On Being Hated

As our end of service approaches, and we get nearer and nearer to home and questions and Ethiopian storytime, I think it’s an appropriate time for some gritty honesty, for my own sake. Lately I’ve limited myself to hints, but the problem has become all-encompassing, comparable to the sorts of sun-blocking storm clouds that hang over Mt. Soloda in our rainy season, and I know I should share before coming home—I guess so that, well, you believe me, and do so while it’s happening. So that you know it has never been hyperbole.

“I’ve never felt so disrespected in my life” is a line I know I’ve heard before, fielded and responded to before, in conversations with family and friends. Something happens at work, at the store, in a board meeting, and you can’t forget it. This isolated moment hangs there in your mind and your heart, for weeks, maybe months, and you try to set it loose to be forgotten and overcome.

I want you to know what it looks like to be a foreigner and a woman, to be a target for unceasing ostracism and contempt. To be a foreigner and a woman living in Ethiopia.

At least twice a week I go through a bout of misery. A deep hopelessness resulting in bitter anger. That statement—I’ve never felt so disrespected in my life—is not an isolated, once-in-a-blue-moon moment for us female volunteers. It has become our state of being. Every other day, at the very least, for the past 21 months, I have been sexually harassed. Men have licked their lips, kissed the air, stared at my breasts, invited me alone to their homes (we've been told that in Ethiopian culture, if a single man invites a woman alone to his home, it means the likes of Come sleep with me), asked about my sex life, professed their love for me, gawked at me for half hours like I’m a poster, described my features in inappropriate detail, called me sexy, etc. And I come home feeling like a used object on a broken shelf.

The male volunteers will never quite understand this. They support us dearly, and listen well—and they sometimes see it happen—but they’ll never fully feel it as their own. It will rarely ever be directed towards them. They’ll always be the supporters, not the ones needing the support and not wanting to ask for it.

What this means is: when, weekly, I vent and cry to Daniel about the particular sexual harassment I’ve been given that week, I end up feeling relieved in the moment—for having told him, and for how he soothes and encourages me, lifts me up—but gradually, gradually I end up feeling like an awful individual. I struggle with the questions: Am I an awful volunteer? Am I becoming a horrible person? Am I so full of hate—and how is he not? Am I so weak, so thin-skinned? Could I be exaggerating this somehow? Is it even a problem, or is it only in my head? Shouldn’t I be over it by now? Will I be like this when we go home, too?

I am an object of hate. I am ridiculed, I am blatantly desired. They see me as separate, as other and yet simultaneously, as theirs. They think I belong to them, that I exist for their entertainment and lust.

I only leave our home when I have to: school, church, market. It’s inside my house, within our stone-wall compound, that I feel like a person. Like a loved woman, not an abused one. Like I can be healthy and normal and free.

I’m legitimately afraid of who I’m becoming, of the gentle self I may have lost, of the thoughts that run through my head, of the comments I make about Ethiopia, about Ethiopians. I am angry. Most of the time I feel like a burning ball of hate. I feel unfairly wounded, and feel the need to fight back. I don’t feel the same loving person that I arrived. And I feel alone in this. Daniel and the rest of the male volunteers despise being called Money and You! White! It’s awful, the continuous psychological strain is exhausting, but it can’t quite ever reach the likes of Sex! or Pus*y!

My sweet friend was told by a stranger on the road: “I want to lick your…” Fill in the blank yourselves. (Southern Nations--SNNPR)

My good friend had a man on the road run up to her and grab her crotch, right in front of her husband. A police officer stood by on the road, playing with his phone, while her husband had to be the one to do the “punishing.” (Amhara)

Multiple friends have reported of men showing them pornography on buses, as a sort of sick invitation. One volunteer sat beside such a man on a bus, as he masturbated beside her and her visitor from the states. (Multiple regions)

Three of my friends often tell me how frequently they are grabbed and groped as they walk to work—their breasts, their buttocks—by men they pass by. (Amhara, Oromia, Tigray)

Enjoying a gracious meal with one of our favorite families, the Negas, our good evening took a turn when I received the first of what became a long string of texts that night from an unknown number. The sender described for me what the different parts of my body would taste like. (Tigray)

And this is no longer shocking to us. It’s commonplace. We expect it; this is what it is. It’s a part of our lives now. And all the while we give up so much to help our predators. To serve them and their country.

When I cry to Daniel, I often belittle my experience, to question my own psychology. I haven’t been grabbed once. The other girls have it so much worse than I do. Why am I so affected by this? Why can I not keep it out of my head? Why is it so so damaging? What's wrong with me?

A wise friend told me, “But we shouldn’t have to qualify it! Why are we telling ourselves that this isn’t that bad, that there are worse things? No one should have to go through this, any of it, ever, whatever the degree.”

It is always affecting us women. We walk to school, to market, anywhere, and we have our mantras prepared. We are muttering to ourselves what we’ll say, what we’ll do, when they target us—not if, no it’s never if, it’s when. So even when they’re not speaking to us, they’re winning. Even when they’re not speaking to me, I’m hating them.

Unless they’re my colleague or shopkeeper or trusted friend, I purposefully ignore men in the age group of 15 and 45. I ignore their hellos. When Daniel greets his students on the road, I usually continue walking, eyes focused ahead, indifferent scowl plastered on my face. It's grossly unfair: a very vocal minority have made me of wary of an entire group, filled with good men who could be making my time in Ethiopia richer, if I gave them the chance. Four hundred or so men, in the course of my 21 months here, who have exercised that power they think is their right to lord over me—a mere woman—have sullied the image of the other 30,000 men in my town. These 30,000 men have become untrustworthy until proven otherwise. It's generalizing at its worst, for the sake of my own safety.

How it changes us: We wear frumpy, unattractive clothing, and no makeup. We make eye contact with no one. We keep to our houses, our rooms. We avoid certain colleagues and schools whose principals make moves on us. We welcome no conversation from strangers on the road, because we know what the comments will quickly become 70% of the time. If we own headphones, we always wear them when out in public. We are losing our sweet, loving, and welcoming spirits. We have become hardened.

I say we, because I only just fully realized. I knew we were being sexually harassed, I knew it wasn’t only me, that it was happening to all 160 of us female volunteers living in Ethiopia; we can’t escape it. We learned this early. But what I didn’t know was that it was affecting all of us almost entirely the exact same way. That all this time, we were fully together in this—every single bit of this.

We just attended our annual All-Volunteer Conference in Addis Ababa. On the first day we had a session for the ladies, to discuss gender inequality in this country, to discuss how we’re treated, and how we can cope with it in healthy, non-destructive ways. When our session leader shared that “when my parents came to visit, they said, ‘Wow, honey, you’ve become quite mean,’” the relief that rose from my chest was unquantifiable. That’s me, I whispered. When one friend talked about having lost her ability to keep eye contact with people, to be friendly with strangers, the tears began to surface. That’s me, I whispered. When a volunteer talked about the “stink face” she wears everywhere in public—how shocked she was by it when her friend took a candid photo to show her later—I laughed knowingly. That’s me too. The entire session, as we all unloaded on each other for support, and shared and coped, all I could do was weep silently. I didn’t know how powerful, how important, solidarity and understanding could be. For the first time, I was looking into my fellow female volunteers’ faces and seeing my own reflection.

And then our male staff-member, there to support us, to hope along with us for some solution or answer, stood to encourage us, and he couldn’t finish his sentence. He cried alongside us, and we wondered that he could feel the weight of it too.

I thought I was less, I thought I was pathetic. I thought I was becoming as unchristian as I could possibly be, and that it was my own fault, that surely I could be handling this better, more maturely and compassionately. But, in fact, we’ve all been psychologically forced to the same dark and difficult place. The place in the corner of our minds where we must daily try to force the light back in, reminding ourselves that we are strong, good, beautiful women, and we are no one’s objects to possess. We are our own selves.

I suppose I want you to know the truth of it. That this is really really hard. That today, in Ethiopia, you have 160 strong women serving your country and world to help work towards peace and development and education and quality of life for all. That many days, maybe most days, we’re suffering through it. But we remain strong, and will defeat this. The western world is outnumbered in their earnest and successful efforts to keep men and women equal, and if this is all we ever see, this is all we’ll ever see. I wish you knew what it was like almost everywhere else.

In our All-Volunteer Survey, over half of our volunteers surveyed reported that they are sexually harassed at least a few times each week. A quarter of all the volunteers surveyed reported they are sexually harassed more than once each day. When these surveys were compared to those throughout the rest of Africa’s Peace Corps posts, Ethiopia ranked First in sexual harassment.

And yet we’re only getting a two-year glimpse—and though an awful one—just a two-year period of being treated as less, as worse, as not good enough, i.e. as “woman”. We’re told, “No—you can’t climb that mountain; you’re a woman,” as they laugh at us; we’re asked, “How can you be fat and single? No man will marry you,” as they laugh at us; we’re asked by male colleagues, “Would you like me to measure myself for you, so I can tell you my size?” as they grin at us; we’re asked, “Is your husband good in bed?” as they snicker at us—and the entire time we know in that bright corner of our minds that we are getting out of here in just a few months, in just another year, etc. We will escape these common horrors eventually—it’s a sacrificial sliver in our lifetimes—but the women around us, the women and young girls in our communities whom we come to love and adore and admire: they have to live with this. Indefinitely. And while we at least have the relief of complete awareness of our injustice and the indignation that follows, they will go on thinking it normal and acceptable and their own burden to carry—until someone will do something to change it.

To our families: I suppose maybe you’ve compared Daniel’s musings about Ethiopia with mine, the way I had been doing, and found me falling short. I’ve been afraid you think me weak and under-qualified for this job I committed to. That I’m weak-willed, less tolerant, and simply more dramatic than my husband. I’ve been afraid you think me prejudiced and bitter-hearted for no reason (for how can you possibly know what this is?). I’ve been afraid that maybe, around your dinner tables, you discuss how bad and inappropriate my attitude has become, how I blow things out of proportion, how inadequate I am for this job, how I haven’t lived up to the task I’ve been given. But what I want you to know, before we come home, is that I am brave. I am resilient. And after 630 so days of this, I am still here. I didn’t quit. And I suppose, somehow, I still actually want to be here to help them. I think that has to say something.

And perhaps, with the hate, love is there too.

This is undoubtedly “the toughest job I’ll ever love”. The toughest job, thing, two-year stretch, whatever you want to call it, that I will never experience again.

As I trudge through the murky recesses of a wounded and slowly-recovering spirit while the near-nightmare continues, I’m focusing on Love. Specifically, on Christ’s words in Matthew 5: 43-48.

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven. For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”

 A Christian for 15 or so years, I thought I knew what this meant, what Jesus meant when He said this. I thought “frenemies” counted in this category. Annoying people, know-it-alls, and the “least of these.” I thought they were who it was hard to love and who we had to love anyway. Let me suggest that maybe that is quite easy by comparison. I didn’t really know Hate until I joined Peace Corps. When I become most hopeless and full of rage and doubt, I remember that Christ knows exactly what it feels like to be an object of disgust. He didn’t have frenemies—he was “despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not.” (Isaiah 53: 3). The Son of God was trampled by hateful men, and yet He tells us to love those who hate us. To turn the other cheek. To respond not in hate, but with love. For if we love those who love us—should we be congratulated?

Before now, I’ve always prided myself on being an exceptionally nice person. Kind to everyone, always assuming the best of people. Then I came here and realized that for the past 25 years, people were being kind to me too. What credit was it to me? Yellen—there is none. Easy peasy.

So while I’ve certainly never been so disrespected in my entire life, and never will be again to this unyielding, heightened degree—neither have I been so humbled. So shocked into a deep understanding of my sinful humanity, Christ’s perfection, and the depth of His love for us. To, for the first time, understand what my Lord meant when He turned an age-old custom on its head and made it nearly impossible to fulfill—and entirely impossible to fulfill by our own human power. To, for the first time, know that I don’t know the first step to fulfilling this command. On my own, I am no different from the lowest of men: I know how to love those who treat me nicely; big, amazing deal.

So I thank God for His grace. He knows how to love those who hate us—He’s done it, and He did it well—and He won’t keep it a secret from us. If we ask Him to show us how that cheek-turning thing works, surely, surely, He will.

Upon Him was the chastisement that brought me peace, and with His wounds I am healed.

Footnotes

I’ve written this same “blog entry” three times in the past five months—and yet I never post it. I end by crying into my hands, angrier than when I started, and knowing I can’t possibly express or share what can barely be understood and only judged. Daniel and I have made a conscious decision to keep our posts as positive as possible, to sift out as much negativity (even if deserved) as possible. Because this is our fear: Crude catcalls linger in the memory more vividly than beautiful coffee ceremonies; inappropriate colleagues may be more memorable than our stories of our sweet Meron. We do love Ethiopia; we do love living in Ethiopia. And so we use our writing carefully, so that we don’t distort your image of this unique place when we’re in our worst and weariest moods. But I also believe that we can’t fully understand what it means to love a place, unless we know the whole of it—unless we know how difficult it can be to love that place. Somehow the value of the love increases. And the fact that I’ve tried and wanted to give you the full account of it at least three times—tells me that maybe, somehow, I should tell you. That maybe, somehow, you can benefit from it.

One of the main manifestations of Christ’s gracious love for me has been the one who listens to every account of this every day, with compassion and hurt and love, not knowing how to deal with it but trying as hard as he can, and who tells me that I am a good volunteer, that I am a good Christian, and I am a good woman. As I speak words of doubt, he counters them with words of encouragement. I’d have been on a plane home a year ago if it wasn’t for this daily and very crucial help from the worthiest and best of helpmates. He helps me to be the strongest of women. I think I’ll be forever inspired by my 150 or so role models who somehow withstand and overcome this, and stay here, without their own Daniel. We weren’t meant to bear such burdens. And yet somehow, we do.

The Return to the Pearl of Africa

Daniel's first sugar cane!

            Uganda, the second time around, was different from the first. Context is everything. In short, this February, Uganda seemed to us a bit like Paradise.

            Coming from the U.S. in 2008, when I would spend my spring semester of junior year (four months) at Uganda Christian University, I naively didn’t see Uganda as “the horn of plenty”—to quote Daniel, who too saw Uganda as Ethiopia’s world-wise, less awkward, and wealthier sibling. Coming to Uganda this time, from the other direction (just 2 hours south via plane), you can imagine, reaped very different results.

            From the plane: Look out the window—look how green! Oh my goodness, do you see those trees?

            From the market: (Awed silence, at the sight of passion fruit, jackfruit, Nile Perch, pork, eggplants, truck beds full of pineapples, and even those beautiful pink-white Italian beans that lose their jelly-bean color when you cook them.)

            From the car: This traffic is crazy! Does every single Ugandan own their own car? [nearly] And where are your horse carts, exactly?

            From the public taxi: 1, 2, 3…they only have 14 people in this 12-passenger van; and they’re strict about this number. Ethiopia has 22! And look, no one on each other’s laps.

            From the street, one week in: Not one person has asked us for money since we’ve been here, did you notice? (something that can, and usually does, happen by the hour when out and about in an Ethiopian town the size of Adwa)

            From the grocery store: Is this Meijer or Giant Eagle? Are those bagged, processed chickens? You mean you don’t have to kill them yourself? Flavored yogurt?! We’re not in the capital, so why is this store so huge? It’s bigger than our house—can you believe it?

            From everywhere else: (Jaw dangling from mild envy of Sharon, who lives here.) You just had a full conversation in English with that shopkeeper, and the random customer! In English. You talked about real things, and they understood you. They’re fluent. Absolutely fluent. Making friends must be so much easier. (Note: We can have fluent, deep, natural and theological conversations with my host sister—maybe even with that shopkeeper. Meanwhile in Ethiopia, I don’t have a single female friend my age, because their English is generally limited to: “Are you fine? I am fine. How do you find the weather condition of Adwa?” And they’re too shy to even say this, so instead, they cover their eyes.)

            More than once, I wondered what the Ugandans, who could not only eavesdrop but also understand our private quips (we’re not used to that, and had to be careful), were thinking of our exclamations. Look how beautiful this pit latrine is! It’s tiled! or DORITOS! Are you serious? Because the average American tourist, visiting for a week, would a). be disgusted by any sort of pit latrines, pristine or gross and b). care less about seeing Doritos. Doritos, shmitos. But we deprived travelers, used to a much less developed land, were nearly at the pearly gates. For the record: we had self-control enough to forego the Doritos, and buy more Ugandan treats.

            As proof of our integration into our Ethiopian lives: in both Germany and Uganda, we didn’t convert in our minds the Euro or Shillings to Dollars. We converted to Birr. Which, quite expensive by comparison, is probably the main reason I simply waved and winked at the Doritos, and didn’t put them in my basket. (Yes, the stores even had baskets.)

            And then there was our actual reason for the vacation: to visit family, my Mama Joyce Serukenya and sister Rebecca (Nanteza). Whether it was jumping off the bus at Kigunga stage, frantically trying to find Rebecca’s face, and walking then skipping to meet her when we spotted each other, or if it was walking into Mama’s compound, where she stood at the door adjusting the curtain, and hearing her before seeing her: eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!—regardless, my face’s plumbing failed, and I was a consistent mess for a few days. Even upon seeing my old classrooms, or the most recognizable building on campus, or the podium in the lecture hall where I once delivered a sermon to the student body. Silly brick buildings, and I was a running faucet.

            I saw Vincent too, one of my dearest Ugandan friends: known to us students as V-Money, or Vincenzo. He used to drive the twelve of us who lived with host families, everywhere. We traveled the corners of the country together—him our conductor—almost every other weekend. He taught me Luganda words and phrases as I jotted them down in my notebook in the front seat, and I told him about Taco Bell. Months after I left that year, he emailed me to tell me they were naming their son after me; they couldn’t call him Danielle, so Daniel would have to do. When I saw Vincent, I nearly knocked him over—with my hysterics, and his own surprise at this crazy alumna running/crying towards him.

            And hence, my reunions were embarrassing ones, wet ones. But entirely good all the same.

Daniel and Mama Joyce wielding her machete

Rebecca teaching us how to prepare matooke, the staple food

On our way to Mom's house for the first time

            The second, deeper level of the reunion was introducing these beloved people to Daniel. They all knew about him in 2008; they saw, or heard, of the progression of our relationship, around the kitchen table every night, or via long sisterly talks between bunk bed panels. One of the last things Mama Joyce told me when we said goodbye in the yard while Vincent packed my suitcases in the van, was “When you come back, bring Daniel and your children.” Rebecca had been referring to him as Big D since she knew of him, and the nickname has stuck. This was how she first greeted him.

            So, last month, hearing Mama introduce Daniel at church as “her new son,” hearing the listener (who was a distant relation) inform Daniel, then, That you must give me a chicken, or watching Rebecca teach Daniel how to make matooke—even seeing the three of them in the same room, seeing Daniel in this context, period—was surreal. I found myself staring, dazed, trying to take it all in. It was lovely and beautiful and every good thing you could possibly call it.

            I don’t have the discipline to be a journal-er (which is why I try to keep detailed blogs of our 800 days spent in Abyssinia). But in Uganda, like in Germany, I kept detailed journals—knowing I couldn’t possibly process all the beauty and emotions that week, but would have to return to it later. And not wanting to miss a single detail.

         

         If Germany was a sight-seeing, place-oriented, historical sort of trip, Uganda was a people-and-culture-based trip. We mainly stayed in the same area—around my Mukono town (which is far larger than I remember or ever gave it credit)—to soak up our time with loved ones. For me, it was less of experiencing new things, and more like coming home. More like hunting down the familiar to make sure Daniel saw or tasted it. More like Wow! They’ve paved this road; it looks so different!, and Watch! I can still find the post office! and Here’s where we’d sit to watch Spanish soap operas every week, and Try this fruit! It’s the first thing I researched when we were placed in Ethiopia: Dear Google, does Ethiopia have jackfruit?! (sadly, it doesn't), and Here’s where I sat when I read that particular letter of yours, and here’s where I ran and hid to think it over.

Jackfruit on the tree

Jackfruit (fene) cut up

Jackfruit ready to be eaten

The Rolex--scrambled eggs on chipati--another new food for Daniel

            It was moving to see all that had changed, and all that had not. I kept marveling over the short distance from Ethiopia to one of my favorite homes; two hours, and suddenly there we were, with them, after six years.

            Several times throughout the trip Mom would say, “I can’t believe we’re sitting here, having lunch with Danielle and Daniel. Who will believe us?” She made me promise I’d send pictures, so they’d have proof it really happened.

            It felt like time travel. All of it felt important, because it was.

Our first meal at Mom's; Daniel's first time eating matooke

So many memories in this house! This time, with Daniel

Back at church with Mom

            And then there was the stepping over the threshold into Sharon and Michael’s life. I still remember where we stood on our Indiana college campus when I first asked Sharon (whom I had fatefully met when I found out there was a girl in my dorm selling her Super Nintendo system for 30 dollars) if she wanted to study abroad with me in Uganda.

            Fast-forward three years to the actual semester abroad, and a few months in, when she was falling in love with a charming Ugandan. The last time Daniel and I saw Michael was at their wedding in Michigan five years ago. We’ve seen Sharon one other time since then, when she was visiting her family in America.

            But to enter their home of five years, where they’re now a family of four, with their son Emmanuel (Emma) and daughter Michelle, was also surreal, and yet so natural. There she was, living the dream she held onto in college—living overseas, doing good work for God—and they were happy. It was a mantra in my mind that week: five years, five years. I think of our two in Ethiopia, and imagine all that Sharon has given up, and yet with a content heart, for half a decade.

            To see their home, their road, their town, the shops they frequent, their church, their close friends, Sharon’s in-laws—to get a glimpse of their Ugandan lives, was beautiful. Sharon is becoming more a part of that culture every day; she even speaks to their son in the endearing Ugandan-English sing-song tones. She loves Uganda, and Uganda loves her; this much is evident.

The lovely Mbabazis!

Michelle was such a source of joy for us the entire trip. Never has a baby smiled so often or so fully!

            One of our favorite days was driving to Jinja with Sharon and her family, along with Michael’s sister Judith, to spend the day at Michael’s grandmother’s home. We got to meet the in-laws! What lovely, gracious people, and what a marvelous meal they prepared for us.

In Jinja with Michael's mom and grandma

Danielle sporting traditional Ugandan dress

            It’s official: we two Luttrulls have now been to both sources of the Nile River. The famed river that runs northward has two mouths: one (the Blue Nile) in Bahir Dar, Ethiopia, and one (the White Nile) in Jinja, Uganda.

Blue Nile Falls in Bahir Dar, Ethiopia

White Nile in Jinja, Uganda (with Emma)

            Another noteworthy fact: Uganda is HOT. We were reminded of summers at home in the Midwest, where Humidity is King. In Adwa, we have a more comfortable dry heat, similar to our years in Texas (in other words, thank God). But in Uganda we were so sticky and sweaty and uncomfortably hot, that we often took two cold bucket baths a day to stay cool and refreshed.

            Somehow Ethiopia never left us. Check out this guy selling posters. This poster of an Ethiopian woman preparing the coffee ceremony is all over Ethiopia (we recognized her); but we never would’ve thought Uganda had her too! We rushed on this guy with bubbly excitement, rapidly telling him we were from Ethiopia. Daniel proceeded to read for him all the Amharic script on the paper. All the while the man looked at us like we were crazy (which, well, made us feel at home). I wonder if this is how we’ll forever greet anyone who looks like, or is dressed like, an Ethiopian when we return to the states. This poor guy probably didn’t even know the poster was Ethiopian.

            In short, we had a fulfilling, rich time. A spiritual time, enjoying once again the miracle of Ugandan hospitality and refreshing conversation. A much-needed and much-looked-forward-to visit with my African family. (And the English! Oh, the English! They even had newspapers and radio shows in English.)

            When we first tore open our Peace Corps Invitation packet (after dancing and shouting in our yard, while the neighbor’s dog barked at our screams), and read Ethiopia, one of the first things we did (after jumping in our car to speed to Daniel’s parents’ house) was check the map: How near to Uganda?

            Our week in Mukono, Uganda certainly helped make my 2-year service in Ethiopia more worthwhile. Perhaps our Serukenya reunion was the perfect trade-off for what could have instead been—and was almost—two years of gaining fluency in Spanish in South America. Thanks, Ethiopia.