Redeemed by God, fulfilled by Allah and refreshed by the Genevan waters that lie inbetween?

So last Sunday I was blissfully exposing my hide to a few cancerous UV rays lakeside on the rocks beside the Geneva Baby Plage, aka Baby Beach, i.e. beach for small screaming children, when suddenly a rambunctious and festive entourage of 80 or so Africans (unfortunately I have no idea what country they might have been from) dressed in gorgeous traditional summer attire and bearing all kinds of African drums and miscellaneous instruments "invaded" the baby beach ... whose size is just as baby as the kiddos who use it. With small children moving aside like the parting of the seas, the entourage settled in (aka indiscriminately took over) for what was to be a ceremony of several hours, full of dancing, praying, music, singing and, sorry - but I have to say it, what can only be described to the cultureless ear as "shrieking".

Quite frankly, it took me ... and the other two hundred gawking onlookers ... all of two hours to figure out exactly what kind of ceremony it was. Was it a funeral? A birthday? A birth? A family reunion? The light finally went on when three men wearing white gowns waded waist deep into the lake and began systematically dunking another forty white-clad people into the cold water. Most definitely a baptism; and a really cool one at that. My opinion? We should go back to having baptisms held in natural bodies of water. No more of this sterile cup over the head/indoor basin business. Let's get back to the truly praise-worthy, awe-inspiring, natural, settings.

I diverge. What really made the whole thing fascinating and truly unique, I think, to Geneva, was the intermingling of people, cultures and religions ... I've mentioned before the tremendous number of Arabs who make Geneva their summer home and indeed, as the festive baptism ceremony was going on, there was a group of teenage girls enjoying a dip in the lake as well ... in full burka dress. It was really a cool sight to see such diversity all in one kit and kaboodle and I was dying not having my camera with me.

That said, it was somewhat disheartening when the girls, clearly oblivious to anything else that was going on, happened to swim across the 10 foot gap of water between the dunking and the beach-bound witnesses ... only to have one of the witnesses run down, frantically screaming for them to "moooovvveeee!!!!" Was the girls' being in front of the baptism on a public beach ruining their pictures of the event or, as I fear may sadly be the case, was he fearful that having a Muslim in so close to their holy water might "curse" a Christian baptism?

Either way, it once again left us all saying "only in Geneva" ...

Woman in a man's world

I've been looking for a just-for-fun-with-a-little-friendly-competition soccer team/club/league ever since I arrived in Geneva, without much luck at all.

One day, when I was feeling particularly ambitious in my search, I wandered over to the nearby stadium and started poking my head around looking for someone who might know something. In fact, I naively poked my way straight into the men's locker room (oddly enough, not one of of the row of 20 boys - ranging to men - seated in the entry of the locker room bothered to forewarn me...). Having turned a 360 degree circle and seeing more men's bottoms than I had intended to see that afternoon, I then exited the locker room and somewhat bemusedly asked one of the (presumably) coaches seated outside if he knew where I might get info about women's or co-ed leagues. He gave me a look as if I really were from Venus than proceeded say that, well, he knows about teams for little girls ...

So imagine my excitement last week when I saw an ad for a pick-up soccer group looking for players! I jumped on the phone, secured my spot (after being assured that Ronaldino and Beckham were not on the roster) and happily joined the troops at the agreed upon spot to play. Of course I imagined they would be a bit short on estrogen, but I didn't really think I would really be the ONLY representative of the female population.

And no, I don't mean the only woman in our group of 12, I mean THE ONLY WOMAN IN THE ENTIRE SPORTS COMPLEX. Funny what sterotypes can mean sometimes ... when I first talked to the captain he said "now you're American, right? It's great when the American and Australian girls come because they can actually play - a lot of times they're even better than our guys." And it's true ... in the States a lot of girls grow up playing soccer ... in Europe, very, very few do.

Being the lifetime female sports lover that I am, it never even remotely crossed my mind to change before going to the sports complex. Places like that ALWAYS have bathrooms, lockers and showers. Then again, places like that always have those things in the States ... here they were only for men. Don't get me wrong, I am by no means a man-hater and these guys were are gracious as ever, but it didn't take long to figure out that, not only was there no women's lockerroom in the building, there was not women's toilet ... in the ENTIRE BUILDING.

Ever so kindly, the guys offered to clear out the men's lockerroom and stand sentinel at the door so none of the other teams would come in or, when I declined that offer, to wait outside of the court while I changed (shall I mention that the court had a 2nd floor viewing deck and glass windows down an entire side??). I declined that as well ... and changed in the corner of the hallway ... across from a window onto the courts and as the b-ball teams walked by, but it was the best spot I could find.

Honestly, it was one of those incredulous things that you just have to laugh about. But more honestly, it makes you think just what it must have been like to be among the first female athletes just a generation ago ... just fighting to get a private corner to change in before the big game.

An open letter of the heart and mind

I think I mentioned before that I often "write" blog entries in my head ... stories of the people you meet on the street, the bizarre things you see, the cultural wives tales couldn't have imagined if you tried, memories of amazing day trips and the hard "what to do next" life choices and questions.  And yet, written as they may be in my head, they never do get written.  Forgiveness may therefore be required in light of tonight's splattering of thoughts.

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  Springtime! Geneva has changed overnight ... gone are the short, dark, depressing days of winter that relegate man, woman and child to either hibernation or mountain refugee, the lakeside tikki torch bars are up, the parks are packed with reckless scootering toddlers and happy arm-swinging couples and the magnolia trees, daffodils and tulips are in full bloom.  In many ways I find it odd ... it rains relatively rarely here and, in fact, the climate, plants, etc are otherwise strikingly similar to the Pacific Northwest, inspiring the same sense of giddy spring excitement when the air becomes fresher and the time springs forwards, and yet, I endlessly find myself wondering if I would ever be able to happily readjust to the Northwest/Swiss temperate climates ... thank God for warm sunshine and the coming long summer days!! 


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  Learning to accept.  I've mentioned this to a couple of people, and all have apparently been surprised that I would "do this", but in taking stock of my last seven months in Geneva, I've come to realize that it has been, among other things, a very important lesson in learning to accept - and savoring - things (and people!) for what they are.  Perhaps because I felt fully integrated into Spanish society, I came to Geneva hoping for the same kind of cultural experience ... become one of the locals - talk their language, take part in their community and above all, do whatever possible not to stand out as a foreigner.  This meant that I rarely, if ever, spoke English and, while I would readily talk about the US, culture, politics, etc, I knew no Americans (or other Anglo-foreigners for that matter) and made no effort whatsoever to search them out. Hoping for the same in Geneva, I realize now that, for a long time I "rejected" anything (or anyone) non-francophone, hoping to perfect my French and slip into the local community.  Seven months it's taken me to acknowledge that the local community here IS foreign, does NOT speak French and is equally well worth integrating into.  Hindsight is 20-20, they say ... hopefully I've figured it out soon enough. 


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  The Tower of Babel.  On one hand, I now laugh when someone tells me they came to Geneva to learn French.  On the other hand I laugh too, but also am endlessly amazed by the breadth of languages spoken anywhere and everywhere, the patience people have on the streets to communicate with you in one language or another (in most other cities, you're simply blown off if you can't put a sentence together logically or if your accent is "too thick"), and the thoughtlessness with which people drift in and out of languages in a single conversation. Even Marcel, Swiss himself and very used to living in an officially trilingual country, was amazed by the linguistic morphing of conversations at a party we went to recently.  Here, people who speak 6, 7, 8 languages fluently are a dime a dozen. Though I feel nowhere near fluent in French, I feel entirely competent ... this surely sounds outrageous to most, but I rarely speak French despite listening to it daily and I swear, after being here and doing nothing but listening to it for four months, I opened my mouth one day and it just came out.  No recent practice, no recent classes, it just came out.  Guess it kind of makes sense seeing that's how babies learn...


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  Chocolate.  Never, never will I get over the selection of chocolates here.  Here, telemarketers call, not to sell you insurance or tickets to the rodeo, but to survey your chocolate preferences.  Chocolate is an actual department at the department stores, with more flavours than you can possibly dream up.  Case in point, I'm munching on Frey's new dark chocolate with lemon and pepper as I type. 


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  Bureaucracy.    The UN is a monstrous institution.  Good intentioned and very much limited by the will of the governments making up its body, the phenomenal lack of institutional memory has yet ceased to amaze me.  Call it job insurance if you will, the three and four year staff rotations for both UN staff and embassy staff has effectively succeeded in creating a memory vaccuume.  Time and time again I find myself in meetings on a controversial issue or discussing some new convention or policy that someone would like to craft, only to return to my desk and find, after some digging, that the very same policy, convention, protocol, you name it was debated - by identical actors and with the very same arguments - years earlier.  Raises a sizeable question mark on the "what the heck are we doing????" and "is this even worth my time????" lines of thought.    


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  Neither here nor there.  This could, I suppose, apply to a great many things.  Age, for instance.  Happily boasting some 24 years, I feel both but a child by European standards and a well-aged adult by North American standards.  While my European friends and colleagues remind me daily that I "am still young" and that I should "be travelling, partying, studying, seeing the world", I look to my North American friends and family and see people married, some with kids, nearly all with good jobs and some money in the back pocket making "practical, adult" choices.  Never mind what my ever supportive parents must be thinking.  Likewise, I've happily put myself into a line of work that is neither here nor there ... one in which "field experience" is craved just as much as HQ positions.  Though I suppose this comes as news to all but Marcel, I recently completed training with UNHCR to be eligible for deployment to work in refugee camps ... I'm the first to say I'd love to go to "the field" and know that, age and life circumstances wise there's no better time than the present, and yet, I can't help but admit that I'm afraid of it.  Not afraid of the "going" itself or the type of work it would be, but afraid of the "humanitarian/travel bug" that has already half got me.  The best metaphor might be the movie "The Matrix" and the choice between the red or blue pills (one allowing you to happily live a ficticious life, the other to unhappily live a life based upon reality).  I would love going to the field, yet I know I would end up constantly searching like so many before me, struggling with the choice of whether to give priority to the field over meaningful relationships and constantly being antsy for the next assignment when "relieved of duty".  On one hand, then, and for as difficult as it is for most Geneva expats to believe, I want nothing more than to stay in Geneva for a few years with an interesting HQ job related to work in the field and enjoying perfectly normal and uneventful weekend activities with friends.  On the other, I wonder if I won't always regret not going to the field if "life" as most people know it creeps up on me soon .... Again, neither here nor there.    

Lessons on diversity - Part II

Actually, this is what I meant to get at the first time around too ... I guess I just got side tracked :-) The GENDER ROLE issue and cultural nuances particularly related to women is actually the direction I meant to go ....

Certainly cat calls, whistles and under the breath comments are nothing new (I mean that in no egotistical way whatsoever - sometimes it's surprising how 'unselective' many men are in their street harrassment), but it does become very blatently evident around the streets of Geneva that women are treated in very different ways around the world. Given that the world is represented in miniature, per say, in Geneva it is an interesting clash of sorts being confronted with the way in which, for example, men from the Middle East interact with women. Unlike the more common styles of harrassment that I already mentioned, many apparently feel that they have the full right to give you the full (but silent) head-to-toe-up-and-down-and-up-again look over with a look that is much more bold I, apparently, am accustomed to. Talking to other (girl) friends, many have made the same observations, even mentioning that they get the notably unequal treatment - if not harrassment - by collegues at work

My solution? Rather than continuing to feel like the 'victim' that cannot do anything about where others set their eyes, I've begun looking people straight back and actually saying "Hi, everything all right?" (In a rather cold tone and continued walking, mind you, so as not to invite conversation either). It's actually been rather amazing the reaction - it is nearly always a 'deer in the headlights look', followed by silence and looks suddenly shot towards any other direciton. Apparently some guys are totally taken by surprise by someone (a woman particularly) confronting them directly. And apparently my strategy works.

These are the kinds of culture clashes that are so very difficult to ease. In no way do I mean to stigmatize or stereotype men from the Middle East, yet I would argue that - in my short experience thus far in Geneva - that it is perhaps the Middle Eastern and Western cultures that most clash on gender issues. In the same way that I am very much used to being treated (nearly, I admittedly do not believe fully) as an equal with my male counterparts, they are very much used to holding a social position notably higher and more dominant than woman. Just how, then, do you reconcile the two traditions?

Lessons on diversity

Interestingly enough, one of my most poignant memories from my last week in Spain is one that demonstrates quite clearly the degree of diversity (or lack thereof) present in Spanish society. Always the one white (and often only girl) with all the Senegalese guys, I suppose I had gotten used to the looks of curiousity, surprise and often disapproval.

These looks were only increased when I would regularly go out to run along the beach with two Senegalese friends (both men). A woman doing sports? [GASP!] A white woman running with two black men? [DOUBLE GASP!!] This particular night, however, it went beyond looks of curiousity - we had photographers following us. The first time we saw them, we thought they were taking pictures of us, but weren't quite sure; but then, by the time they reappeared three more times along our path having advanced on bike, we were quite conscious indeed that we were the subject of the evening's photo shoot and broke out laughing. Picturesque, isn't it? Palm trees, ocean, sand, and the 'symbolism' of integration with a white women running between two black men. How quaint.

Adjusting to Geneva, then, has admimttedly been interesting in the sense that I feel I am now accutely aware of just how much cultural and religious diversity co-exist without hardly receiving so much of a head's bob of acknowledgement. The common site of women in their all black burkas peeking out only through the hole made for their eyes don't attract any attention at all ... in the same way that no one seems to think twice about the melange of colors, languages, clothing, etc that is seen everywhere from the schoolyard to the bus.

Speaking three, four, five, even six languages is by no means uncommon and everyone is so used to listening to a thousand different accents that no matter how bad your French might be, you seem always to be understood. And the typical ice breaker question "So where are you from"?? It's really a joke, to be quite honest ... most everyone has lived in a million places (and half the time you've never even heard of their country, though you certainly won't admit that in public), begging the question why do we almost seem to feel an unquestionable need to know where everyone is from? Will there ever be a day when we can all just be happy with calling ourselves citizens of the world?

Head Count 1,254

A couple of weeks ago, sitting on the floor over a typical shared tray of Senegalese yassa (rice with chicken and vegetables) I had to laugh when one of the guys I was eating with blurted out, “You know that we´re (the Senegalese) are the smartest people in Africa, right?” I´ve become all too familiar with the international and inter-ethnic rivalries in Africa that seem to come through in every conversation, but stopped short when I realized what he was getting at. “How many countries are there in Africa that have border the ocean? Dozens. And yet, we are practically that only ones making cayukos (the small ´fishing´ boats the migrants use to get to the Canary Islands (Spain))! Yep, that´s because we´re the smartest people in Africa”.

Last week alone, the number of people who made it to the Canary Islands totalled a record breaking 1,254, and what Ibrahima said is true – the production of cayukos has turned into an industry in and of itself as boats are made specifically for human trafficking and people arrive from all over Sub-Saharan Africa to catch their boat out of Senegal. Oddly enough, though, Senegal is one of the most stable countries in Africa, internationally recognized as one of the most democratic countries in the world, with relatively low poverty rates and HIV rates similar to most European countries. So why is it that thousands of the young and talented nonetheless put their lives on the line? Because the true story of what the reality is in Europe never reaches home.For every boat full of people carrying big dreams that make it safely to the islands, dozens more are lost at sea despite the high-tech GPS systems that are now being used to guide them. In fact, not long ago, local area fishermen were filing complaints against the Spanish government “because their failure to control immigration is devastating the fishing trade”. To put it “nicely”, fisherman are now literally catching more corpses in their nets on a daily basis rather than they are fish, and are turning into the front line of the maritime border control crews sent out to spot incoming migrant boats.As the summer days draw near, the cayuko arrivals once again become more frequent – so frequent, in fact, that they have almost become their own section on the nightly news. “The arrival of 93 undocumented immigrants is expected around 5.30AM tomorrow morning in the port of Tenerife …” It might as well be the week’s weather forecast. I´ve often been asked whether I see myself as working in favor of people who have broken a clear law that requires a passport and/or visa to enter the country. My question has always been why the governments that make restrictive border policies chose to “sponsor” their entries, paying them under the table to come to Barcelona and then blatantly violating their basic human rights.Then again, perhaps the question better question should be, do you believe in defending the inviolable human dignity of criminals?