Liya’s Corner

Who is Really Crazy?

Mental health is a profession just burgeoning in our community and has not acquired the respect a medical profession has. I want to know why. How much is misunderstanding of the benefits of psychological services and how much is legitimate frustration at the types of problems – or lack there of- that send people in American society to a mental health professional?

My theory is simple, yet untested. “Feel good” chemicals are naturally released in our brains but only when something happens that gives us a sense of accomplishment. We work towards a goal, sacrifice and finally attain those things which matter most to us. Having to work hard for things we can attain helps shape our values. However, if we are in a situation where we can have most things we want, we do not work hard to reach goals and these “feel good” chemicals are not released in our brain. Furthermore, one can be confused because he/she doesn’t even know what matters the most in this life.

Could it be that here in the U.S. resources are so much more attainable that we do not truly want for at least basic necessities to survive: clean water, food and shelter? 99% of the population is literate and most people still have jobs, in spite of the economic state we are in. So are we really depressed or are we just looking for another reason to throw our money at?

An Eritrean/Ethiopian friend of mine who rents units in London said she had a tenant from America once. We’ll call my friend Senait. The tenant’s parents paid her rent and gave her spending money and so this girl had no job. She became so depressed that Senait went to go check on her out of concern that the tenant had not left her room in some time. When Senait heard that the tenant was sad, she asked, “But why? You have everything in the world that anyone could want. What could possibly make you feel so sad?” The girl said that she did not know why she felt so depressed and wanted to kill herself.

Dumbfounded, Senait sincerely did not know what to say and spoke the honest truth that was laid on her heart. “Well, if you have everything in the world and you are still sad, maybe killing yourself is the right thing to do.” Then the tenant proceeded to cry hysterically and eventually ran out of the 2^nd story flat window. She survived. In fact, she did not receive more than a couple of scratches and bruises which she came back upstairs to nurse.

You see, Senait had spent her life fighting. She grew up in Nairobi as the eldest of six in a family which knew no boundaries for physical discipline and a neighborhood which had no regard to human life. She protected her brothers and sisters and barely had time to fend for herself. Through her own blood, sweat and tears she made her way to London to own and rent out flats while working a full time job downtown. She was happy. In her world, depression for no apparent reason did not exist. It could not exist. In her mind the tenant might as well have said she was depressed because she ran over a leprechaun while riding her unicorn to the store. It was simply impossible. She did not understand how someone who had never had to fight or work to attain what she almost died to get could be unhappy.

This phenomenon is not isolated to just Americans. There is an alarming rate of suicide among immigrants who make it to the States after a long and arduous process of attaining papers here. What is causing so many people to give up after getting what they had hoped and prayed for all their lives?

I recently got accepted to a professional counseling masters program and I am bracing myself for the funny looks and disappointment I will face when I announce my new profession in our community. My dream is to create a job for myself where I can travel back and forth between Ethiopia and the United States. However, I’m willing to face the music and accept that this is not the profession to do so in a country where a single phrase like ‘hod kurtet’ could potentially describe anything from a stab wound to severe emotional unrest due to a tragic event. Emotions are not meant to be explored or even acknowledged in our community.

I am currently planning a trip back home. I haven’t bought my ticket, so I may chicken out. However, if I do go, I want to explore the mental health help that is available to learn more about this value discrepancy between my home in the States and my home in the motherland. And I would love to hear your opinion on the matter as well.  http://neatorama.cachefly.net/money-happiness.htm

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A Native Foreigner

Observing social Ethiopian-American phenomena does not end on American soil. As any member of the Ethiopian Diaspora can attest, my first trip back home after a long absence was one of the greatest learning experiences of my life. Through a comedic procession of social mistakes which would have mortified anyone else, I learned about daily life in my homeland. No matter how many stories you hear or how many shady video tapes you watch of Gash so and so’s wedding, you will not truly get the experience until you go home again. Today, I will share one such occurrence which stands out in my mind only because I hardly get embarrassed and to hopefully make you smile…at my expense.

Though I am not religious myself, I am quite captivated with religion. I love the customs and traditions that vary so widely. Some sing and dance, some teach of somber and disciplined ways of life, some chant and meditate, and some speak in another language even they don’t understand. It is a luxurious privilege that I can observe these traditions while maintaining a freedom to choose to participate in none or all of them.

Well, going back home to Ethiopia for the first time, I realized this luxury translates into social humiliation because religion and culture know no division in certain places; and there seems to be a correlation between this fact and antiquity of these places.  As a citizen of Ethiopia it is assumed that you know the basic practices of Islam and Christianity simply because these two religions make up the culture. Even if you go to “Burger Queen” you may be asked if you are fasting that day to determine which menu you receive. If you have a large gathering you know to have a Muslim and a Christian preparing food differently for the guests, if not- you might as well put a curse on them.

We were visiting the 8th wonder of the world, Lalibela- this place that has a series of 11 churches, centuries old, carved into the ground made of the hardest volcanic rock I ever imagined. It took twenty years to carve these churches that are connected through an intricate series of underground tunnels- in the 12th century! (http://www.sacred-destinations.com/ethiopia/lalibela.htm).

Anyway, this isn’t a history lesson (but please visit the site if you’re interested). The point is, I grew up in American churches where we had contests about random Bible versus, and the real prize was eating doughnuts in front of the losing team the next Sunday and the real lessons were never carried over into the “real world”. I remember getting angry at my Bible class teacher because she divided the class into a boys team and a girls team and helped us scheme up ways to make the boys jealous of us winners. “I don’t understand how we win a contest because we memorize the teachings of Christ just to be given a chance to scheme against the losers. What happened to WWJD? Have we really replaced to true prize of learning the way of Christ with doughnuts?” Yep, that was me in the 4th or 5th grade. What can I say, some of us actually digress throughout life. I can’t explain it; just the way it is sometimes.

Back to the story at hand- I was slowly making my way in and out of these immaculate churches, following our guide in my oversized Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt and baggy pants, desperately trying to keep up with his 90 word-a-minute Amharic about the history, the architecture, the legend, the miracle of this place that is still inhabited by practicing Christian Orthodox priests. Soon, I accidentally found myself in some sort of blessing line before a Priest wearing a long, intricately detailed robe and carrying the famous Lalibela cross; a metal, sometimes wooden, cross so elaborately designed with symbolic details that the final product (commonly made into earrings and necklaces) is easily mistaken for a snowflake in America. I didn’t have time to think when my sister and I were standing face to face with the Holy man himself. I still don’t know what happened or what was supposed to happen or if what was supposed to happen was what happened. All I know is that I was prayed over, got smacked in the face a couple of times with his cross and likely made some egregious error by doing nothing at all. I stood there utterly confused, blinking profusely and flinching only at the swat of Holy metal to my forehead- left to ponder the meaning of my blessed encounter with an Orthodox Priest.

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Are You Habesha?

by Liya Endale

Certain words have historically derogatory meanings. However, different cultures have re-invented these words which once degraded their people into words which represent them positively and the strength which carried them through a historically repressive time. Gay people can call each other queer, black people call each other N-bombs, and some of us East Africans call each other Abesha.

When I was on my journey to find “my self”, there was a time when I didn’t know many Ethiopians. I tried hard to identify with the Black American culture and even thought I got away with it until I was hanging out with some of my friends who live in the projects close to my house. We were all in the car on the way to a performance where they would be rapping and I would be singing a couple of songs and reciting poems. Then, like an atomic bomb, I let the arsenal slip from my lips and instantly kill the conversation so there was just the bass-heavy beat looming in the air like a funeral procession song. I had said “Niggaz”.

“You can’t say that!” One of them proclaimed defiantly after a dramatic pause which made the air congeal into a thick amalgamation of tension and ambivalence. ‘Can’t I?’ I thought to myself. As though he read my thoughts, another one of my friends said, “Look, Liya. There will be no hippedy-hoppedy talk. Just be who you are.”

Who was I? Well, I am Black. And I am African. Yes, there is a local racism in America which ironically does not discriminate between a Black African, South American, Austrailian, Caribbean, or American. However, racism goes much further than that. There are social implications in our governmental system which target people of specific backgrounds, both intentionally and un-intentionally. Further, there are residual effects stemming from slavery in America which have not and will not disappear for quite some time. Because I come from a family who grew up with a completely different set of struggles, I have escaped most of these inherent prejudices which reach beyond the local-racism I encounter in America.

What am I talking about? An ignorant racist has called me a Nigger before. I call this local racism. Education, in my opinion, is the key weapon to fight ignorant racism. Further, education is a value which began in my family generations ago and has only snowballed.  Slaves in the U.S. were tortured, maimed or killed if they taught themselves to read. If a slave-child learned the alphabet, they were likely reprimanded instead of encouraged out of fear for their lives. So the value of education was eradicated with this method and has to, now, begin all over in a time when its benefit is not evident for this group of people due to various social and governmental phenomenon. Is it an utter surprise, then, that the Black American population in this country has a statistically lower % of its people in Universities and Colleges? How about the fact that people with culturally Black names in the States, like Ebony, for example, have a much lower chance at getting an interview for a job even with the exact same credentials as an Emily or Liya? So, while these jobs are being funneled to other people who will be able to pay for their children’s educations, Ebony has to find a way to make ends meet instead of saving for her child’s tuition. I do not carry these burdens. My ancestors were never called niggers. The use of this word by Black people in a social context is only accepted if that black person carries these ancestral burdens because they are the ones who strive to overcome them on a daily basis.

Instead, my ancestors were called Habesh. A derogatory term in Arabic which also refers to the color of our skin. Ethiopia even means Burned-Face People. But today, a lot of us East Africans wear this label loud and proud. The statement we want to make is, “The people you belittled actually ruled the Eastern world, are named seven times in the Bible, and fought off colonizers to keep their independence. The people you belittled have kept their ancient written language, culture from hundreds of thousands of years in history and posses the most prized religious relic, the Ark of the Covenant.” We call ourselves Abesha to really say, “In yo’ face!”.

However, this is a very personal choice. Not everyone has the same sentiment when they hear these words. Instead of trying to re-define a word which, honestly, will always carry some level of its original negativity, they would rather eradicate them from language altogether. I did not know the heavy background of the term Abesha or Habesha when I helped come up with the name of a book project which I am working on with my sister (www.habeshadiaspora.wordpress.com). Though I, personally, identify with it, I do not want to exclude anyone from this project which centers on inclusivity. Further, I have the deepest respect for all of my East African brothers and sisters and, for these reasons, my sister and I have decided to change the name of the book from “Neither Here nor There: Perspectives on Identity by the Young Habesha Diaspora” to “Let the Horn Sound: Perspectives on Identity by the Young Ethiopian and Eritrean Diaspora”.

Do you think this was the right decision?

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