The shoe-shiner

Why is it that no matter how quickly I get my thoughts down on paper, it takes at least a week for me to transfer them here?
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When I was young, my big midwestern heart was not prepared for pretty much anything hard and cold in cities. I did not yet understand the fast movements and clipped tones, and the harshness of socio-economic disparities of any kind - especially conditions of the homeless population - left me having 7-year-old existential crises. I've thought of that girl, those moments, in various cities of my adult life. She would have been unable to cope with the man who holds the door at the cornershop in New York, his palm outstretched as he says "God bless you," nor the women holding their infants in the markets of Amman, looking at you with desperate eyes, nor the boys in Mali, not even her age, starting a long list of blessings before they reach you, shuffling away at the simple phrase, "God did not will it." As I walk briskly past these fellow humans, only ever handing over an apple or leftovers, I feel the distance between myself and that girl. My fear in those moments, when I can shake my head at a child without stopping the conversation I am having, is that I have lost her completely.

I have been in Beirut for the last few days, a long weekend attached to a conference for work. While it was entirely possible to stuff myself with good, cheap Lebanese food, I've indulged in sushi and Italian, lavender lattes and old fashioneds, letting the foodie in me flourish. This evening I was taking myself to an Indian restaurant when a kid walked over with a small wooden box, asking to shine my sandals. I smiled but declined, walking past without meeting his gaze. He continued a pace behind, repeating, "Please, Madam, just 1000 (about 60¢). From Syria. Please." I walked on, head shaking but glanced over at his face. Saying no is an entirely different matter when you have to look a person in the eyes and watch the hope dim.

In that moment, the contents of a couple nights prior sloppily spilled out in my mind. I remembered a guard erroneously accusing a Syrian refugee of theft, how he was put in a chokehold, dragged away, pushed against a wall and slapped. As if this boy was not worthy of fair treatment simply because he'd been forced to flee his home. As if the circumstances fate had rolled made him more of a dog than a man. I had not taken more than one step as this thought, and the shoe-shiner at my side, had me questioning everything about my life, just like that little girl. Not three yards back, I had believed that the work I was doing was enough, but in that moment I knew there never was - or would be - an 'enough.' I sighed as I stopped, as his words eagerly shifted from 1,000 pounds to 5,000, and I pulled out the smaller note. "It's for food," I chided, as if I had any right to tell him what his needs were. As if I could ever understand.

We shook hands, kissed cheeks, and I said goodbye as I turned away. He immediately fell into step, begging for a little, just a little more. The anger that flared in me as I said "Halas, go!" - fueled by self-righteous fervor - was immediately doused by the cold prickle of shame running through my limbs. If the dice rolled for him have left him shining shoes, those same dice provided me with countless privileges and opportunities, and I have no right to feel that anger, to deem him worthy of less than $1.00. I continued my walk, eyes clouded by thoughts of the fickle unfairness of fate. I tried to console myself with the knowledge that it is impossible to save every single person within a lifetime, and with the belief that what I do will have an impact, leading me to a tangental criticism my own automatic use of the word 'save,' exploring symptoms of a white savior complex that I consciously reject.

Tomorrow morning I will have conversations about health systems in places of crisis, discuss issues of practicality and real life utility. I want to say that maybe I need an exchange like this evening's to push me, remind me why I am here. But that thought does a disservice to the shoe-shiner, implying that it is good he has to struggle in impossible circumstances because he can do something for me, especially as I have done all but nothing for him. When I started this blog, I was often sure I could find concluding remarks, nice wrapping paper with matching ribbons. As I continue, though, I find there is often little to conclude, and when I reach out, there are only more questions.

Peace & love
Elyse

About my knees.

My life here mirrors the streets of Amman, twisting and climbing and doubling back. If a road is not curving left or right, then it is surely sloping in and out of multi-tiered tunnels. Getting from point A to point B is challenging unless you are familiar with the maze of asphalt, sure of the direction of streets lacking one-way signs a foreigner like myself requires. The street names listed on Google Maps rarely match the small green placards drilled into sidewalk walls, hanging obstructed by heady jasmine bushes. Likewise, the reality of where I am going and how I will get there – both in personal and professional matters – consistently strays from my preconceptions of my situation in Amman. I’m finding that in this city, the easiest and fasted route to your destination is found in looping around the giant hills it was built upon, and that attempting to carve out a direct path through them takes more time than I can afford.

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I want to tell you about my knees. A little risqué for a public blog, I know. My first day of work in Amman, I stood on the sidewalk trying to catch a taxi and breathing through the anxiety gripping my stomach. Perhaps arriving at my hotel a couple of hours before sunrise muddled my head, but most of that nervous energy was focused on my ankles. I’d purchased my pants at a thrift shop in New York, where the slightly-higher-than-usual cut had seemed professional and chic. That first day, however, I blushed as I stepped into the cab, sure that the skin above my feet was offensive. Flash forward 2 ½ months later to my birthday, wearing a dress that, although work appropriate and conservative by U.S. standards, fell just at my knees. The process of getting to the point where I both wanted to and felt comfortable wearing that dress is something that I’ve fixated on for quite some time.

Cultural consciousness, respect, and integration are all critical if you want to work and live as an expat, no matter where your origination and destination. Dressing appropriately is a big part of that and can have a strong effect on interactions and relationships at all levels. I’m sure this isn’t new to anyone, as we can all agree that the way you dress has an impact on interactions even in your own country. Back home, wherever home is, the boundaries for what is appropriate to wear in each situation have been absorbed since we were young; in a foreign place, understanding these boundaries becomes more difficult. You realize that although there are rough edges sketched around what is acceptable, that space is full of grey matter and subjective decisions. Although I would not have worn my birthday dress back in June, time helps solidify hard stops and personal hesitations. By August, it was clear that there was some wiggle room for my lower legs and upper arms, if I was willing to bear the anticipated leering in the streets. To attract the least attention it’s best to dress modestly, so on one hand the decision for what to wear stops there. But then again, there’s that dress (it really is lovely).

The ways and places fabric hangs from my body does not seem, at first glance, like something that should have a connection with my well-being and mental health. For this reason, my initial instinct is to lean towards conservative cultural norms. There comes a point, however, when that fabric morphs into a representation of all of the restrictions felt in a foreign culture, when it’s hot and I don’t want to put a cardigan on and I DO WHAT I WANT. It becomes almost necessary, on a personal level, to push some boundaries – within reason – by wearing what you feel your best self in. When you’re living in a new place (do we count 6 months as living somewhere?), you need to ground yourself in some ways in order to thrive. This can involve making friends, finding favorite spots in the town/city, and – apparently – dressing with more personal style. For short trips and wanderings, I don’t think there’s enough time to untangle where you stand within all of that grey matter; keeping your feet on land for longer chunks of time gives you the opportunity to do this.

Anymore, my ankles make a regular appearance in Amman. I have stopped grimacing when I see other foreign women with a little leg out, or walking around in sleeveless shirts. I am trying to remind myself that though there are a few hard lines, including items that are actually disrespectful, damaging, and appropriative rather than appreciative of culture, it is not a simple matter of black and white. Learning not to judge is, as always, a process. But I’m learning, and slowly getting used to seeing my knees again (but only on special occasions).

Peace & Love

Elyse

Long overdue

Oh hello, stranger. Been a lot of radio silence, I know, but hear me out. Or ignore the feels and instead look at the pretty pictures of Petra.

I've been telling myself for the past two months that it's interesting how every time I pack my bags and move somewhere new, it's a little easier. I've refined my tricks for how to get through the long flights, have favorite sites to check for details on my new home. When I pack, it is a little easier to know what (and how much) to take, and when I land in a new place at 2:00 AM it doesn't seem as daunting. It's exciting, of course, and I would be lying if I told you my palm wasn't imprinted with my necklace pendant as I walked through passport control at Queen Alia airport, but it feels far away from the excitement and fear I felt 6 years ago (already?), landing in Duala, Cameroon. And finding the taxi driver taking me to my hostel in Amman was nothing like the relief of throwing my arms around Peter, my new host father and a complete stranger.

There are many places in the world that would feel different from anything I know. Places where those differences stand out like the way sushi feels in your mouth the first time you try it, where your hand is reaching for a journal or a sketch pad before you know to need it, where you meet up with a friend to catch up and accidentally talk for an hour straight, just to attempt to process it all. Amman has not been - for me, at least - one of those places. And so I got caught up in setting patterns and living out those patterns, tracing the daily lines like a spirograph.

My journal acquired a layer of dust, as did this blog. I went to work, took the bus home, made dinner. I went out with friends, explored markets and cafés, reaffirmed my enchantment with living abroad but didn't really dig into it. All of the lights and the sounds, from the innumerable cats, to the muezzin's daily calls to prayer, to the falafel and hummus I consume constantly, were taken in as just part of it all. Which they are, but they're also interesting and different parts that deserve acknowledgment.

The past 2-ish weeks, I've been fine. Not sad or mad or unhappy, for sure, but also not good or content or satisfied - just fine. I've had one hell of a time figuring my head out, knowing that I have so many things going for me right now, but not being able to feel truly appreciative of them and happy about it all for more than short bursts. It was getting to that point where all of the little things irked me, and unmemorable annoyances would stick in my head.

A week ago, I was trying to write a short blog for school about culture, and was coming up blank. As the entry was already past it's due date, all I wanted was to ramble out a couple paragraphs about absolutely anything, but I continued to stare at a blank screen. It was incredibly frustrating and some things may or may not have been thrown across the room, but eventually it dawned on me (more like using flint to light a fire rather than flicking the switch on a lightbulb) that I had nothing to say about culture in Jordan because I wasn't processing it, wasn't allowing myself to truly feel it all.

And that is the short, long-winded description of how we've arrived here. A semi-new month (and almost a new year for me) seemed like a good time to re-evaluate how my actions, intentions, thoughts and emotions were serving me and serving those around me. One of my resolutions is to write more, including to write in this more. A little A lot overdue, but I'm going to start shamelessly posting this link on my facebook again, hopefully writing as much about cats and falafel as feelings (with a healthy dose of public health thrown in).

Peace & Love
Elyse

The Community Health Worker and the Worms

This is literally 3 months old. I wrote it midway through my first semester at Columbia and had honestly forgotten about it until now. My apologies.

I fell asleep two nights ago reading about onchocerciasis and woke up in Mali, covered by a yellow mosquito net and unable to fall back asleep because of the guinea hens. I got up and went about my routine getting ready for class, as if I wasn't half-way across the world as I did so. It happens less the longer I've been away, but there are days that Mali is draped across my shoulders like a cloak, and I have no way of shaking it off until it is ready. I spent my first class trying desperately to discuss treatment as my mind wandered off in search of the name of the man who offered me those pills.

He showed up at my gate and called out a couple of times, too polite to enter the courtyard uninvited. Pagne wrapped securely, I stepped out to find the community health worker standing with a notebook and a long stick covered with circles, dots, and lines. "Cootie shots?" I asked dryly before launching into a litany of Bambara greetings. Those finished, he held his stick up to me and announced, "worms!" I nodded, aware that there were worms that hid in the cakey clay dirt, in the sand, in the mud. There were worms in stagnant water, some in fast moving water. Worms found you through snails, files, and the mangy dogs begging for scraps. Those tiny parasitic beasts may be invisible to the naked eye but are adept at taking over and ruining your body. So yes, pills for worms.

I vividly remember him standing there with the stick, his goofy grin, the rhythm of us conversing in a mash of French and Bambara - a mark of someone who would have excelled in school if there had been one to excel at. I remember my cat, Basil, angrily crying for breakfast, and that he had just eaten a suspiciously similar worm pill the previous week. I remember the scratchy air, the feel of that creaky gate in my left hand, and that I was supposed to take two pills (based on my height, prescribed by the stick), but I can't remember if I took the pills and I can't remember his damned name. Details are bound to fade, but I hate it when I can't remember their names.

I never knew which worms those pills were for until two days ago, reading about mass treatment campaigns and coming across a photo of a community health worker in an unnamed African country, holding one of those sticks. For a split second, I was sure it was my friend, my home. that's what tripped me up.

Onchocerciasis is more commonly known as River Blindness and is considered a neglected tropical disease. It's neglected because it is no longer common, thanks to the (accidental) development of a treatment drug by Merck 35 years ago and the subsequent mass treatment campaigns in affected countries. Without those drugs, the worm (which enters a human-host through a fly bite) will grow under a person's skin and release its millions of babies to swarm the body, causing such severe itchiness that people kill themselves to get away from it. Those babies - microfilariae, if you must know - can make their way to a person's eyes and eventually cause blindness. According to the WHO, roughly 37 million people are infected worldwide. It is baffling that those 37 million could be easily treated, but that the treatments aren't getting to them. Unfortunately, this is the case for many diseases. A deceptively simple problem, I expect swaths of my career to be devoted to trying to answer it in one form or another.

Tonight, I am supposed to move on to study other issues, build on my own understanding of the complexities of global public health. But the words in my readings are breaking apart in front of me as I search not for public health strategies, but for one man's name. As often happens in my reminiscing, I vainly wish that I'd taken more photos, that I had taken his photo that morning. Maybe then I could remember, feel that I wasn't losing them with time. Maybe then it would be easier to put my memories back in their boxes.

Peace & Love
Elyse