It was just before the last vacation that my daughter approached me looking rather distressed. It is often an art to wheedle out of children what it is that is bothering them and so I took my time trying to cajole her into telling me what was on her mind.
“Mamma,” she finally confessed looking rather bewildered, “I don’t think that I really want to go to Africa for the holidays.”
This was neither an issue that I had anticipated as being the root cause of her chagrin nor one that I was adequately prepared to confront. The facts of life, yes. The trip to Africa, no.
“But it will be so much fun,” I exuded relieved and confounded at the same time, “and besides you will learn so much. You’re so interested in animals and many of the ones you will see are rare and endangered.”
I was taken aback by her palpable reluctance but it was the sheepish comment that followed that alluded to something that was more indicative of where her concern was founded.
“But Mamma, Africa is where all the poor people live. Right? Why can’t we go to Europe or America instead?”
What I ascertained from the lengthy exchange that followed was that my poor little girl had fallen prey to the rather shallow and materialistic ideals of some of her classmates who, it seemed, had subconsciously imbibed such ignoble stereotypes and characterizations from spurious societal misconceptions. Africa was a continent typecast not by its fascinating heritage, diverse traditions or irrefutable contribution to mankind throughout civilization, but by some of its poverty-stricken people.
I launched into a tirade about how people should not be judged by their money, but their wealth of spirit and this evidently served to appease her confusion and assuage her doubts. She trotted off looking rather excited at the prospect of meeting some of the world’s really wonderful and cool citizens.
My children returned jubilant from their visit to Kenya and Tanzania enriched and touched by the warmth and generosity of their African hosts and were captivated by what it is like to live and breathe nature firsthand. An educational experience that I am convinced no textbook can ever adequately convey. In my estimation they learned more from this single visit than through years of distantly watching the plight of a Third World nation in a classroom with the aid of the screening of a video to portray how other people live. They were touched by the spirit of the Africans, by their dazzling smiles, by the attacks of giggles that infected them when they attempted to communicate with these people in their pigeon Swahili, and by the traditional singing and dancing they participated in unabashedly.
As I write this, my kids are on their way back from trekking in the Himalayas with their father. They were overawed by the magnificent sight of the staggeringly beautiful mountains, drank water from the purest rivers in the world. In the camp where they were stationed they lived among people who were much less fortunate than them but were humbled into realizing that, if anything, this absence of avariciousness did not equate to an absence of happiness.
I believe that such experiences are life transforming. That such interactions on a personal level form the basis of an empathy in later life that cannot be rationalized theoretically but has to be felt deep within. That such opportunities are rare and need to be availed of, whose concomitant remnants in the recesses of our minds need to be cherished and nurtured in order to better relate to our fellow human beings.
I think that it is highly unfortunate that when we travel abroad it is frequently to countries where we tread the familiar browbeaten path that invariably leads to shopping malls and entertainment complexes. I have observed it myself. Summers spent in London have witnessed hordes of our people strolling up and down the Edgware Road frequenting shawarma stands and Turkish coffee houses. The youth preferring to hang out in congregations that assemble nightly in Leicester Square or outside The Trocadero, eying each other up while sporting the latest fashions purchased on a whim in Bond Street or Sloane Street. In Paris, we are infamous for congesting coffeeshops dotted along the Champs Elysees or darting in and out of haute couture showrooms on Rue de la Paix laden with shopping bags carrying offerings that we can use to impress our friends and brag about our civilized summer vacations.
I wonder how many of us visit museums and art galleries when we visit these seats of culture and erudition. How many of us have marveled at the sight of the Rosetta Stone or the Elgin Marbles or David. How many of us have bowed in humility at the sight of a Rembrandt or a Degas or a Monet. How many of us have been moved to tears by an aria by Puccini or Verdi or Handel. Some perchance, but not many.
It is painfully ironic that Westerners flock from all over the world to visit places such as Africa and India and yet we have not the slightest inclination to wonder why. Perhaps if we released ourselves from our eternal romance with materialism we would be better equipped to understand. If we took a step back from our obsession with acquisitiveness and creature comforts, we too would become aware of a beautiful world waiting to be discovered. Of people who have the potential to touch our lives with a smile or a kind word. Of untold treasures that cannot be bought or sold. Of the assets of nations that cannot be measured in terms of disposable income or GDP for that belies the essential inestimable wealth of their people and their priceless heritage.
I am sure that when my daughters return from India, without a doubt one of the most incredible and inspirational countries in the world, the erstwhile jewel of the British crown, they will be faced with the all-too-familiar question, “Isn’t that where all the poor people live?” I hope that their experiences of this wonderful country and its diverse culture will imbue them with the presence of mind to answer, “No. That is where all the really rich people live.”
(Lubna Hussain is a Saudi writer. She is based in Riyadh.)
