Zero Visibility

So it was my second day in Tamale, Ghana about 6:30am and I am ironing my clothes outside. I saw one of the wives or at least I assumed she was a wife; there are two wives from what I was told. It was funny because I have met everyone under the sun in Tamale except for these two women whom are supposed to wash my laundry and cater to my every need; however, I have not met them yet, Why?! Subconsciously, about a hundred and one questions were crossing my mind. Why hasn’t anyone introduced them to us?! So she walks out of her room which is separate from her husband and the other wife and so I wait. And I wait. Why has she not spoken to me yet? Do I speak first? I’m the guest?! Does she see me standing here? Anyway, I initiated the first greet by saying, Dasiba, which means “good-morning,” and so she replied, Naa and then she reciprocated Dasiba and so I replied Naa. So it was confirmed she did in fact see me and could hear me. However, there is this odd distance and odd transparency in her personality almost like a personality does not exist. I don’t feel as though my greeting opened a window for a possible conversation of getting to know her but I feel as though she accepts me. After our greet exchange, the morning fell socially silent and time continued and daily duties followed. Awkwardly, I continued to iron my clothes with this permanent substance-less smile on my face (that of a confused foreigner.) Professor briefly enlightened me about Muslim marriage and explained the rank of women. They don’t matter. They are invisible in a sense; they do their duties and go on about the day, he says. Wow! I thought. His explanation greatly sufficed and moved me. Today’s life experience made an imprint on my conscious mind, subsequently, signifying the beginning of a very enlightening journey in Ghana.

Sister Cities Blog 1: Separated by Water, Brought Together by Faith: Reflections on Ceremony and Life

My few days in Tamale so far have been more than I could have ever hoped for. Talking, laughing and learning from the citizens of this city has given me new insight to thoughts and beliefs I had not touched in years. Living abroad has prompted me to reflect not only on the new ideas and experiences I am encountering, but to review and judge my own society and past experiences. My participation in a religious service this past Sunday serves as a physical metaphor for the ability of ceremonies to create unity within a culture and to serve as a vehicle for transcending cultures.

Accepting the invitation to attend liturgy, Erica and I joined Chief Zo-Simli-Naa to her Anglican church. I had never been to an Anglican service before, but since I was raised Catholic I knew there would be many similarities. I was curious to witness the traditions of this religion, but more specifically, the Tamale congregation. We arrived at 10:00am for what would be a three hour service, which is considerably short I am told.

In as many ways as the service was different, it was surprisingly the same. Parts of the service were more traditional, with the use of incense and the gate between the priest and the congregation, and the singing of most prayers. But in the next moment, there was a drum set and a bass guitar and people dancing in the isles. While watching the men and women dance around, I noticed another thing I had not often seen in churches I had attended in the U.S., a real sense of joy and thanksgiving. The dancing and singing was lively and energetic, and the people were smiling! I thought to myself, “now this is the way to celebrate and rejoice!”

Though it was the same act I had performed many times before, the taking of the host represented so much more to me this time. It was the first time I really understood its meaning. By sharing the bread and cup, I became a part of the congregation in some way. Thousands of miles from home, and a simple act of eating and drinking has brought me into the lives of people whom I have never met before. This small, symbolic act is a less personal version of what I have been doing daily in a secular way since I arrived in Tamale. Eating and drinking with strangers, and through the course of that communion, becoming friends. Christianity is irrelevant. The communion practiced in church is just a symbolic way to remember that it is this daily act that unites us to our fellow human beings.

In the middle, all newcomers were asked to come up, introduce themselves and to be blessed by the priest. Though slightly uncomfortable, being welcomed infront of the entire congregation and then individually blessed by the priest was another example of how welcoming and genuine the citizens of Tamale are. With nearly every person I have met here, I have felt a genuine warmth, friendliness and sense of interest that I have yet to discover in the United States or in any of my travels abroad. It reminded me of my work with foreign exchange students at Beloit college. Two German girls repeatedly seemed concerned with the validity of friendships in the United States. At first, I thought I understood what they meant. In the U.S. the term “friend” is carelessly thrown around when one really means “acquaintance.” This leads to false conceptions of relationships when Americans claim to be friends, but lose contact within a matter of days. Now, in Tamale, I am recognizing the shallowness of typical American culture. This is not to say that I have not experienced true friendship in the United States, only that the majority of interactions with new people are incredibly transient. But in Tamale, within the first few meetings, I felt at home here. The cultural focus on greetings ensures a conversation with each person upon every meeting. Our interest in learning Dagbane has created even closer bonds as we develop new ways to relate through language. Most of all, when anyone is in the room, they are included, without fail, and we as guest have been given a sense of importance reserved for those twice our age.

I know that visitors from Tamale have enjoyed their time in Louisville. When I attended a farewell dinner in Louisville for recent guests, they graciously thanked their hosts and Sister Cities for the hospitality they received. But after coming to Tamale, I find it difficult to believe that they met the level of warmth and respect that perpetuates this society.

Guy Love

Before I left for Tamale, Ghana, I was told that it might happen. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it though. The flash of a Cheshire grin exuding coolness (the kind equipped to mask fear or hesitancy in the face of a challenge or imminent danger) was my only response to my Ghanaian brother's forewarning. I spoke with some (female) friends (in America) about it and they applauded the openness that accompanied my ambivalence towards it. “Well at least you haven’t taken a stance against it…that says a lot about you…” Umm, yeah but it doesn’t make me feel any easier about it.

It = holding hands (heretofore abbreviated as HH)
a common act of friendship between men in Tamale, Ghana.

In American culture, extreme acts of manliness do not include handholding with other men. Physical expressions of male-to-male non-aggressive behavior are allowed in limited contexts – father/son relationships, athletic championships (its okay, even expected, to weep like a child when you win the Super Bowl), and in extreme cases, the death of a relative. In fact, holding hands with members of the opposite sex in public spaces is often regarded as a chore. But I’m not in America anymore. According to my Ghanaian hosts, homosexuality is not openly practiced in Tamale. However, behaviors Americans stereotypically ascribed to homosexuals do occur in my new environment.

HH Encounter #1: We were greeted by a small contingent of Dagbani folks representing Sister Cities in Tamale. Upon our arrival in northern Ghana Saturday morning, the notion of guy love took was initiated. An elder member of the delegation reached for my hand to shake it and welcome me to Tamale. In a sudden act of discreet precision, the handshake morphed into him guiding me by the hand towards the rest of the group. The manly man inside of me released his hand and grabbed hold of my cool. I was on hand guard patrol for the rest of the day but I wasn’t prepared for my next encounter.

HH Encounter #2: During my time here, I have made friends with a Dagbani man of my age. We have grown to be fast friends and share a lot of interests. One day walking through the Zo-Simli Naa Palace, we were joking about some things as men often do. We slapped hands (a ritual that appears to be a universal sign of male peers) after a good laugh and it happened again. The Dagbani men are swift in their execution! I found myself walking with my friend hand in hand for paces through the palace. It doesn’t last long like a nice walk in the park or anything, but it’s lengthy enough to recognize that this XY chromosome carrier has my hand.

I’ve given a lot of thought to the cultural significance of the act. Male friends of all ages can be found walking hand in hand with little regard for any misinterpretation of their relationship. It is an act of friendship. I’m still debating on where to draw the line or whether a line needs to be drawn at all in this regard. If I am to call this man my friend, do I reject his hand when he reaches for mine? While the story unfolds, I’ll leave you with this memorable moment from Scrubs the musical. Time for some jolof rice!

Like what you've read so far?

Check out my personal blog at www.khalfani-thenextpage.blogspot.com