How do you say 'me too' in your language? I'm learning to say it in mine. Over the last week, the outpouring of stories sparked by the #metoo movement online moved me. Conversations with friends and colleagues, old and new, have been nuanced, painful, defensive, difficult, vulnerable, devastating, revealing, despairing, empowering.

I spent time on the phone with an award-winning animator and artist friend in Boston who talked with me for the first time about the depth of the insanity she experienced with a former lover in New Orleans. I had no idea. I commiserated with a close friend in Madison who lamented about invisibility as a form of misogyny, how it's not just about harassment, assault or rape, but also about erasure, denial, dismissal in work and romantic life. I felt the same. With an old childhood friend and my sisters, we dished about our former male teachers: the one who taught middle school art classes who promised to raise our grade if we shared intimate information about our parents' sex lives, who stood too close and breathed too heavy on our young bodies, who even took one of us to the back room and attempted a shoulder massage. Or the one in high school who told us women physically could not be raped -- that if it happened, we must have wanted it, and that condoms are only 70% effective so better not to use them, as men don't enjoy sex as much. He said that. 

I think about times when I lingered too long in the grips of abusive dynamics with men who guised their rage with empty promises. In my 30's I was stalked online for over a year by a person who could not accept that I had ended our brief affair. It was humiliating and embarrassing and I had little control over how it played out. Eventually, I starved him out of my life. I've worked in spaces where men hold so much power and sway over the culture of the place that they're oblivious to the misogyny they themselves perpetuate, even while waxing poetic about the virtues of 'women's empowerment.' 

Over nearly 10 years of travel and living in East Africa, I've witnessed countless women suffer silently through physical, emotional, and financial abuse, often believing that love is what keeps them together. Women of all kinds -- expats and locals, highly educated women and women with little education, wealthy women and poor women, women with networks -- embassy numbers on speed dial -- and isolated women with no phone or embassy to their name. The bonds of secrecy were nearly impossible to break. For so very many reasons. 

In telling my own story to a trusted circle, I've also counseled friends tied up in the hell of entanglement with men guilty of monstrous behavior, unsure of how to leave and knowing that leaving is often the most dangerous moment. Staying is sometimes safer -- and that fact hits us in the gut. I have so much love for these women because I am that woman too. Me, too. Different, different -- but same. 

When I read the words of writer Elizabeth Spackman online who offered her own #metoo testimony, what stood out was this medicinal capsule of truth:

How many of us have found ourselves thinking about people or places that are no longer part of our everyday life? Or realize we're lingering in those spaces between geographies, cultures, religions, ideas, identities? Sometimes even shuttling back and forth between two disparate feelings, spaces or realities, attempting to reconcile, correct, let go? 
​
The Portuguese have the word saudade to capture this feeling of inexplicable missing or longing. In Russian, it's toska. The Germans call it sehnsuct, in Welsch it's hierath, and in Swahili the closest word is hamu. The Latin word liminal references the ‘threshold’ between known and unknown spaces. So often, these words are untranslatable across languages and cultures, mostly because it's a word to describe the ineffable. 

As a writer, I work within that space between because I know that deep creativity manifests when the ache of missing meets the impulse to discover. Through writing I've realized my power to travel through space and time, defying the presumed order of things, to engage [again] with lost people or places.

My friend Rachel calls this 'Particle Monologues', the notion that each of us carries and rehearses the lost fragments of conversation addressed to a particular "you" -- and when that person leaves, dies, disappears -- or WE leave or disappear, we are still in relationship to that person or place, and work to address unrequited, undiscovered messages from within.

When Patti Smith was asked how she copes with death, she explained, ​"it's part of the human privilege of being alive. We all have our moment when we're going to say goodbye. It's nothing personal, we all have to pass through it...All these people we lose, they're all within us. They become part of our DNA, they become part of our blood. Sometimes I am still scolded by my mother. I'm 70, my mother's been gone since 2001, but she's still scolding me, she's still helping me, she's still counseling me...If we keep ourselves open, they'll come." 

I've spent the last ten years saying goodbye over and over again, leaving and returning between two worlds that could not be more different. I recognize the immense privilege of this kind of life -- but sometimes I also wonder how long I can keep doing this with such unforeseen and serious metaphysical consequence. I've heard from travelers and 'third culture' families that once you leave your home place, it's very difficult to return, even if you want to and even if you have the privilege, power, and access to do so.

Today, I read a lovely FB post by Zuhira Khaldun-Diarra on the complexities of saying goodbye to a fellow traveler, drawing on Kahlil Gibran's words: "We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us. Even while the earth sleeps we travel. We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered." 

I often write in two-year pulse beats. I'll move forward, only to find I start calling back into my life memories, experiences, people or places from two years prior. Does anyone else do that? It's as if there's a delayed reaction when reconfiguring the self for a new skin, to begin again. And part of the work of adapting is to go back and collect parts of myself that still linger in the ether of other lives and landscapes. A snippet, a fragment, a voice, a sound, a song -- all triggers for memory work. And when I have the courage, time, energy or fortitude, I listen and respond, writing from that space within. 

Long stretches go by without the 'persistent presence of absence.' But sometimes longing can be a kind of anguish that holds me hostage, making it difficult -- literally -- to be in the present tense. When I spend time with what's missing, I hold conversations with the other side, walk down streets and paths I haven't traveled back to in years, revisit the rooms and hallways of histories I barely know as mine anymore. And when I do this, I keep close what gives me life and light and let go of what no longer serves me.

I've met so many people around the world who leave their home places and don't return for long periods. Some never return, and other struggle to get back but feel they never will and live in various states of longing and missing as part of the overall feeling of being alive. With all the ways possible to connect and communicate online these days, some even feel closer than ever to those who live far away, in another life or country.

​What do we give up or gain when we make these kinds of moves? What's at stake? How do we check our own privilege and expectations when we settle into a life lived 'over there' between and amidst languages, cultures, and communities not inherently our own?

Over coffee and bagels one late morning in Chicago this summer, Caroyln Defrin and I had a long conversation about these questions and ideas. Carolyn and I met in Chicago years ago as teaching artists and both decided to leave the United States to root down in other countries -- Carolyn, to the UK and me, to Zanzibar. We found relief and delight in exploring all the shared questions, observations and thoughts we both had about living lives outside the norms and expectations we'd grown up with in the States.

​We also talked about our somewhat 'buried' Jewish selves who seem to come out more enthusiastically in the company of others. How do  we navigate multiple identities when traveling through in and between other worlds and cultures? In what ways do we play up or tone down certain aspects or qualities of our lives in order to adapt to our current communities, cultures and contexts? 

Out of this long and winding conversation we landed on this idea of feeling 'Split Between,' and we're excited to present Split Between: Women Writers Workshop together this January 2018 in Bwejuu, Zanzibar. 

Do  you have a word for 'inexplicable longing' in your language? To whom are you still having imaginary conversation in your heart & mind, long after the encounter or experience? Where are you still drawn, living out phantom lives, even as you begin again somewhere new, or return home? 

As a writer and poet, I have worked in the field of community arts in non-profit settings for the last 20+ years and for much of that time, I hovered just above the poverty line in exchange for the freedom and joy I felt in doing mission-driven work that fed my soul and, I thought, made an impact on the communities with whom I connected. As I progressed over the years from working as a  'teaching artist' to collaborating as an education 'consultant' leading professional development and writing curricula for arts non-profits, I started to notice a widening gap between an organization's external-facing mission and internal policies and practices, especially when it comes to staff security and satisfaction.

A resounding mission often creates a culture of silence within organizations who believe that mission-driven work means sacrifice -- not necessarily for senior leadership or the board, but for the middle management folks and those hired on a contractual basis or as volunteers and interns. I've watched iterations of this dynamic play out in many kinds of organizations of various sizes and many of the same issues surface: low pay, lack of health insurance, too many hours, lack of opportunity for growth, lack of recognition for emotional labor, inadequate diversity, equity and inclusion, and few opportunities for professional development. The assumption is always that the mission should be strong enough to buoy you to your next paycheck. And the silenced subtext: You don't like it? Leave. 

This is why I am so intrigued by the case of StoryCorps -- an organization that prides itself on 'listening' and makes 'stories' its bread & butter --yet is now embroiled in an aggressive anti-union campaign and won't really listen at all to frustrated staff. Founder Dave Issay makes over 166,000 per year and the organization operates on a nearly one million USD budget per year.

​The staff decided to form a union last May to fight for higher pay along with clearer "protocols around hiring, firing, and performance evaluations, transparent job descriptions, formal mechanisms to increase diversity and inclusion, as well as more professional development, cultural competency training, and self-care resources." 

StoryCorps' reaction? 

“We thought, like many progressive organizations, they would understand that the same values we communicate through our work we would ask for in-house,” said Justin Williams, who worked as a facilitator. 
​
Nope.

"The pushback from management created an 'adversarial atmosphere' that permeated the all-staff retreat, according to Williams. “People were cornered, intimidated.”

I have long admired StoryCorps since its humble beginnings in 2003. I remember visiting their 'listening booth' in Union Station with one of my best college friends, taking turns interviewing each other about faith and god. Inside that booth I felt the intimacy and power of active listening elevated to an art-form and left thinking that this kind of work was revelatory and revolutionary -- and it is -- it can be.

But not if it comes at the expense of abused and overworked staff, where only a small percentage of the leadership really benefits in the fullest sense. 

When Issay won the 2015 TED Prize, he set out to scale up his non-profit model to "help spark a global movement to record and preserve meaningful conversations with one another that results in an ever-growing digital archive of the collective wisdom of humanity." He and his team created the StoryCorps app designed to empower individuals with the tools necessary to tell and record their own stories. A noble mission, expanded. 

Ironically, StoryCorps has been deaf to the labor stories of their own staff, many of whom are "inspired in large part by the work of Studs Terkel, who documented histories of common Americans and advocated for labor unions from the 1960s through the ’90s."

Mission-driven non-profit organizations often hide behind the 'greater good' curtain, believe wholeheartedly in the 'sacrifice narrative,' yet suffer from a revolving door "of enthusiastic, socially conscious young people who are hired to perform demanding work for little pay and quickly burn out."

What really happens behind the curtain is often exhausting, abusive, and unproductive, and in the story of StoryCorps, staff felt it was time to organize not because they are angry with the organization but because they love it and believe in its justice-centered mission.  "In cash-strapped organizations that see themselves as protectors of the public good, union efforts can be stigmatized, seen as an unnecessary burden on already strained resources," and yet StoryCorps staff persist, eager to be heard and for StoryCorps to really listen. 

"For those who believe, no explanation is necessary. 
For those who don't, an explanation is useless." 

I don't have the patience to dig through history's bins to catch a glimpse of myself in time's mirror. Thanks to a few family archivists like my sister Hillary and my cousin Howard, I stumbled across some writing by my dad's father -- my grandfather Manuel -- that startled me, as it seemed to reach me through the dark tunnels of history to cast some light on today's madness. 

My grandfather Manuel E. Lichtenstein was a revered surgeon with an illustrious career in medicine but I barely remember him. He died when I was three. My dad, who is now in his early 80's, told my sisters and I when we were growing up that when he sent his father letters overseas, where he was serving as a military doctor during World War II, they were returned to Chicago with red ink, his spelling corrected. I get the impression he was a loving but distant father who wrote, taught, trained, lived and breathed a medical mission that often took him far away from his family in Humboldt Park. 

Some time after WWII, Manuel penned a brief essay called "Divine Purpose" -- a manifesto on being human. He writes, "much is said about our moral and ethical deterioration, each day the press, radio and TV provide their quotas of evidence to substantiate our flight from dignity, kindly consideration for others, and a common belief in the sanctity of the human being." He watched the unraveling of humanity on the front lines, and as a Jewish-American surgeon, was known to stitch up the bellies of German soldiers with as much care and attention as our 'allies.' 

My father went on to become a jazz musician, pounding and tapping on piano keys late into the night as his three girls slept upstairs in our Skokie home throughout the 70's and 80's. Skokie, where Holocaust survivors resettled to start over again. Skokie, where the KKK attempted to march and a Jewish ACLU lawyer defended their right to do so. Skokie, where my sisters and I attended a high school where over 90 languages were spoken by the families of our classmates, coming from all over the world as first and second generation Americans. Skokie, where I took Hebrew classes taught by Holocaust survivors. Skokie, where I was bat-mitzvahed to the beats of MC Hammer and Queen. Skokie, where the 24-hour bagel and bialy shop is packed at 2 a.m. on Christmas eve. 

The other night I was home visiting my dad in Skokie and as I was leaving I asked my dad to tell me how he was doing -- really. It'd been hard to talk to him one-to-one with all the joyful distractions of my older sister's three rambunctious children. As I was leaving, I told him I noticed he was a bit tempermental these days -- on edge -- and asked if everything was okay. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and told me that he couldn't be better. Standing there in his slacks with his hands crossed over his swirls of silver chest hair (his signature look at home), he looked me in the eye and told me he could literally feel the physical manifestion of god when he plays music. That the mathematics of music is god, that when he locked into the matrix of 1, 2, 3, 2, 2, 3, 3, 2, 3 he feels like god is right there with him, as if the all the stars in the sky are lit up in his being.

Dad then pointed to our dog, Xanthe Reese, and told me that he sees god everywhere, but especially in her -- when she hops up on the couch to snuggle or look out the window. He sees god in leaves that fall from the tree. He found one the other day that had two glorious dots in a pattern that reminded him of the twins across the street who'd recently turned two. He presented this leaf to the twin's mom and later received a plate of cookies as thanks from her for noticing and thinking of her children. 

A few nights ago, while celebrating the first night of Hannukah, one of my oldest friends Jamie introduced me and my sister Nina to an old Russian Jewish ritual I'd never heard of before. We turned off all the lights and after several attempts, we managed to light a ladle of sugared brandy on fire before pouring it into cups of hot tea. We drank and sang Hebrew songs, stumbling over words we'd forgotten or never knew but felt our way through melody's contours. We were drinking the fire and became the fire. We were lit up and laughed. We wrapped presents and fried latkes and dished about sex, love & the future. 

I'm preparing to travel tomorrow and I'm thinking about "divine purpose," -- about my grandfather Manuel's "common belief in the sanctity of human beings. " Being on the lookout for god when you don't believe in god, or being the light when we're so clearly steeped in the dark feels ridiculous, disturbing, unhinged. I've been gripped with fear while home in the USA these last few weeks -- waking up from nightmares and ruminations of a single woman in Trump's world.

Digging into my history, though, lit a match within me. Fire is older than fear.  We gather around it to stare into the eye of its divine light. 

Sokomuhogo Street -- one of the longest thoroughfares in the city of Stone Town -- and one of the only streets that cuts through the entirety of Stone Town, is a street packed with history, commerce, culture, and contradiction.  Its epicenter is the magnetic, politically charged "Jaws Corner," where men sip hot cups of strong coffee and 'piga story' on all things life & opposition politics. Sokomuhogo -- which means 'Cassava Market' -- begins at the base of Ngome Kongwe (Old Fort) near Gizenga Street and goes all the way to 'Majestic' -- the old and now defunct movie house in Vuga. 

I've heard it explained that it's Cassava Market Street because years ago, the road led to the market set up by the Old Fort. Some say this street was strictly inhabited by Indian merchants dealing in bars of gold -- and if you look at the particular doors on this street, they are uniquely Indian in simple bolts as opposed to ornately carved wood. Today, it's a true mix of Indian and African, old and young, boutique shops, and coal supply stores, a fancy spa catering to tourists as well as collapsed buildings that could not withstand the wear and tear of time and neglect. 

I lived on Sokomuhogo Street on two separate times in my life and throughout these periods, I came to love and greet my closest neighbors on a daily basis. I also walked up and down the entire length of this street countless times on my way to work at the State University of Zanzibar, located nearest to Majestic at the opposite end of the road. I never grew tired of looking up at the dizzying architecture, some buildings being three or four stories high and touching the clouds, and I never grew tired of the antics and stories, movement and sound of this captivating, long street. 

When I lived on Sokomuhogo closer to Jaw's, I lived next to the illustrious Emerson, patron saint of the arts and culture, and often heard him blaring opera from his rooftop, or heard him grunting at the gym he'd made himself in his backyard, where other men would come to work out and tell stories. And when I lived closer to the Old Fort, next to the Coin Shop, and by the little tea shop, I'd hear my Indian neighbors wake for early morning prayers,that droned on until the sun came up and the Muslim call to prayer wove into theirs. 

When I was recently back this February 2015, I decided to walk slowly from the beginning to the end of Sokomuhugo Street -- starting at the entrance by the Old Fort where Gizenga Street ends, and walking to its end point behind Majestic where it merges with Mkunazini Street -- photographed portraits of everyone along this road who showed me 'ukarimu' -- a deep and genuine kindness -- while I lived there. My neighbors became much like family, and when I requested their portrait, I was met with wide smiles from most, while others requested that I come back later when they'd be more refreshed, and I agreed. 

There are so many stories behind these lives -- behind these doors -- up these winding stairs to the rooftops of our shared imaginations -- and they are stories I mean to return to and gather and share. I'd love to return with a team of storytellers who can help me record these stories, take better photographs documenting this extraordinary road, and all the people (and ghosts) who've lived and work here. 


Once, while living on Sokomuhogo, I started having a nightmare about a man who kept appearing in my house, room after room, and wouldn't go away, even after I calmly told him to leave. One morning, my neighbor noticed that I looked tired and asked me what was wrong. I told her about this dream and she looked at me and said -- oh, that dream. That man. Yes, we all know about him on Sokomuhogo. He moves between our houses and takes turns sharing space in our dreams. Somehow, I was mildly relieved to hear that I was sharing this nightmare with my neighbors, like a cup of sugar. 

Sokomuhogo Street itself is an extraordinary glimpse into the diversity of culture and history in this city. There are so many faces missing from this portrait -- the Indian family who runs the small shop at Jaw's, my favorite coffee seller at Jaw's, and the little old man at Jaw's who runs a tiny fruit and vegetable stall -- the man with the white beard -- oh, and one of my favorite bibi's from Tumbatu, she wasn't there either. And Mama Shemsa -- my favorite & most loving neighbor, whose bosom I cried into when I left Zanzibar the first time, she wasn't there either. She'd fallen sick and was staying with her sister on Gizenga Street. 


I realized while starting this project that while I didn't know many by name after all these years, I knew them beyond their name, by feeling, and by titles as simple as "neighbor" and "grandmother" and "sister." For now, I'm posting these portraits as a gesture of love & memory, knowing that there are so many hours left on the baraza. 

These are (just a few of the) people of Sokomuhogo Street, Mji Mkongwe, Zanzibar. 

on july 10, i wrote:

i could not have dreamed up a better day in rainy, cold addis than this one with Tamrat Gezahegne & Leikun Nahusenay, talking jin riding hyenas in the hills, talking healing wells & spells, talking angels & saints, talking forks and spoons, talking meditative construction, talking dung & sex & confidence, talking studio speak & mama love, talking father's loom & weaving ways, sister's injera & berbere, the rain-soaked cobblestone speaking, the city gutted, speaking, symbols, speaking, blue taxis in red velvet, speaking, family portraits, speaking, exquisite corpse, speaking, window frames, framing me & you in the scene -- high on chai & love & possibilities. i guess it's always better to leave a place wanting more, but wow. this is hard! batam kabadnew. miss you all, fork, spoon, angel, love.

in january, i flew back to zanzibar intending to stay for 6 weeks, and stayed for 6 months. it's been a crazy, wonderful ride. managing a music festival, writing & publishing essays about bagamoyo & harar, leading workshops on arts & social change, researching arts & culture in tanzania, starting a collaborative kanga book, mentoring college students on study abroad, leading another round of lltg. none of this really came easy, but it all unfolded as it should. an amazing, abundant adventure! not without moments of fear, loneliness, & panic that i may be leading a very different life than most. there's no denying it -- this part of the world has my heart! so grateful for this beautiful network of good friends in this part of the world. i'm flying out of addis to chicago tonight. excited to go home, knowing too that i have a home here, and will be back soon!

i wake up every morning in chicago with regret. that i did not make the trek to lalibela. that i did not stay where i am now more comfortable -- at home -- in africa. i wonder how long it will take to feel that i am actually able to return home. 

three brown windows, a phone, broken, making calls to the universe, roaring red engines, bright blue doors, soaked in sunlight, cigarette butts, coffee rivers, oil-soaked cobblestone. weka mji mkongwe safi. soko ya m'hogo. the stitched market back. hanging on a hook. palm and two green windows, shuttered. a sign that reads: you are not alone. men on baraza, wearing plaid & kanzu. phone numbers scratched into old wooden doors. birds flying high over white verandahs. wires cutting through clouds. old posters ripped from history. half a face. an old man bends over his broken shoe, examining a little black cat, who sleeps on the step, oblivious. flies buzz, time flies. swahili shouts across corners. the man and his mangoes. chirping cell phones. screech of bicycle breaks. chickens cluck. shuffle of feet in the sunshine. six birds on a wire. tired flags blowing in the breeze. towering mosques. green bucket of fresh water. piga hodi.  ‪#‎jawscorner‬‪#‎stonetown‬ ‪#‎poetrywalk‬ ‪#‎lookup‬ ‪#‎morning‬ ‪#‎yes‬

Can we accept that a radical in one person’s world view may be moderate or even liberal in another? That there are systems and spectrums, a kind of spiritual plate tectonics happening every time a bomb goes off in the name of religion or politics? 

I’ve been in Zanzibar during several periods of political and social unrest, some of it related to politics, some to religion, but more often than not, a potent mixture of the two. Sweeping generalizations regarding Islam, the West, or ideologies in between only perpetuate misconceptions and conceal facts. This latest bomb explosion in the Darajani market area on Friday 13 June has produced yet another confused post-bomb aftermath of reductive, irresponsible journalism and cut-copy reporting. 

I am not a reporter by trade, but the inadequate reporting on this issue spurred me to try to fill in the gaps where English-speaking news media left off. 

What exactly happened on Friday night around 8.30 p.m.? Who was hurt? Where exactly did it happen in Darajani? And what were the motives for throwing an explosive device out of a car window in an area where people were gathered on a Friday night, some who had been at the mosque for evening prayers, others who had just been walking or gathering in the area near Mazumil store and Fahoud pharmacy, where during the day date sellers swat flies while standing by their carts attracting customers? 

Friday — Ijumaa — is a holy day for all Muslims, Sunii and Shia alike. Despite differences of belief within Islam, all agree that Friday is a holy day. Men wear kanzu and kofia and attend prayers even more faithfully than on any other day of the week. Zanzibaris gather around plates of pilau and biriyani for lunch — sermons are heard over the loudspeakers throughout town. It’s a day of kindness and calm. 

That night, patchy, unverified news arose out of nowhere that a bomb had exploded in Darajani. One person was reported to have been killed and four wounded. Pictures of a bloody body were posted across social media, often with sparse accompanying information. Panic rose, people started to speculate. The news also spread physically like wildfire across small, close-knit Stone Town. Some had heard the explosion while sitting in nearby restaurants. Others had already seen the pictures or had friends connected to those attacked. It was unclear for quite some time what had happened, but conspiracies bubbled to the surface. It was the West trying to suppress Muslims! It was radical Islam against foreigners! Rumours and fears took hold, and information was hard to come by. 

Through a series of conversations and online research, I was able to gather information that would not appear in any western news media outlets. It seems clear at this time that targets of the attack were attendees of a religious conference of Muslims from all over the East African coast, from Mombasa, Kenya, to Tanga, Tanzania, to Stone Town, Zanzibar. The explosive device was thrown from a car window and the car sped off, making it difficult to determine the identity of the attackers. Were they coming directly from the mosque around the area of Kaiser Photo shop, where men sometimes like to sit in the evenings and talk opposition politics? Or was it closer to the street, where cars can more easily rush in and peel out? 

Who was hurt? According to Jamii Forums, the bloodied boy in the pictures shared online is Muhamed Khatib Mkobalaguha a student from Tanga region. He was here in Zanzibar for the conference, which was also attended by well-known Sheikh Kassim Abu’Fadhil Kassim Mafuta Kassim, who was hurt but not killed and is now in stable condition after being taken to Mnazi Mmoja hospital along with three others. Later, the wounded were taken to Al-Rahma and Kiembe Samaki hospitals, as reported on Sunday by The Citizen -- where the journalist has apparently done a bit more research but has misused the term "casualties" to mean injured. 

Who might have wanted to hurt or kill Sheikh Kassim Mafuta? I am too much of an outsider to run a full political analysis, so I did some basic research on Sheikh Kassim, who represents a Salafi mosque in the Tanga region. 

What exactly does Salafi mean? The Salafist movement is a sect within Sunni Islam which refers to the notion of “salaf”, meaning honouring the traditional ancestors of Islam — especially the first three generations following the Prophet Muhammed (PBUH). Those who identify as ‘Salafi’ are known to be more on a spectrum ranging from traditional and conservative to literal, strict and purist, depending on the perspective and context. For example, nearly 50% of the Emirates and Qatar populations identify as Salafi Sunni Muslims. 

The West has often criticised Salafi Muslims for espousing jihadist ideology, but Salafi scholars have objected strongly to this accusation and the majority of leading scholars of the Salafist tradition reject violence in their speeches and sermons. On Saturday morning, I listened to an hour or more of a speech by Sheikh Kassim Mafuta, who seems to debate the concept of Jihad but does not promote it, and warns followers of the evils of violence as it violates Sharia (law). 

For the last couple of days, many people just wanted to know who the "bad" guy is in the story. But researching Sheikh Kassim Mafuta reminded me that it’s always more complex than it appears. On the one hand, he is associated with what the West has determined to be “radical”, but on the other, he seems to caution against violence in his discussion of Jihad as written in the Holy Qu’ran. It's not easy for any of us at this moment to make definitive statements, and situations like these challenge all of us to suspend assumptions while trying to consider multiple possibilities as to motive and circumstance. Better communication between Muslims and non-Muslims, Swahili and non-Swahili speakers would certainly help demystify the intricacies of the Sheikh’s position and message. 

Why might Sheikh Kassim Mafuta have been targeted? I am not an expert and there is no clear single narrative, but it might have been a political gesture, to send a message that those deemed radical are not welcome in Zanzibar even as guests at a religious convention. Or it could have been motivated by factions within Sheikh Kassim’sgroup. His name has been mentioned on Zanzibar separatists' UAMSHO (Awakening) Facebook page, but as a voice of opposition against the pan-Islamic movement Hzbr-Ut-Tharir East Africa. His name is also mentioned in relationship to several controversial books, one called Hoja Zenye Nguvu Katika Kuthibitisha Kuonekana Allah (Sub’Haana Wata’Alaa) Kwa Macho Huko Akher (roughly translated to mean Strong Arguments for the Existence of God). Some have praised him while others have accused him of lying. He is a well known public figure with his own Facebook page, but it doesn’t include much information. It would take far more research and interviewing to get a fuller read on the various layers of reality here. 

I was not there on Friday night, not there in the market, and I can’t find any first-person accounts, at least in English. It did happen in a pedestrian area, but not in a touristic part of town, though Stone Town is small enough that it would be possible to have been caught up in the explosion had anyone been walking through the area at that time. 

In so many cut-copy reports of this event, Western news outlets conflate this event with other bombs and riots that have occurred in Zanzibar over the last few years. This is deeply unfortunate for the majority of people here, whose lives are far more rich, varied, nuanced, and detailed than the blanket assumptions that are derived from these ill-reported events. It’s true that many disturbing and violent crimes have taken place and it grieves both Zanzibaris and foreign residents alike that this peaceful island has been periodically pinched by moments of instability and insecurity. 

The why of all of this is not easily explained in a word or two — it’s religious, it’s political, and it’s difficult to extricate one from the other or to simplify the many co-existing equations of social tension. It’s about power and justice, identity and union, impending elections and failed leadership. It’s about culture and pride, it’s about trying to make decisions that will give Zanzibar some traction on the global stage. It would help if journalists would actually ask meaningful, penetrating questions, seek out interviews, and demand more when it comes to reporting sensitive news like this. It affects how everyone ‘sees’ the other, and how people react to reports that are at once confusing, alarming, and prone to gross simplification. 

One thing is certain — melding unrelated events — equating the acid attack with this bomb explosion, for example, does not help anyone understand or deal with the complexity of the situation. Assuming some “common cause” for all violence and unrests leads to lazy and dangerous inaccuracy. Journalists have a responsibility to present varying viewpoints, and we as citizens and residents have the responsibility to share and exchange information with caution, care, and curiousity, not fuelling skewed stereotypes in either direction. 

This complex situation  unfolds against an intense political background. Tensions between the ruling party CCM (Chama Cha Mapinduzi) and the opposition party CUF (Civic United Front) grow daily as disagreements about the union government and the new constitution have caused a stalemate in Parliament. Elections in 2015 will determine not only a new president, but also whether or not Zanzibar and the mainland will remain legally bound to the same conditions as 50 years ago. Tanzania First campaigning by CCM is met by Zanzibar First voices on the island. Religion has been used in the past as a way of masking conflict that is in essence political, and similarly it’s possible that this attack may have multiple angles that are not visible to the public at this time. 

The reckless use of the word “terrorism” to describe a violent crime whose motive has yet to be revealed offends and dismisses more textured truths. Are there those on the island sympathetic to radical Islam? Yes, of course. There are also radical Evangelicals and Muslims all over America, the UK and Australia as well as mainland Europe. It’s unjust and extremely dangerous to collapse all events related to Muslims into the category of “terror”. Do I think there are groups here sympathetic to views that would be deemed extreme in the West? Yes. The same way I have come to realize that certain Western behavior is also understood as offensive and extreme in various ways in this part of the world. At any given time, there are social, political, economic, and ideological shifts and energies at work here, and offering up tired, cartoonish narratives of heroes and villains condescends to all of us. 

I root for a fuller understanding, a radical “middle ground”, a true commitment to dialogue and to the posing of questions that could expose the real facts and enlighten us as to the spectrum of views and concerns present here, and in places with similar tensions. 

The news I present here is gathered via Jamii Forums, online research and conversation with local residents. I urge everyone to do their own research, ask the difficult questions, challenge their own assumptions, and make room in their hearts and minds for all possibilities. Al Jazeera, BBC Africa, BBC Swahili, CNN, and others who have sent out lazy, conflated reports need to check themselves and do due diligence on the stories that have real impact and consequences on the ground. It frustrates many here that from the moment an event like this happens to months later when life goes on, the real details and motives are rarely revealed. 

It was the opening day of ZIFF, Zanzibar’s international film festival, that the incident took place. Last night, as I went to watch Mandela: A Long Road to Freedom, my thoughts were focussed on the perplexing layers of justice movements, the sometimes necessary opposing energies and surprisingly shared commonalities that eventually rise up to the surface. I cannot say what happened on Friday night in Zanzibar that caused the death of one young man and the injury of others, but I do know that asking questions is the first step toward humanizing a very complex situation. 

There was a lovely energy in Forodhani Gardens last night, as the film festival readied itself for a new incarnation. Gorgeous light flooded the scene as the "flipper" boys spun circles in the air before diving into the sea. There are multiple stories unfolding here, as anywhere, at any given moment — of fear and hope, art and justice, aggression and anger, all at once, all the time. To define Zanzibar by this or any other tragic event alone does not do justice to the beautiful contradictions of this place. 


*Thanks to Rachel Hamada, editor of Mambo Magazine, for edits. Thanks to Pernille Baerendtsen & Francesca McKenna as readers. Thanks to everyone in Stone Town who helped process this information with me and contributed their opinions to the conversation.