Friendship Finish Lines

I have discovered a peculiar characteristic of friendships played out in this international world – they often have a finish line, to which people run – sometimes sprint – but rarely do away with. The cause of this finish line is the frequency with which goodbyes are said – the knowledge that you or the other person will eventually (probably soon) get on a plane and fly away back “home” or to another port of call – Sudan, Kazakhstan, Liberia, Cambodia, etc.

The introductory questions here in Afghanistan are almost always the same: Where are you from? Who do you work for? How long have you been here? (and then) How long do you expect to be here for? And there it is … the finish line.

(The furthest from this normal introduction I ever received was in a restaurant called Elbow Room where a friend of a friend introduced himself with the following sentence, “Hi, my name is Nick. I’m a wannabe DJ and I’m on the shits.” I should be careful, because anyone who has spent any time in Kabul will immediately know who I’m talking about since there is only one Nick that moonlights as a DJ.)

Back to the finish line – with this last question, we all know how much time we have and begin to construct a clear picture of just how far this friendship will go. We know, in essence, where it will end – not just in terms of time (April 22nd Chris leaves), but in terms of depth – and the whole of the friendship is lived toward that end.

This is perhaps not true of every expat. Some expats that grow up with stable, one-town childhoods are probably much better at not capping friendships, though many of them learn the skill quick enough after experiencing the sting of constant transition. For those of us that grew up in this crazy transitional world – we TCKs (Third Culture Kids) – this is second nature to us, and the thought of beginning a friendship with no finish line seems absurd and, more to the point, incredibly foolhardy.

The best analogue I have come up with is that of the difference between high board diving and scuba diving. Jumping off of a high board into a pool is exhilarating – the rush of stepping off, the thrill of falling and splitting the water with one’s body. But it is short lived. There is a bottom to be hit and once you hit it, you spring up quickly to the surface, climb up the ladder and jump off again. Scuba diving, on the other hand, requires commitment and bravery of a different sort. It is begun slowly and its whole passage is one of exploration. There is always further down to go, always more to discover. It involves danger, the possibility of predators or injury. But in the process, a whole new world is discovered.

I am a high board jumper - or was, before I met Kimberly, my best friend. I have frequently thought here that Kim ruined me for high board jumping, the very necessary skill here, when she coerced me into deeper waters. She was the first friend that refused my finish line and made me keep running – terrifying me in the process. Chris, another friend who I met here similarly disabled me. Kim grew up in Knoxville, TN and Chris in small-town West Virginia (is there another kind of town there?). Both friends didn’t understand the rush and immediacy involved in my version of friendship, my need for intensity and then my commitment to clean splits. When Kim was moving away from DC, as much as she had grown to be my closest friend, I still could not see another option but saying goodbye. I was prepared for it, but not for her anger and flat refusal to let the friendship go. With Chris, I knew I had three months before he would leave Afghanistan and became frustrated when he didn’t seem to feel the same urgency to squeeze as much as possible into that short timeframe. They each, in their own way, forced me to do away with finish lines and have become precious friends in the process.

I struggle in Afghanistan with how to continue this trend. The truth is you can love people much more deeply and genuinely when you are not anticipating an end. I want to care for people in this way and to enjoy the richness of these kinds of friendships. I want to provide spaces for depth in my friendships. I know, however, that there is an incredible risk in these kinds of friendships, particularly when played out in an environment of such constant transition. It hurts when your diving partner is suddenly pulled out of the water, leaving you alone. And the process of again learning to go deep with a new partner is exhausting.

I wonder if there is a balance to be struck, but I confess that if there is I do not yet know it in full. I neither want to live with total careless abandon nor protective rigidity and superficiality. I want to be genuine. I want to love others without thinking about the consequences and in so doing to offer the peace and depth we all truthfully long for. So today, as I prepare to say goodbye to yet another good friend at the end of this month and two more next month, I will choose to imagine these friendships as extending past their finish lines. I will choose to let them develop as they will, knowing that it will cause me pain as well as much deeper joy. I will choose to go scuba diving and will trust that the exploration will be worth it.

Welcome to the Journey

“Where are you from?” This is both the most telling and the most difficult question for me to answer. My practiced response comes in one long breath: “My father is from Scotland and my mother is from Finland. I was born in London, but I grew up in Sierra Leone and Papua New Guinea.” This, my simplest and quickest response, usually evokes a series of blank stares and confused mutterings from listeners who had anticipated a simple and brief exchange of polite small talk.

A more complete and far more complicated answer to this question reveals that I am at once from everywhere and from nowhere. Though I am able to make a home in most any country or community, I rarely find myself completely at home anywhere. Instead, my identity lies somewhere in the meeting of cultures and peoples. I am one of a strange and growing breed of TCKs or Third Culture Kids, raised between cultures.

Home, for me, cannot be defined with easy geographic boundaries. Instead, I discover it in the swirl of images and smells and feelings and sounds that make up my memory. It is in the white caked-on clay covering an Asaro mudman’s skin. It is in the smell of burnt wood that clings to an Ethiopian cross. It is in the sweet, wet coolness that encircles the green of a rice paddy after monsoon rain. It is in the beat and rhythm of foreign tongues singing foreign songs late into the night out of open storefronts.

Two summers ago, in the middle of a city I had never before visited, I came home in the most powerful way. I had come to work with Sudanese refugees in Egypt’s bustling capital, Cairo, and was invited to a wedding by my fellow teachers. Standing outside a Christian church in a Muslim country, my pale Scandinavian arms stood in stark contrast to the elaborate henna designs that decorated them. I wore the freshly tie-dyed African outfit for which I had been fitted days earlier. As I walked through the doors, Dinka, Nuer and Azande friends met me with handshakes and embraces. They smiled with their broad grins and remarked together, “Now you are a proper African!” Laughing with them, I moved slowly inside and found my place about halfway down one aisle. The beat of a drum began and I raised my voice with those around me to sing in a language I could not understand. Just as the chorus reached its peak, a woman two rows behind me released her high-pitched, joyful and triumphant Azande ululation. The tears began to fall down my cheeks, as suddenly I recognized this place. I looked at a friend and said, “I’m home”.

Today, I realize that I am saying goodbye to one home while moving forward toward another. In the postings that will follow, I invite you to join me in this exploration of home, culture, faith and life. I have named the blog, "Wokabaut Bilong Mi", Pidgin English meaning "My Journey" precisely because the title's language nods to my past in Papua New Guinea and its message looks forward expectantly to all that the future holds. Perhaps as you walk with me, you too will discover a world of new homes. Welcome to the journey!