Fractured Ubuntu

This is Rebecca writing this time, for an “in-between” blogpost. This reflection is particularly offered to my fellow third-culture kids, along with many other friends who can probably relate: those who have moved often, who have pastored multiple churches, whose lives have brought them in touch with an unmanageable number of very special people.

Paul has captured the external contours of our experiences so far here in Tanzania. But in between the regular blogposts on events and new rhythms in our life, I wanted to add some reflection on the process of entering a new culture and community. Again.

I have made significant moves 14 times in my life. I have lived in and bonded with people in Bangladesh, Baltimore, Kazakhstan, Virginia, Botswana, Vancouver, Poughkeepsie, and Burundi. I cannot express adequately how grateful I am for each of those chapters in my life, and especially for all the precious people with whom I have shared life.

But as we came into this new setting, I felt myself hitting a wall. Honestly, I’ve been feeling it coming for a few months. As we prepared to make this move, we were able to meet up with and visit a whole host of people from different parts of our past. Each meeting was wonderful and refreshing. It was so good to catch up with people and to remember our shared past. But I kept noticing that my various friends often seemed to have much clearer and more vivid memories of events than I did. I’ve even noticed it with my brother, as he recalled events from our childhood. When these folks walked me through the door of a certain memory, I could often follow them through and into the experience again, but I never would have found that door by myself.

In my paranoid moments, I have wondered if I have early onset Alzheimers, but the fact is, I have an excellent short-term memory. Just the opposite of someone with dementia, I am hyper-focused on the present, and rather foggy about my own past. So in my more philosophical moments I have decided to attribute my experience to Ubuntu, or rather, a fractured Ubuntu. And I suspect I am not alone in feeling this.

In Southern Africa, people talk about Ubuntu as a sense of real humanity: “I am because we are.” We are fully human when and because we are intimately involved with a community in a particular place. We define one another’s identity even as we share and reinforce memory. You can’t truly know me unless you also know my family and my close friends. When you know my place and my people, you know me.

But who am I, when “we” are not? When “we” have been scattered over and over and over? There is no one single human being, not even my dear husband, who has shared all of my life and experiences, who can help me safeguard memory and identity. I have been asking myself, in this fourteenth new home, have I reached the limit?

From the outside, it seems that third-culture chameleons like myself are made for this. We land on our feet, find our way, learn the language. We understand that time is short and precious, and we must jump quickly and deeply into new friendships (for as long as we have them, because someone always must move on). Each friendship is a gift to savor, but not cling to.

And yet we are finite. How do we care for all these relationships well? How do we handle our hearts when we have shared out pieces to so many?

And if a fractured and shared heart is not extinguished, what does it mean that little pieces of my identity, thousands of them, are scattered into every corner of the globe? Is there a point where the remaining shards are dust that just blows away? What is left to give?

I learned something else about this life at the age of 8, when I made my first conscious move between cultures. It hurts to leave friends and lose one’s place. It is tempting to just close up and shut down and not risk that kind of pain again. I had to learn to be open to friendships, to force myself into the joy of them, and to live through the loss. But still my heart is in danger of hardening. It’s just a little too easy for me to move on. I hate that. I wish I were devastated.

Imagine if your place were a spouse, whom you loved, who was part of you, with whom you share memory and experience, a place which has made you who you are. And leaving – it’s a death, it’s hard, it’s gutting. But you must push on, go on living. Eventually, because you’re still breathing and in a place, the new place becomes dear, and you love it, and commit to it and find joy. You marry again. But is there a twinge of guilt as well? Can I love this new spouse (place) without some sense of betrayal of the first marriage? And then you must leave. Another death. And then another.

What would you make of someone on their 14^th such marriage?

I think I might find such a person heartless.

What I’m saying is that when I look at the big picture, the facts of what we’re doing, moving into a new culture yet again, I’m a bit appalled at myself. Is this humanly possible? I feel afraid.

In this fourteenth new home, a place where “we are” not yet, fractured and at least a little bit inured to grief, who can I be? What is identity? Will I, in a sense, “lose my mind,” with a memory which is so un-safeguarded by community? And most importantly for the present, what does it mean to commit to love this new place?

These are the walls I’ve been hitting, the interior human limits I am contending with. It has not been super-fun. Honestly, I don’t enjoy being reserved and withdrawn, uncommitted and protectionist, as I am beginning to get to know new people here and see new possibilities. It’s just not in my nature to sit back, guard my heart, bide my time. But that’s where I’ve been for a bit. And I’ll give myself grace: it’s appropriate to grieve leaving our dear ones in Baltimore, especially on fairly short notice.

I’m not writing this to seek sympathy or make judgements. I just want to observe something that I haven’t really heard other TCK’s talk about, this heightened awareness of fractured Ubuntu.  Perhaps it may be helpful to someone else who is similarly struggling.

I do know that I finally started feeling a bit more human again last Sunday. After church, Paul and I volunteered to help out with the teaching team for kids’ Sunday school, and I offered to preach in a coming month. That is to say, we decided to invest in a particular Christian community here. I plan to commit to the women’s bible study group I visited last week. I feel even more human as I anticipate becoming involved again with a movement of Christian leaders, working for reconciliation in this region. I will be glad to see many old friends there again.  I think there must be some other part of Ubuntu which has to do with an identity beyond my individuality, and even beyond a particular community. I’ll be working out some new definition of Ubuntu in the coming months: I am because … the body of Christ is?  … because I’m being and doing who I was created to be as part of a much bigger “we?”

Maybe who I think I am, my “personal identity,” is pretty much an irrelevant category, outside of being a vessel, joined to others around me, through which our God of infinite memory and infinite love can pour out grace and care that is so far beyond my human capacity.