tl;dr: wacky thought experiments, Barbie savior (!?), American accountability abroad A good place to start: You might think it a bit odd that I, a white Christian American woman, would spend so much time and effort learning about a Muslim society in the Middle East. You're right. It is odd. Now, on the one hand, having grown up in Portland, I have been raised to believe that a certain degree of strangeness is simply par for the course in the game called life. However, there’s a dimension to this particular strangeness that is not just uncanny, but off-putting. Travel, after all, is not immune to the darker elements that shape the way human beings move about the globe. On the contrary: travel is fundamentally political, and in this post, I want to talk about what kind of traveler that makes me. A thought experiment for you: why don’t we see Arab volunteers flying to the U.S. to support those fighting for clean water in Flint, Michigan? Why don’t tourists with Sub-Saharan African passports stop by the U.S.-Mexico border to volunteer with the refugee populations trapped there? Why is it so self-evident that international social work is frequently carried out by altruistic white Westerners working in the Southern hemisphere? You might be thinking: “well, foreigners do come to America all the time, both for temporary and long-term stays.” But unlike in Jordan, visitors to the U.S. are not treated with high-grade hospitality. They do not live in the nicest neighborhoods in the country, as I will as an American expat. Even the term “expat” itself reeks of all these inequalities (what really is the difference between an expat and a migrant?). This thought experiment is meant to be an exercise in recognizing privilege. Bear with me; I know this is a word that often halts debate before it even starts. However, I find it to be a super useful construct to illuminate the paths along which my travel takes place (whether I choose to acknowledge that or not). Because of the history of my family, the color of my skin, the nationality on my passport, and even the zip code I grew up in, I see and experience the world in a way that differs greatly from many other people’s experiences. This might all seem overly obvious to you. But it was of critical importance for me to include such statements in my initial blog posts because I take these facts about my life very seriously. I know they alter the way I view the world, and if my goal this year is in part to expand my own perspective, I’ll need to mind the blinders I was born with. The facts of my whiteness and my American-ness aren’t just a matter for personal reflection and navel-gazing — they are incredibly salient for dynamics in the classroom and in the workplace. I actually just spent a year writing my senior thesis on this topic, and though I won’t get into the details here, I’m happy to talk about that with anyone who asks (I may even do a post later on). At the moment, suffice to say that as much as I find jobs at diplomatic, non-profit, and peace-building organizations alluring, I also can’t help but question whether such projects have more to say about the wishes of the funders than the needs of those being served. Clearly I’m not the first white lady to go to the Middle East in search of growth and learning (and, if I'm lucky, a wee bit of usefulness beyond my own self). There are many predecessors in the realm of cultural exchange, some of whom I admire, some of whom I read about so as not to repeat their mistakes. In particular, I think often of the potential continuities between the colonial era and our current one. After all, it is the mere art of certain historians that suggests that the colonial era is “past.” (Did you know that the rest of the world calls it the "2003 American invasion and occupation of Iraq"?) I don’t mean to pelt you with disclaimers, with self-deprecation, or, least of all, with guilt. Because even as an American white woman who is skeptical at this point that she will ever be “fluent” in Arabic, I do believe in the value of gaining cultural and linguistic competency in a region of the world that isn’t mine. Some days I can articulate that value better than others. I still worry about overstepping my bounds, about falling into old-fashioned tropes of “adventure” and “discovery,” but beyond such anxieties, I have faith that there is a reason we are often compelled to push past our personal boundaries. Respectful curiosity and mutual understanding are a powerful combination, I find. I don’t profess that there’s a “right” way to travel, as opposed to a wrong one. I don’t profess that what I’m doing right now is something that I will absolutely look back on without regrets. But I do profess that the day we stop asking questions about, for, and of each other is the day it’s all over. Shout-out to my friends who have been patient with me through all the times when I have not been sensitive enough to my blinders, and I am grateful to those who aspire to see beyond the obvious in me and in each other. In conclusion: if you, reader, find yourself lying awake at night lately, wondering what in God’s name your privilege is doing to YOUR movement through the world, know that I’m somewhere out there, probably awake, probably wondering the exact same thing...That said, it’s probably best we don’t let our late night existential crises keep us from rest for too long. We have to wake up tomorrow with full energy to take on the crucial political work to be done. After all, we’ve been imparted with the choices and power to do it. I’ll leave you with this beautiful Elizabeth Alexander quote: “Critical thinking develops when you go outside of your comfort zone, when you eat a different bread from the one you grew up with. Challah, chapati, hot-water cornbread, pita, injera, baguette — how wonderful to eat a different bread, a differently spiced meal. How wonderful to sleep next to someone who might be dreaming in a language different from your own.”
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