BY HAWI BUSSA
"You don't say 'dehna nesh' to a man, but rather 'dehna neh" utters my uncle, who at the time I had only known for a few weeks. I was met with a round of laughter from family members and neighbors who heard my loud and incorrect greeting to him. I was only in Ethiopia for a month and I felt like I would never be able to grasp the language. My face was warm with embarrassment, I was in over my head. What am I doing here? Am I ever going to feel like I belong as a diaspora? Is this country ever going to embrace me? Will it ever feel like home?
I have now lived in Ethiopia for several years. Looking back initially, my experience was nothing short of humbling, awkward and full of instances of shock.
I left Ethiopia at the age of 2, with no recollection of my country. Coming back decades later felt like stepping into a different world. Seeing federal soldiers with long rifles frightened me. Poverty so up close that they can touch you overwhelmed me to tears. That at some point, turned my heart cold. My identity frequently came into question because of the thickness of my accent. Oh, I practiced the language, hard. But no matter how Ethiopian I looked, America claimed my tongue. I grew frustrated and many times contemplated moving back. It felt like wearing your favorite jacket that has a stain you can't remove- you love that piece of clothing but you're reminded that no matter how many times you wash it, your coat remains soiled.
“It takes time, you’re doing good” my grandmother would tell me. I never met her until my move. She would often tell stories of me as a baby to loved ones of how mischievous I was. So often that I memorized the stories by heart. Spending more time in community allowed me to retain the faces of family, neighbors, store owners and bajaj drivers. Our encounters would go from short greetings to long embraces. And somewhere in between, the line became blurred. I went from being a guest to just simply being one of them.
That was the shift. Togetherness, the affection of family and strangers. Whether it was through gursha or a joke at your expense. The collective groaning concerning the weather or the rise of rent. The excitement for festivities or how everyone rallied together in someone’s time of need. These were things that took time to enjoy. I was accustomed to individualism growing up abroad that I never realized there was a void in my heart for community. To know myself deeply while experiencing life with those who look like me. Even if those who look like me do not always embrace me.
At first, it is a sinking feeling realizing you won't be like everyone else. Then it dawns on me that we all want to be unique until the time calls for it.
So, the question arises- is identity steeped in how well you speak or cook doro wot? Is it embedded in your features or in the manner you greet others? I believe it is none of the above. To me, identity is the place I can safely rest my head and call home. To see my reflection in others, whether in awe or complete disgust.
Living here has taught me that everyone wants to secretly belong. Or maybe openly. I want to belong in duality. To love my country and equally express the things I loathe. To be Ethiopian and also American. To love tire siga and hate kikil. Years later, I can say with a bit more confidence about the place I now call home- maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t have to be terrible.