As with all good journeys, there must be a return. As we draw ever closer to our return, I find I am completely unprepared. I have become used to thinking in a myraid of languages and using whichever word pops into mind at the time. I enjoy the peaceful calm that comes from knowing exactly how I do not belong. And I have come to approach every situation with an equal mix of curiosity, understanding and mystery. It suits me.
That is not to say I will not enjoy the physical pleasures of life in the states. Consistent electricity and reliable running water are sure to be comforts. But, in the oddest of ways, I will feel disconnected and out of touch. I will be back to feeling like I cannot do anything there. I cannot do enough (irrationally so, as I realize many people are doing great things there, originating projects that reach across oceans, over mountains and beyond borders...)
I realize I have never truly understood this aspect of myself, however. How is it that I am so deeply affected by the woman and her children living outside (for three months!) Why have the young Somali men, boys really, who each lost one hand and one foot, invaded my thoughts nearly every waking moment since reading their story? (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8118306.stm )
I don't understand how these things get inside of me so much that I can feel their fear and hear them calling out. I see them sleeping as I sleep, their lives forever changed.
Yet, even more than the mystery of myself is the mystery of others? Why doesn't everyone lose sleep over these things? What kind of place the world could be if we were all spending our nights tormented by the injustices. But I know how it happens. It happens because it must.
I recognize this as akin to the loss of my children. When it hits me, it is a completely overwhelming and all consuming grief. It is nothing I could sustain however, having long since developed a way to endure, to bury this torment so I might attend to daily tasks of living. But you can never adequately grieve a distance such as this and it is here I remain. It will be a small thing that throws me off, a motion in Mohamed reminiscent of Mason, a slip of my tongue or a flippant email reminding me how trivial my role in their lives is.
We cannot sustain the horrors of this world and continue to build our daily lives, celebrating the personal gains and growth of the ones we love. But every so often, a case will stand out, touch us in a way that is more severe and push us into action. So I am left these days merely questioning myself. What is my own action against the suffering I see? Living here I am constantly on the edge of some overwhelming emotion, being moved to tears, whether they be of beauty, humility or sympathy. A trip back is not going to change this.
And that is not even the real hesitancy behind my return. I know that as much as I've changed and grown, it was all expected and welcome. I've never viewed my journey here as anything other than a homecoming. Africa did not let me down.
This return is more like the obligatory visit to a family that holds you in hostility and contempt. Somehow, the mountains that once comforted me seem foreboding in their ability to judge. I have found a freedom here, a liberation I am not ready to concede.
The way back seems littered with dark, stormy memories. This trip resembles so many other trips back. I do not rush into the welcome arms of a lover, but tread ever cautiously, watching all sides, wary and unprotected. Powerless. Moving into the lion's den.
