høj kriminalitetsrate, og på den anden side ideologiske diskussioner hvor flygtningene beskrives som problemer der ikke kan eller vil ”give noget tilbage” til det samfund, som de da burde være taknemmelige over at få lov at bo i.
Der er flere svar på dette. Et svar handler om den klientgørelse som megen forskning viser finder sted i al håndtering og italesættelse af flygtningenes liv og levevilkår. Istedet for at generere handling og fri vilje er der nogle institutionaliserede strukturer som gør mennesker afhængige af hjælp ved at konstruere dem i kategorier som ofre og især som et problem der skal løses. Istedet for at sætte igang, fastholder man og fratager alt handlingsrum. Samtidig er der en række strukturelle processer som hindrer deres inklusion på arbejdsmarkedet – dette vender jeg tilbage til.
En anden forklaring handler om den kontekst hvori integration bliver så vigtigt et projekt i den danske bevidsthed. Integration kan handle om en lang række forskellige processer som ikke nødvendigvis har med indvandrere at gøre. Da integrationministeriet blev oprettet var ingen imidlertid i tvivl om, hvem der var målgruppen. Når integration (ofte egentlig i den reelle betydning assimilering) bliver så vigtig for mange mennesker, handler det om, at vi i høj grad forstår det at være anderledes som en kulturel eller etnisk faktor. Vi konstruerer anderledesheden langs en etnisk akse ud fra Danmark som et forestillet homogent fællesskab hvor alle vores interne ”anderledesheder”, som ikke kan forklares med etnicitet og kultur overses, glemmes og ignoreres. Dem der ser anderledes ud, er anderledes.
Muligheden for at der kunne være sociale, strukturelle eller politiske årsager til folks handlinger bortkastes til fordel for den simple og letforståelige forklaring om kultur. At selv vi såkaldte etniske danskere byder på ekstrem intern variation – at også danske mænd begår æresdrab, at også danskere kan være ekstremister, og at mange mennesker der ikke gør som de bør i en samfundsmæssig optik (misbrugere, kriminelle, hjemløse mv) ligeledes kunne være mål for samfundsmæssig integration, er fuldstændig glemt. På grund af ideen om vores arv som et helt, rent samfund som ikke behøver åbne os for verden, som ”ikke skylder nogen noget” – konstruerer vi ligenu alle forskelligheder som vi ikke synes at kunne leve med, langs en etnisk akse.
Når integrationspolitik på grund af disse faktorer så bliver til praktisk udlændingepolitik, og har en dobbelsidet formålsformulering – på den ene side at integrere ”de fremmede” men på den anden side også at signalere udover den danske grænse at ”her kan man ikke bare komme og få”, på grund af krav fra en voksende vælgerskare herom, får integrationsindgrebene modsat effekt end de er tænkt. Mangen politiker har sat lighedstegn mellem tålelige forhold for nydanskere og en øgning – ja ligefrem en folkemasse - af nye indvandrere fra syd. Denne kompliceren og besværliggøren for de nye danskere, har desværre også den side effekt, at de mennesker som vi har tilladt at være iblandt os, tilladelser og alt, bliver passificerede – mod deres vilje. Mennesker bliver afhængige af overførselsydelser – netop den effekt man søgte at undgå, og dermed fremmedgjorte fra den danske nabo som jo ikke vil have dem her, og forstærker derfor deres bånd til fællesskaber af andre indvandrere, hvor de kan finde mennesker i samme situation, netværk og støtte. Et aktivt handlingsrigt valg – man fristes til at skrive fornuftigt valg – men en vending som i politisk retorik ses som reaktionær, traditionel, bagvendt og disintegrerende.
Istedet for blot at acceptere at de mennesker der nu engang lever ved vores side er danskere som os. At danskhed ikke nødvendigvis betyder blå øjne og forkærlighed for rugbrød og bar hud, men at vi ved at indlemme disse mennesker som ligeværdige samfundsborgere kan give dem en chance for at bære deres del af byrden – ved at inkludere dem istedet for at ekskludere dem med sanktioner, økonomisk diskriminering og retorik fokuseret på vores forskelligheder, men i stedet lægge fokuset hvor vi har en fællesmenneskelig referenceramme. Og tillægge vores medmennesker en mere kompleks forståelse for deres valg, handlen og liv så vi ikke reducerer dem til simple kulturbærere uden handlekraft og refleksion.
(Udgivet i Konggraas vol 1)
Dec 2008: Going Home
So home I went. After a beautiful and soul soothing vacation in gorgeous Zanzibar we made our goodbyes and headed home.
Arriving in Copenhagen was mindblowing. Of course we knew in our minds that it would be cold and grey, but the bodily experience was somewhat different. It really struck me by surprise that there was absolutely no light in the sky. I had to keep asking what time it was since it felt like it was evening all the time. Confusing. Like the infamous culture chock but in reverse. Is it possible? Can you forget what you know in merely 4 months?
Well of course we got used to all of it. It is wonderful to see well known faces and once again be in the great company of friends and family. But I gotta admit that all the things I was longing for in Dar, is the things that now makes me long for Dar. The neat, clean streets with people that follow rules and cars with drivers that are sober and do have driving licences. Where is the chaos when you need some? Where is the crazy and the absurd?Â
We went home without really going home. With one apartment subletted and one not ready for move-in, we are staying with family and friends for another week. Still havent unpacked, actually or mentally in a place of our own. But then again, if the homes of dear friends and family arent home, then what is?
The fieldwork went well. Our intuition has now officially been confirmed by the appropriate authority - our Supervisor: We've had "interesting observations and there is potential for an interesting thesis". Not bad.
Thank you everyone in Dar who helped make our stay wonderful by welcoming us into their lives, homes and offices.
Sala
27 Oct 2008 On Ready-Packed Boxes
It struck me yesterday, once again, how in the pit of ordinary days, when we don’t notice ourselves and don’t reflect on it, we all too often try to simplify everyone else in order to categorize the world into manageable units that are easily dealt with and easily interpreted. We see people as merely carriers of an all determining culture, religion or gender, unable to see the dynamic process that shapes everyone into more than just women or more than just members of certain tribes or ethnic groups – a process that entails so much more than just our nationality or gender.
It feels like we repeatedly fail to see the complexity of the other – the complexity that we demand should be part of the story of our actions. We fail to see people as the complex individuals we ourselves wish to be recognized as. Instead of individuals with intentions, fears, thoughts, dreams, secrets, joy and who knows what, we reduce others into muted static figures representing a homogenous mass of sameness.
Someone recently said to me, that stereotypes are there for a reason. I am not sure. I think the reason they are there has more to do with the ease with which some people fit other people into neat little stacked boxes, so as to always have a ready-packed opinion without having to think too much, or without actually having to try an empathic manoeuvre or two, than they have to do with reflecting reality. Stereotypes are about fitting the world into easy categories, defining both self and other in the process.
Simplifying others has all days been part of creating grounds for animosity and atrocious actions. Language echoes in eternity and do indeed have tangible consequences in the world. It shouldn’t be necessary to mention that many a genocide began with simplifying other groups of people thereby distancing them from ourselves. I’ve heard a lot of people interject here, saying that calling someone something wont create another holocaust, and that is probably true. But the truth is also, that it is very difficult to see the big picture when you’re only a tiny fraction of it. Language alone wont spark of a holocaust, but it will definitely be part of the context within which history proceed. That is to say, that not all simplification leads to violence, but that most large scale violence entails a process of diminishing the victim group by simplifying them and perhaps eventually dehumanize them through metaphors. Be it Tutsi to cockroaches in Rwanda or Jews to rats in Germany. Of course it is not always of this immense scale. It is the same social mechanism at play when we in the west reduce our African neighbors to mere objects of development, that all encompassing concept through which Africa is defined. It reduces people to muted victims that we can dutifully try to save as the infamous white man’s burden.
Anyway I am not pleading for a militant political correctness; we do have to be able to speak freely about everything. But we also have to reflect on our actions and see other human beings for what they are – fellow human beings that are a lot more than bearers of some gender, religion or culture. The form your neighbor takes might be different but in substance we all laugh, love and hate. At the end of the day we all sleep.
08 Oct 2008: A Queen, A Thunderstorm and a President
So this week turned out to be rather eventful. Appropriately it all began on Monday where Eva and I decided to spend the day catching up on transcribing interviews and writing fieldnotes. A bit after noon, Eva called me up on the phone telling me that there would be a free concert with Caroline Henderson that very day, due to the Danish queen and prince being on an official visit in Tanzania. We quickly agreed that the transcriptions and fieldnotes could be postponed a bit more, and decided to go.
Since we had no idea what time the concert would be carried out, Eva called the embassy to get the information. At the embassy the lady asked her if she had not been invited to meet the queen “like all the rest of the members of the Danish community in Dar”? (We were not aware of any such community, but guessed that she merely meant the sum of Danish people who for some reason reside in the same area – hmmm). We had not received any invitations, since we are both here on a tourist visa (sssssh don’t pass that on – it’s just that they never answered our request for a research visa so in the end we just had to go and hope for the best), but we agreed that we did want to shake hands with the queen and that no invitation was to be no hindrance to our mission. So Eva called back, said that there had clearly been a mistake since she had received no invitation even though she was registered at the embassy. To this the ever patient and sweet lady-at-the-embassy replied that we could try to just show up with our passports and see how it went.
Now this was 2 o’ clock – and the-lady-at-the-embassy had said that the meeting with the queen would be at 3. So in exactly 10 minutes, I showered (well let’s be honest – it was more of a symbolic pouring water on my head to look showered), looked desperately between dusty shorts, dirty t-shirts and flip-flops to find something just remotely resembling an outfit that I could meet the queen in – found clean underwear (since it was laundry day this was the most time consuming task – but I just kept hearing this inner voice going “there is no way you’re shaking hand with the queen while going commando.” I’m in no way a royalist – but I suppose that inside any good girl there is a little voice going – “don’t meet the queen when bare-assed”) Anyway; ten minutes later I was in a taxi, trying frantically to explain to Michael the taxi driver that I was in a slight hurry since I was meeting royalty – all in Swahili of course. Long story short (too late for that), we arrived at the location a few minutes before 3, paid Michael the taxi driver who looked evermore puzzled when he dropped us of at the police officers mess and went through the metal detectors. We were in!
Feeling awfully smug and smart, we strolled into the completely empty concert area giggling at our own shear brilliance, walking straight into a tightlipped serious looking lady wearing a dress from the early 80s, who directed us straight back out again, saying that it was really way to early and that they were nowhere near ready to receive guests. Not feeling so brilliant, we retreated to the parking lot where there was a busy flow into the building of caterers, security personnel and embassy staff. We asked a woman what time the whole thing was supposed to start to which she replied that it would probably start at around 5 o’ clock - two hours later. I then told her that it had said 3.30 on our (still non-existing) invitations, making her look a bit concerned. Not much later, when we had emerged ourselves in a newly arrived group of very young ms volunteers, the lady came back and said that since the invitations had said 3.30 we could come in now. They all looked confused and puzzled – since their non-imaginary invitations had probably not said 3.30. In we went and with hardly any effort we convinced the pretty ladies sitting on the guest lists that we indeed belonged and should be allowed to enter. Minutes later we were sipping cold white wine and eating “kransekage”. Yum! So, we met the queen, the prince and the Danish minister of development (I would have wanted to give the latter a piece of my mind but she kept slipping away into interviews) – and we got to see Caroline Henderson. The funniest part of the day was definitely the getting in part. The queen didn’t really make an everlasting impression that I will cherish forever and ever and never wash my hand. The cake did though.
The next day was Obama day. Or as it is perhaps more commonly known; the day of the American election. We went to work in the day and had agreed to watch it in the night at Eva’s house since ours has no television. We sat up until midnight, all yawning and stretching and therefore decided to go to sleep for a while until the first estimates would be aired at 3 am (Tanzanian time). At 4 in the morning, I was woken up by a massive ear ripping blast. For half a minute or so I was convinced that it was some sort of explosion until it dawned on me that it was thunder. But thunder as I have never in my whole life experienced it. The sky was completely lit by continuous lightning, and when the heavens opened up and water came – rain is not the right word – the ground and the sky was literally as one. Water started coming in through the windows and doors, and the storm was – well for a lack of a better word - it was almost biblical. The dogs in the neighborhood were going mad barking their throats out and Ron turned around and said in a sleepy, murky voice; “maybe McCain was elected and the earth is flipping out”. We tried to go back to sleep but neither of us hardly closed an eye. At around 6 Ron got a fever and was getting really sick. I went up to get some pills for him, and found Eva and her mother in law in front of the television, anxiously waiting for the results. At around 7 they announced Barack Obama president, leaving us all jumping up and down in the otherwise so neat and well arranged sofa arrangement all the while people was calling and texting the happy news – making the phones jump and make sounds as well. While watching the victory speech we all swallowed a bit harder and blinked a bit extra, and I can only speak for myself when I say that I truly felt part of a historical moment in time – even all the way down in Tanzania.
The thunderstorm continued for most of the day, leaving people stuck in their homes, with roads flooded and drainage systems completely overflowing. Luckily Harold drives a jeep-looking car (ok so I’m not a car wiz – it’s a big car made for off road driving – I think), so we were escorted home through the floods, heading straight to bed. I will leave it to anyone to interpret the events, all I know is, the thunder and lightning made the evening very memorable and certainly gave it a dramatic feeling. It felt appropriate.
Since then both Ron and I have been fighting off some nasty stomach infection. We’ve been feverish and sleeping for three days straight, head over bucket, body over mind. Luckily, I am up an alive today, hoping that sweet poor Ron will come around tomorrow. The things we are willing to endure for adventure and experiences. It’s so worth it.
15 Oct 2008: Zanzibar
I better do what I can to warn all of you who are reading from grey and rainy Scandinavia. The following might be a bit influenced by our trip to Zanzibar, a trip that infused me with new energy and inspiration, but also with that happy buzz that might be a bit annoying to others when it translates into constant talk of postcard beaches and palm trees. The thing is, it is so hard not speaking in clichés when they are true. I promise next time I’ll write something dark and cynical to create some form of balance.
So, we just spend a long weekend in Zanzibar. Warm lush and vibrant Zanzibar that washes all the city dirt of your feet and replaces it with white sand. Zanzibar that has one of the most intriguing towns I have visited. The narrow and busy alleyways of Stonetown always get to me. The almost magic sense of being in an era left behind. It’s like the small streets drags you into their maze and swallows you whole, only to spit you out in the other end, amazed touched and wanting more. Getting lost in its bustling lanes full of men in beautiful traditional white shirts, barefooted children, people on bicycles, racing scooters and fruit carts, is in no way scary as getting lost can be, but rather makes you hope that the streets will never end, never sleep.
Sitting on a broken stairwell in a corner, you might see the whole world go by and come back, and never get bored. Hear the wisest and the dumbest words, see the most stunning and the most horrendous people you will ever see, smell the vibrant scents of tobacco smoke, cinnamon and ripe fruits, alongside the odors of burned garbage, spilled petrol and wet dog that just rips your nose apart. Feel that you are the center of the universe as well as the smallest and most insignificant creature in the world. And of course love and hate, at the same time, being pulled in to every single little shop set of for the many tourists that come through these streets. Go in to the small antique shops since you can’t help yourself, buy ugly t-shirts or wooden figures – just because the old woman in the doorway smiled in that particular way.
Stonetown is definitely the place to be if you always find yourself awing at old, once beautiful, once mighty – buildings. The city oozes of old colonial times – men selling Ivory tusks, white men drinking and smoking in gentlemen clubs, arab sheiks building empires. And at the same time it is the gateway for most tourists to the rest of the island.
Driving through the island is a treat as well. Everywhere you turn your eye, cinnamon trees, black pepper plants, tangerine trees, Jackfruit and dorian, and the smell of cloves in the air. It is definitely one of the places in the world where I would like to keep my kitchen garden. I will spare you the details of the bounty like palm bearing turquoise water beaches, and just say that the weekend was just what I needed. Lovely food, blasting sun, no hurry and good company. It was just the right cocktail. It didn’t even matter that we had to wait 3 ferries and 6 hours more than expected to get home to Dar on Monday. And the seasickness back was also worth it, although there was a moment in all my nauseated dizzy logic, where I promised myself to never go to sea again. Until the next time of course.
25 Sep 2008: About Another Dog
Pole or Pole Sana is the term you use in Kiswahili in a wide range of situations where you wish to express sympathy, ranging all the way from a randomly mumbled apology for bumping into someone to the deep-felt empathetic condolence offered as console for hard times or lost ones. It simply means “sorry”: sorry I hurt you or just simply that you’re sorry for someone else. A term that we do not really have in Danish where only the first meaning is covered with “undskyld”. Say “pole” twice (polepole) and it means slow. But that’s a whole other story. Anyway, all this rambling about means of expressing sorrow, empathy, remorse, grievance or repentance arises from an incident that involves yet another dog. When I initially set out to describe life in Tanzania, I certainly did not imagine it would involve this much talk about dogs but here goes.
In the car back from a karaoke night (no performances on my part, an intended one on Eva’s) we were dropping Eva off in her Mbezi Beach neighborhood before heading home. Driving along the road – bumpy and dark as ever – we all of a sudden saw a dog of unspecified type running out on the road. Ron heroically tried his very best to avoid it but apparently it was of the kamikaze kind because it just followed the car, ran right in front of it – and believe it or not – ran directly towards: yes; the headlights. There was no time or place to avoid the poor dog, which rolled under the car with a high pitched squeal. Ron hit the brakes and as the car came to a stop we could hear – oh horror and grief – that the ill-fated animal was still alive and apparently stuck under the car. In the next few seconds I was trying to block out the squeals with all 10 fingers in ears, while Ron contemplated how he would kill the suffering dog off. After a short while it just stopped silent. Poor little dog – death by moving vehicle cannot possibly be a reasonable – let alone good -way to go if there ever was one. He suffered and squealed for seconds only, but the sounds are still ringing high before my inner ears. So – Pole Sana little dog.
10 Sep 2008: About a Dog
Once again I have reached the humid sweet air and the busy streets of Dar es Salaam. The images, smells and sounds greeting me getting off the plane at Nyerere International Airport, signifies in so many ways that I am now somewhere else. That I have reached an entirely different continent and so my skin is bustling with an almost tangible excitement and pure joy to be back.
Over the last 10 days I have been enriched with many experiences – some entertaining, some of a more questionable character and some just plane absurd. In this last category falls the story of the missing dog.
After a day of work and a night of socializing with friends, we arrived home at our little house in a middleclass neighborhood of Dar es Salaam where we live, at around midnight. When in bed, minutes away from sleep, we heard the dogs barking and someone beeping their car horn outside the gate. Realizing that it was 1 o’clock in the night, we found this turn of events to be rather worrying. When requesting to know the identity of the nightly guests, they told us in a stern voice that they were police. Again – due to the time and the fact that the unwanted guests were dressed in civilian clothes rather than uniforms, we thought it might be best not to open the gate and instead called on our friend and host who were now also awake and up. When demanding to know the intruders errand, they told him, that there had been reports that a stolen dog had been seen locked up inside our house (This information, it turns out later, was given by a greedy handy worker who wanted the award promised for the dog).
Initially we didn’t believe one word of their intended purpose. Had it been about a dog they would surely have showed up in the day rather than in the middle of the night. At the same time, they would be rather unskilled thieves, if they were trying to rob us now that they had awakened everybody and made their presence known. We then asked them for their police car registration number and their names in order to confirm their story with the police chief. They declined supplying this information and in the dark it was impossible to make out the number plate of the car through the gate.
After many hours and many phone calls – in the eternal competition of “who can get the most important person on the phone the fastest”, and now with 3 police cars (the initial one, one that came to check what was going on and a third that we had called), a Knight Support unit (private security company), a bunch of neighbors and one drunk Indian friend who had parked his car across the driveway, closing in the first police car, all in our driveway, and after a dog expert (yes! They had brought a dog expert from across town) had confirmed that our Kali was not the dog in question (thank god she is so unbelievably untrained that she responds to no one – not the trainer and his clicking device – and not us either), we could go back to sleep. The neighbor in question is a prominent lawyer who was clearly completely abusing his powers, believing he could go around all official channels. In the end he turned out to look like the fool – particularly when one police officer in utter disbelief exclaimed: “So we’re all here because of a dog!!?? I mean – I would understand it if we were talking about a cow – but a DOG?”
Anyway – at 4 o’clock we returned to the house – convinced that that would be the absolute end of it. But the very next morning the man returned to demand an apology from our host – because he had told him to fuck off. An apology. After having harassed us all night long. Obviously he did not receive one – instead he was told to fuck off once more.
Research-wise everything is rolling along very well. We’ve had to change our focus a bit since it proved difficult to gain access to the people we’d initially imagined to be our informants. Instead we’re now focusing on implementation of human rights - on the link between policies and practice namely the professionals working to break abstract policies down into applicable projects, by raising awareness, analyzing policies and much more. Thus, we are taking part in a lot of these exiting activities – next week we are to observe a radio program that works to raise awareness in the local communities, we have been invited to take part in a week of police training where legal organizations train police on domestic violence issues that are otherwise often disregarded as private matters at the police stations, and in a human rights conference week. I am loving having a reason to ask people all sorts of interesting questions that would be deemed inappropriate outside the realm of the intimate interview situation. So far people have enlightened and shocked us, been friendly, been warm and welcoming as well as strange and incomprehensible.
Of course there have been the obligatory communication problems and the occasional day of culture chock, but nothing that can’t be overcome with an evening on the roof with beer and friends, a night of karaoke at the Irish pub or a weekend at a paradise get away. The myth of the lone and tormented anthropologist in the jungle, who never leaves the field, always enmeshing herself in the ways of the people surrounding her, seems like a mere relic of the past, and I am happy to say that valuable data can be produced in good co-anthropological company.
April 2007: Holy men and 10 liters of labaneh
So this latest entry will be of my trip to the so-called holy land of Israel. Holy it is if you are to judge by the amount of religious people that flows into the city of cities in the week of Easter and Passover. It just so happened that that was the exact week I was there, and it was quite the sight.
Starting out in a kibbutz situated between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem we were welcomed with open arms and lots of food. Ah the food. Epic. Kibbutz mean “gathering” in hebrew, and the general idea of a collective community really is appealing to my socialist little heart, although I guess the problem of forming a social circle – in this case with high fences around it – is not only very inclusive but also quite exclusive. Today it seems that the kibbutzim in generel are no longer the alternative to the capitalistic world that it used to be. It still was a heart warming experience though, and I was certainly touched by the warmth and love I was welcomed by.
The next big thing scheduled was Jerusalem. I will spare you and not go on about the feel of history and ancient civilisations although I would like to. Jerusalem is a complex place of which I only saw a small part. The city is magnificent despite of - or maybe because of - the tensions that it hosts. Politics aside, I spoke to the man upstairs both in front of a certain wall and inside the church of the holy sepulchre. Unfortunately I did not get a chance to see the dome of the rock on the temple mount and it looks so stunning from afar. I am convinced though, that I would have gotten the same guy on the line if I went there as well. Oh excuse me. Same woman.
Next in line was a beautiful pessach evening with a very big family and a very impressive patriarch, and with all rites observed. Luckily most was translated carefully to me, which made the evening of bible readings so much more enjoyable. At the point when people started spanking each other (in a friendly manner might I add) with some sort of vegetable, as part of the ritual, they all looked at me, apparently concerned if I was going to jump out the nearest window, but having seen my share of – mmm outlandish rituals – I was doing just fine being spanked myself.
And so our adventure turned towards the southern town of Eilat. And towards less serious travelling, helped along with music and drinks. Luckily we were taken care of, by just the right kinda people, and so we ended up in “Gaby's bar”. Now in this place of ancient times, there is actually an actual Gaby. He’d been standing in the bar for – was it 17 years – when we walked in. But he was a good sport and stayed long enough to pour the best beers in the world. Almost the best... Then he threw us out on our asses. Perfect. I love character combined with alcohol combined with tired persistence.
And so we returned to the wicked city of Tel Aviv. Where I could very much imagining living. Which i both hate and love. Actually that goes for the whole thing. So many contrasts. I hate the arrogance towards outsiders – 'that just wont ever know what we know', but I love the self irony and sarcasm.
Very little ethnographic observations on this small vacation. Damn it. I blame the beer.
Blogroll
Monica i Argentina
Martins finurligheder
Stinestregen
News and Analysis
Zero Anthropology Net
the Huffington Post
Information
Rune Engelbrecht
Web Graphics
Graphics by Dennis
Monica i Argentina
Martins finurligheder
Stinestregen
News and Analysis
Zero Anthropology Net
the Huffington Post
Information
Rune Engelbrecht
Web Graphics
Graphics by Dennis
January 4, 2010+br486+br680+br1
January 4, 2010+br850+br642+br2
September 1, 2009+br455+br680+br3
July 31, 2009+br850+br525+br4
July 31, 2009+br456+br680+br5
July 31, 2009+br510+br680+br6
July 31, 2009+br850+br417+br7
July 31, 2009+br456+br680+br8
July 31, 2009+br439+br680+br9
July 31, 2009+br456+br680+br10
July 31, 2009+br456+br680+br11
July 31, 2009+br456+br680+br12
July 31, 2009+br456+br680+br13
July 31, 2009+br850+br570+br14
July 31, 2009+br456+br680+br15
July 30, 2009+br850+br637+br16
July 30, 2009+br456+br680+br17
July 30, 2009+br456+br680+br18
July 30, 2009+br544+br680+br19
July 30, 2009+br449+br680+br20
July 30, 2009+br512+br680+br21
July 30, 2009+br850+br637+br22
January 15, 2010+br455+br680+br23
January 11, 2010+br850+br569+br24
January 11, 2010+br455+br680+br25
December 26, 2009+br456+br680+br26
September 26, 2009+br850+br637+br27
January 4, 2010+br850+br570+br28
January 4, 2010+br456+br680+br29
September 21, 2009+br850+br571+br30
September 21, 2009+br456+br680+br31
September 21, 2009+br850+br570+br32
September 16, 2009+br850+br546+br33
September 16, 2009+br456+br680+br34
September 16, 2009+br456+br680+br35
September 16, 2009+br850+br563+br36
August 3, 2009+br640+br480+br37
July 31, 2009+br850+br637+br38
July 30, 2009+br850+br570+br39
July 30, 2009+br850+br538+br40
July 30, 2009+br459+br680+br41
July 30, 2009+br640+br480+br42
September 26, 2009+br458+br680+br43
September 16, 2009+br456+br680+br44
September 16, 2009+br456+br680+br45
September 16, 2009+br464+br680+br46
September 16, 2009+br456+br680+br47
September 16, 2009+br850+br570+br48
September 16, 2009+br466+br680+br49
September 16, 2009+br850+br651+br50
September 16, 2009+br460+br680+br51
September 16, 2009+br850+br594+br52
September 16, 2009+br850+br367+br53
September 1, 2009+br850+br558+br54
September 1, 2009+br456+br680+br55
September 1, 2009+br850+br557+br56
September 1, 2009+br444+br680+br57
September 1, 2009+br456+br680+br58
July 31, 2009+br516+br680+br59
July 30, 2009+br850+br594+br60
September 26, 2009+br850+br569+br61
September 26, 2009+br463+br680+br62
September 26, 2009+br455+br680+br63
September 26, 2009+br850+br647+br64
September 16, 2009+br610+br822+br65
September 1, 2009+br850+br570+br66
September 1, 2009+br850+br631+br67
December 26, 2009+br675+br680+br68
July 31, 2009+br850+br637+br69
July 30, 2009+br456+br680+br70
July 30, 2009+br480+br640+br71
July 31, 2009+br482+br362+br72
July 30, 2009+br538+br680+br73
July 30, 2009+br850+br588+br74
September 26, 2009+br850+br570+br75
September 26, 2009+br474+br680+br76
September 26, 2009+br850+br570+br77
September 26, 2009+br456+br680+br78
August 3, 2009+br529+br680+br79
August 3, 2009+br454+br680+br80
August 3, 2009+br850+br570+br81
August 3, 2009+br850+br570+br82
August 3, 2009+br455+br680+br83
July 30, 2009+br850+br600+br84
July 30, 2009+br850+br512+br85
July 30, 2009+br850+br570+br86
July 30, 2009+br456+br680+br87
July 30, 2009+br850+br570+br88
July 30, 2009+br850+br569+br89
July 30, 2009+br850+br548+br90
July 30, 2009+br479+br680+br91
January 4, 2010+br850+br569+br92
January 4, 2010+br850+br570+br93
September 26, 2009+br456+br680+br94
September 26, 2009+br456+br680+br95
September 26, 2009+br850+br487+br96
September 26, 2009+br456+br680+br97
September 26, 2009+br850+br633+br98
September 26, 2009+br456+br680+br99
September 26, 2009+br456+br680+br100
September 26, 2009+br456+br680+br101
September 26, 2009+br441+br680+br102
September 23, 2009+br850+br595+br103
September 1, 2009+br850+br569+br104