We are happy to announce the results of the CIEE story contest. We asked all Spring/Summer 2008 CIEE Study Center participants to submit their story – a reflection of their international experience. We asked: what did you learn about the local culture, people, yourself? How has it changed your outlook? What would you tell other students thinking of going abroad?
We received many wonderful entries. It was hard to pick the winners! For those who participated, thank you. We greatly enjoyed reading all about your experiences on a CIEE Study Center program.
Congratulations to all!
Overall Winner
Zimife Umeh,
CIEE Study Center in Stellenbosch, South Africa
Untitled
She stands in a red smock
Mesmerized by a large group of American students
Buzzing around the convenient store
I watch her watching us
Watching as her fleeting encounter with the “Americans”
Comes to an end as we begin to enter our bus
I approach the counter
She rings me up
Pauses briefly and asks
“Are you Americans?”
Not waiting on my response, she adds
“You must have a lot of money!”
I smile uncomfortable
Let out a slight chuckle as if it is funny
Then I say
Not really, but maybe someday
I know what she sees
When she looks at me
She sees privilege and opportunity
Not a member of a disadvantaged community
She sees all of our differences
None of our similarities
What a peculiarity
I see a Black woman
Living in a country where she was once hated
Now they promise her jobs and opportunities
But in reality, she is still discriminated
She is the face
Of a often too ignored place
Filled to the brim but still an empty space
A place where the young, old, and weak
Suffers the most
And the pain of silence and hunger seeps
A land of beautiful contrasts
Where you find million dollar beach homes
10 minutes away from
AIDS orphans struggling to survive all alone
Where hospitality is shown
Where patience seems to be becoming outgrown
The home of Simon’s Town and Kyamandi
No place with a greater wealth disparity
A nation on the road to prosperity
Yet an unspoken racial tension
Lurks with intensity
I know to her I am symbol of privilege and opportunity
But all I see in those eyes are similarities
For I too am from an ignored space
She is me
Always given false promises
But never really truly free
A land of beauty beyond what the naked eye can see
South Africa
Land of beautiful contrast and disparity
Honorable Mention
Amelia Nebenzahl,
CIEE Study Center in Dakar, Senegal
Journal entry, December 25, 2007: Merry Christmas
I’m pretty sure there is nothing in the world that could make me happier right now. I just had the most unexpected Christmas of my life. My parents have been here for 4 days now, and ever since they arrived I’ve been nervous about what Christmas day would be like when my American family and my Senegalese family came together. Would my Senegalese family understand the quirky American traditions that my Mom would undoubtedly have found a way to transport across the Atlantic? Would the language barrier make it a day of awkward silence as I try to translate conversation from Wolof or French into English? But I told myself, whatever happens, happens. It’s Christmas and I’ll enjoy it no matter what.
After church this morning, my Mom, Dad, and I walked the mile or so up the hill to my house in Sacré Coeur. The deep bellowing tones of African drums still reverberating in my ears from mass helped take my mind off my anxiety about how the rest of the day would pan out. Little did I know that I was in for the biggest treat of my life.
My mum had brought a few small trinkets to make me feel more at home for Christmas. First out of the bag came green ribbon, old holiday greeting cards, scissors, and tape. I was hoping that at least my youngest Senegalese brother might get a kick out of a make shift Christmas tree of green ribbon taped to the wall. What really brought the smile to my face though, was my older brother Pa Ibou. Pa Ibou’s 22, and on a normal day he struts around the house with his macho, too-cool-for-being-fun air. As soon as the green ribbon was unwrapped, however, it was as if he’d become a kid again. He asked me how many layers of “branches” the tree should have, and made me show him exactly how to meticulously fold and cut sheets of paper so that his paper snowflake would come out just right. To add to the merriment, I could feel Christmas spirit bubbling up inside Tanor, Aida, and Mohamed, my younger siblings, as they came running over with “ornaments” which Mum had showed them how to make from the old holiday greeting cards. Without having any idea of the significance of the images of angels and Santa and his reindeer that danced before, they loved every moment of the festivities.
The holiday cheer peaked when Mum pulled out the stockings she’d made for each member of my Senegalese family. Candy cane stripes, snowmen, cartooned Christmas tree farms, tinsel made from fabric paint, visions from my childhood that I never would have believed would be before me in Senegal. As if Pa Ibou hadn’t made my day, my host father topped it off. I have always perceived him to be an extremely dominating male figurehead, rarely interacting with my siblings and I unless there was family business involved. Since the day he came to pick me up at the CIEE study center, I’ve desperately wanted to break through his hard shell and connect with him on a level that was deeper than that of a foreign student living under his roof.
When I handed him his Christmas stocking, that moment finally came. The rigidity of his nature seemed to melt away right there in front of me. He was enthralled by this over sized, brightly colored sock, that for him bore so much than the tooth brush and candy that was inside. “What do you do with this?” he asked me with an excitement I’d never seen in the four months I’d lived with him. I explained that according to the tradition, everyone hangs there stockings on the mantel on Christmas Even, and on Christmas morning children race downstairs before their eyes are fully open to inventory the treasures that have been left in their stockings. “But we don’t have a fireplace,” my host dad declared with concern. “Amelia, you must be the mantel!” Aida and Pa Ibou set to work tying everyone’s stockings around my arms and waist. My Senegalese Dad then made everyone lie down on the floor and pretend to be asleep in order to accurately simulate waking up in the morning and rushing over to tear their stockings off of my human mantel.
When the initial elation of the stockings had quieted, I saw my host Dad casually leave the room. I was worried that I had overestimated his enthusiasm about the Christmas holiday until he came back holding a tarnished bronze statue of a horse. I’d seen replicas of this famous Senegalese revolutionary on several occasions around the city, but never in our home. My host Dad explained that it had been in their family for many years and was a symbol of national pride in Senegal. As he presented this prize possession to my American father, he looked directly at my parents and said that he hoped that this small gift would help express his gratitude and appreciation of the gifts they had brought for his family. My American father was so moved by the offer of the statue, that I had to repeat over and over again how honored he felt until he was convinced that my translation had accurately conveyed the message.
What none of them realized, however, was that for me the greatest gift was not wrapped in colored paper, and I didn’t pull it out of my stocking. What made me truly love today more than any single day in my 20 years of life was seeing my Senegalese family and my American family, 9 people from such incredibly different backgrounds and customs, sharing the joy of Christmas that comes with being with the people you love. Whenever I’m sad I’ll just look at the photo of all of us squished on the simple gray couch in the upstairs living room, my family photo, and think Alhamdoulilah. Thank you God and Merry Christmas.
Honorable Mention
Lydia Manon,
CIEE Study Center in St. Petersburg, Russia
Two Candles Burn in Russia
My memories of living and studying in St. Petersburg this past summer have become a scattered collage of moments and emotions, which I now have trouble distinguishing between. After awhile the everyday metro rides, Russian classes, borsch soup, Pushkin museums, beautiful statues, Orthodox churches, and conversations with my Russian host-mother blend together as one collective impression. We tend to remember, however, the turning points in our overall experiences more distinctly than the rest. This moment for me began on my way home from my first experience hearing the St. Petersburg National Symphony Orchestra.
Recounting the wonderfully fluid sound of the last piece of music with another American student in our somewhat broken Russian, I noticed that I had missed three foreign calls sometime during the performance. Stepping onto the platform at Vasilevsky Ostrov metro station, my phone rang once more. My Dad was on the other end of the line, sounding someone tense and dismissive of my orchestral account. The metro noise made it hard to hear the distant signal. He promised to call back in 20 minutes when I was safely in my 11th floor Russian home-stay apartment. Politely refusing tea, I locked myself in my room, becoming increasingly nervous as the minutes passed by. Soon after the phone buzzed once again, I learned that one of my cousins had passed away from a heroine overdose the night before. The shocking news left me wanting to desperately be at home in the United States with my loved ones. Instead, I was shakily sorting through my Russian-English dictionary, looking for the specific words “cousin,” “drugs” and finally for the verb “to die” in order to translate the streaming tears running down my face to my host-mother.
The next morning I made the decision to suppress my sadness and throw myself into my studies. I made it through my first hour of lessons before I broke into tears once more in the university’s upstairs bathroom. I realized that I could not bear this news alone without detection from others, and spoke to one of CIEE’s coordinators, Irina. She immediately poured tea for me and suggested that I go to a local church to light a candle and say a prayer regardless of my specific religion. Recommending the Church of St. Catherine on Nevsky Prospect, Irina quickly dismissed my claim that she need not accompany me the long trip to Nevsky. Insisting this situation was too important for her to diverge from her native language, I did my best to translate her Russian during our hour-long transport to the ancient church. I felt terribly numb on that lengthy walk, and remember thinking that the sun should not shine so very brightly.
The church was empty except for one woman selling candles in the far right corner. Irina bought two for us, one for each of us. She led the way to a small display of prayer candles. I watched her light her long white candle, turning it sideways in order to catch the fire, struck by the last prayer said. I followed her example, turning the candle to now catch her flame. Simultaneously, as top of my wick burst into flames, my eyes burst into tears. There I stood crying for several minutes. I cried for the loss of my cousin, for the sorrow in my family, for the distance between us. Then I noticed that Irina was crying too, dabbing her eyes to hide her own sorrow. I placed my candle next to hers in the prayer circle. There they stood, two candles burning in Russia.
When I think back to that moment I remember the warmness of Irina’s compassion, of her hug, and of her own tears. While our candles burned next to one another in that cold church, all of the cultural barriers that had previously existed between us disappeared as we both felt the utter humanity of the situation. In my mind, one candle still burns in remembrance of my cousin Nate, the other for the hope of a more compassionate world, a world where understanding of one another can surpass language, culture and religion.