What it’s like to trace your roots, and live that experience — every day.
My relationship with Tanzania — my family’s birthplace — has been filled with feelings of familiarity yet intrigue, a burning love yet in some very unexpected moments, sheer confusion… but above all, an intense sense of belonging. A soul connection to the East African country thousands of kilometres away from my own birthplace, Canada, that for the most part, is difficult to accurately describe; it some how even goes beyond the fact that my parents were born here. And, for the longest time, I have struggled to put words onto paper (screen), to share my story which, as a new member of Medium, I understand from my colleagues can be common. Today marks the beginning of what I hope will be, among other life musings, a series of short stories, observations— and possibly a collective tribute — to Tanzania, the place several generations of my family (and now I) have called home. I hope you enjoy coming along on this journey with me, and at the same time, I hope my heart will feel a little lighter in sharing my story, my small piece in this universe, with you.
In the early 70s, my mother was faced with the tough decision of leaving her native Tanzania, along with her immediate family, behind in order to build a new life in Canada. I know she never wanted to leave, but due to extenuating political and economic circumstances at the time, my family’s options were fairly limited. At some point in my venture out into sharing my story on Medium, I hope to share more about what this moment meant to my family in the context of Tanzania today. So, why my mom, out of a family of seven siblings? My mother was, at the end of the day, the ‘eldest’, and on top of that, a loving ‘daughter’, which in many communities worldwide, including my own, the combination of the two titles means having several (culturally implicit) responsibilities. She ultimately was a catalyst for change, for my family’s life in Canada, and for our collective contributions to our newfound home.
My mother is the very definition of brave, and I owe any ounce of bravery I have at all to her. I think we all come to realize, at some point, traits in us which we inherit from others — both the good and the bad — and often those closest to us. As a single, 26 year old young Tanzanian woman at the cusp of creating a life of her own, she picked up, said goodbye to her parents and siblings, and took a flight (only the second one in her whole life) to a place she had not even heard of before — Canada — a place where the very beginnings of my community were just forming and planting new roots as recently arrived refugees from East Africa. Like the story of many immigrants who leave their homes abruptly, she did not have many material belongings, but the most valuable asset she did have — and still does to this day — was her unshakable faith in knowing we would all be fine. What also helped was the start of what is now today’s pluralistic Canadian society — although I can say, it wasn’t always a smooth ride back then (do good things always come easy?) She also had the many helping hands of community members who made it to Canada before her.
She left her immediate family with the promise of sending for them, for later helping her younger brothers and sisters complete their education, for helping them ‘settle down’, and for making Canada their new home. And, thanks to my mother, we have done just that. I reflect deeply on this particularly since this coming weekend, my entire family will gather in Toronto to celebrate the wedding of my mom’s youngest brother’s daughter.
Looking back, from 1973 to 2019, we have come a long way, and my family and I owe much of that to the bravery of the young 26 year old woman who took that step, who took that flight, and who ultimately kept her promise. Sometimes I wonder: how many of us would do that today in the midst of our seemingly growing self-centred culture? But I digress.
And while Canada did indeed become our new home, the place where I was born, I am living proof that my family’s love for Tanzania, and the curiosity about where I am from, was some how instilled in me from an early age. Not by force, not by even any direct conversations — just through the cool, classic, downplayed and easygoing way that Tanzanians have about them that makes you curious… that charms you. Growing up, I also never understood why my parents kept chocolates in the refrigerator, until very recently — a story I am sure, for another day.
Twelve years ago, I took the same journey my mother did but in reverse, from YYZ-DAR, and I stepped on Tanzanian soil for the first time, fueled by the chance to work in development and to serve, to hear sweet Kiswahili words spoken with my own ears under the African sun, and to trace my roots. I lived here for almost two years from 2006–2008 and this time, before I returned to Canada, I made my own promise to Tanzania that I would one day return.
I too, fortunate to have inherited some amount of grit, have worked hard to keep my promise. I returned to Tanzania in 2017, where I have been living and working in Dar es Salaam, the very city where my mother was born and raised. A twenty minute plane — or 1.5 hour ferry — ride away lies the island of Zanzibar, where my grandmother was born. Each and every day of my life here is different, a testament to the wonder of this universe, to the binding ties of our cultures and ancestry and ultimately, to the places that speak to our very soul and humanity. How many of us take the time to ask those questions — to take those steps — that inevitably take us to the fringe of the unknown, only to realize you are coming home?
My life here has unfolded in a way that I could have only imagined, in the middle of two worlds, of two eras — very cognizant of my family’s past but fully involved in doing my part in the building of a vibrant future, alongside many passionate, dedicated and talented people, right here in Tanzania.
