In Lamu, a small island off the coast of Kenya, the streets are way too narrow for cars, so 4,000 donkeys pace the roads, transporting goods and defecating. The town, like much of the coast, is upwards of 90 percent Muslim.
For the past three months, I have been studying on Kenya's Swahili coast, spending much of my time in Lamu and the port city of Mombasa. I am American and Jewish and gay, and while I wouldn't use any of those adjectives on a list of Top 10 words to describe myself, living on the Muslim side of Kenya I was forced to think about them every single day. Between the cultural differences and the donkey crap, Lamu was an experience to say the least. While there is much I'd like to write about, for now I'll limit it to a few things I've learned living here as a Jew. I think it has as much to do with how we as American college students talk to each other as it does the Kenyan coast.
Lamu is a small town where word travels fast. During my first week there, I got into a conversation with an elderly Swahili man returning from mosque. The man had traces of a British accent, and when I told him I was from Boston, he sighed and shook his head. "Very bad," said the man. "Boston. They took the Brits' tea. And I suppose your great-grandparents were at the Tea Party?" "No," I responded. "They were in Poland."
"Ahh, Poland," said the man. "So you're a Jew?" I paused. I had been warned by friends who'd traveled East Africa before not to reveal my Judaism, no matter how nominal a Jew I am. But the advice always seemed silly. My relationship with Judaism was confined to a suburban Bar Mitzvah and occasional use of the word "schlep." Who could hate me for that?
Despite the horror stories of anti-Semitism I'd heard, I nodded. Now, as I said, in Lamu, word travels fast. Walking down the streets there, most Lamuians greet Westerners with a hearty "Jambo" or hearty "Mwanafunzi" (student). But the day after meeting the man, the townspeople had developed a new greeting for me-a hearty "Shalom."
In my three months, I made a number of meaningful friendships. In that time, I could never reveal my homosexuality to a new Muslim friend without jeopardizing our relationship. But I could always "come out" as a Jew.
What's more, unlike in America and particularly at Duke, where I find it almost impossible to have a rational conversation about the Middle East in Kenya it seemed easy--with my home-stay father, friends, the guy at the market, all sorts of people. My own views on the issue are mixed to say the least. After living in Kenya--talking with friends, reading the newspaper--I have to say I'm even more skeptical of the intentions of people on all sides, even more confused over a possible solution. But it's not like I'm an adamant Palestinian supporter (most here are) and that's why it was easier to discuss.
It's also not because anti-Semitism doesn't exist on the coast. We have our "Kill the Jews" graffiti, the occasional swastika, a few Jew-hating (not to mention un-Islamic) imams. And I don't want to give you the impression Swahilis are any more open-minded than their American brethren. The tribalism that has and continues to dominate Kenyan politics is insane-Kikuyus vote for Kikuyus, Luos for Luos, everyone votes within their tribe. If anything, I leave America more appreciative of my country (though not its foreign policy) than ever.
In truth, I think the reason the conversations were easier in Kenya is because of geography. The coast is far enough removed from the fighting so people can discuss the issue calmly, but affected enough so they can't afford to talk about it theoretically. Just last week, a car bomb blew up an Israeli hotel in Mombasa and missiles were fired at an Israeli aircraft from the airport here. (I was asleep, 10 miles away.) The economy still hasn't recovered from the 1998 U.S. Embassy bombing in Nairobi, and the latest attacks won't help.
And so to many of the people I got to know in Kenya, a conversation about the Middle East wasn't about proving one side was right. It was about trying to make me understand where they were coming from, and allowing me time to explain my confusion.
Which brings me back home, to Duke. If the "dialogue" at Duke in regard to the Middle East this semester looked anything like it did last spring, it is a sick mockery of what a real conversation should actually look like. Check out this section, for example. A student, often though not always a Jew, will write a rage-filled letter to the Editor Gods, decrying Palestinian terrorism and, if he really wants to upset the Muslims, blaming Islam for the mess.
A pro-Palestinian, usually though not always an Arab, will quickly respond, decrying Israeli terrorism and, if he really wants to upset the Jews, equating Israelis with Nazis and dropping the H-bomb (either "Holocaust" or "Hitler"). The back-and-forth will continue until a temporary lull, at which point some event in the region will spur one side or the other to write in again. (The cycle of student-sponsored ranting is vaguely reminiscent of what's going on in the actual Middle East.)
Last semester, in a particularly inane display, a pro-Palestinian group, claiming to be promoting "dialogue," marched through the quad carrying a coffin representing murdered Palestinians. I hope this sort of stuff makes you guys feel better about yourselves because it just antagonizes the very people you should be trying to persuade and does jack for the people dying every day. Those missiles flying through Mombasa on Thanksgiving were no joke. These conflicts aren't designed to give college students something to protest, to give college students "a cause." They're real and real people die.
We need to tone down the rhetoric, stop trying to prove our tribe is right and start trying to understand each other. If we can't have a rational conversation thousands of miles away from the conflict, how should we expect the actual people involved to do the same? We are so concerned with defending our tribe that we've stopped listening to each other. Maybe we never started.
Other than the recent bombing, the biggest news in Kenya these days is the first seriously contested presidential election in the nations history. As I said, tribalism is the dominant force in Kenyan politics, and Kenya is now paying for its tribalism with recent ethnic clashes on the coast and corrupt leadership in the presidency. What I learned in Kenya is that if we continue advocating not for understanding each other but for proving we're right, if we continue giving allegiance to our tribes, be they dictated by religion or political affiliation, over our allegiance to humanity, we too will pay for our tribalism. In many ways, we already are.
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