For the Sake of Understanding

Africa.

I don't know whether my fascination with the continent is an enduring passion or pure exotic curiosity -- the type that, after indulgences of reading about the mass killings and famines, life can just go back to normal, to more Britney Spears and Anna Nicole's baby, to my own degree of separation. Am I devoting my free time to reading about this tumultuous continent because it really gives me hope to know at least someone cared enough to write about it, and someone -- like me -- has enough faith in humanity to read about it. Yes, faith, or denial, refusing to believe that, perhaps, the libraries of books written on the subject of injustices done to Africa and its different peoples is just a way for people who stood idle to give themselves redemption. And the readers, just waiting to be redeemed.

Today, I met Jimmy when I was reading my book on Rwanda's genocide. I had seen him numerous times on campus -- he hides out where I do every morning. Everything about him screams "AFRICA!" to me: his bold facial features, rounded eyes that seem to be a touch too big for his face, white teeth that seem brighter than they are against his espresso colored lips, and his smile -- his very cool and self-assured smile that seems almost secretive, reluctant to expose too much. That, to me, spells Africa.

As it turned out, Jimmy is from Nigeria.

I thought that from my reading and research, I would be able to speak with him with more ease than others; I prided myself with my hard work. But when he said Nigeria, and I had to think for a moment to mentally locate Nigeria on the continent map, I saw that trace of "understanding" in his eyes. And by "understanding", I mean, "Well, it's Nigeria. She probably wouldn't know." But I do; I really do. I really tried to learn about this continent, about the people, about their history, culture, their joys and, well, ... sufferings.

Nigeria. I wondered what he had seen in his lifetime. I wondered why he had come to Oregon. I wondered what he thought about his country and the rest of the African countries. I wondered about his outlook on the future. After all, we are but imaginings of ourselves and each other.

But all of a sudden, I realized that I was imagining who he is based on what I have learned from books -- books written by Western authors, books that only speak of Africa's worst moments. And what have I imagined him as? A downtrodden African refugee whose family had just been slaughtered in genocidal warfare? What did I expect? A Nigerian who is poor, hungry and cholrea-striken because his village has contaminated water supplies? And here I see a healthy, motivated, focused and, of all things, well-to-do Nigerian in front of me, and I am surprised that he is nothing like what I have been learning about in books. I did not know what to expect. Normally, when you speak with someone from your own surroundings, you can anticipate what they are saying before they even say it. You understand what silence means. You understand what a certain smile means. You understand what asking for your phone number means. But not in this case. His reservations, his shielding smile, his pauses, his "uhs" and "ums", ... I had no idea what he was trying to -- moreover, trying NOT to -- convey.

I was shocked. I was behaving so ignorantly, just the opposite of what I have been taught not to do in my international studies classes, in which I had spent 4 years. I felt like all of a sudden, everything that I strived to work towards (and one of those things being not be stereotypical) started to fade in my mind. They all seem to be false, destroyed not so much by truth, but by reality, falling off not bit by bit, but shattered at an instant.

For so long, I wondered about all these bad things that have happened and continue to happen in other countries -- poverty, war, and other things -- and now, I just realized that, certainly, these other countries have problems (huge problems!), but the most poisonous of all is the tumor inside of us, as "the powers of the world", that had made us numb to other people's plights.

In opposing terms like "they" and "us", "they" sure have problems, but the main problem lies with "us". And this morning, the problem lies with me.

It's so convenient to just identify those in the African continent and other countries with their worst moments in history, but I am almost certain that no one truly wants to be remembered and defined by the lowest points in their lives, instead by things that have not made CNN Headline News, yet so defines every human being's life in more ways than we give credit.

But to disregard that is so simple and easy. Simple, because it only has one category: "those sad bastards". Easy, because there is no analysis involved when there is only that. So now, disenfranchised peoples around the world became "those inferior but used, abused and miserable people over there". Simplicity and ease certainly provide convenient distance.

And today, I found myself on the other end of that distance. Jimmy requested to exchange numbers, another gesture that I do not fully understand in this context. I gave him my number anyway, and left wondering and my previous understandings of the world fade as I tried to understand more.