DUNIA MAPITO—the world is a portal—a Swahili phrase I carried with me back home and placed on the ledge of language with reverence. This idea—that we’re all just passing through—helped explain so much about the way my neighbors expressed grief and loss, disappointment and rage—as if to say, this world is a waiting room.
Recently, I realized that this same idea appears in Jewish mystical thought, like Rabbi Jacob who describes this world as a hallway “before the world to come; prepare yourself in this hallway, so that you may enter the banquet hall,” or Rashi, who says that this world is a Friday and the world to come is a Saturday (shabbat).
Wherever it’s coming from—Islamic or Judaic roots—the message pierces me into the wider-awake state of a traveler. If we’re all just passing through this corridor, if we live with the notion of this world as a temporary space to rest under god’s tree, then we also come closer to accepting that all of this is temporary. The idea used to sadden me but now I see it as an invitation to set ourselves free. Risk gets reshuffled as love.
Which reminds me of another Swahili phrase I carried home with me: wache waseme (watachoka, watalala). Loosely translated, it means “let them talk (they’ll get tired, they’ll sleep).” In Zanzibar, where individuality is largely an illusion—where the collective rules and keeps all eyes on you—it could sometimes feel oppressive to me make any move without reverberations of judgement.
Living on an island is like performing in perpetual play in which you are at once the actor and the audience at all times—a quantum kind of play: I say thank you to the guy selling me a pack of a cigarettes, and half-way across town, someone whispers to another that I’ve started smoking again. I arrive at the port in Zanzibar after a three-hour ferry ride back from the mainland and my neighbor is already texting me to tell me she knows I’m back.
“Let them talk” is a kind of social insurance—a form of linguistic armor to shield oneself from the clang and clatter of the collective. So many people whispered when I broke up with the man who had been violent with me. Let them talk. So many people whispered when I was having issues with my visa. Let them talk. So many people made assumptions when they saw me walking down the street with any man (that wasn’t my ex). Let them talk.
If we listened to everyone else all the time, we’d stop listening to ourselves, and in this world—this world of becoming and preparing—we learn to take chances by hearing ourselves think—allowing ourselves to become vessels for messages beyond us, too.
Have you ever arrived in Dar es Salaam by ferry from Zanzibar?
Picture this—an insane calamity of chaos and clamor as passengers disembark from the enormous ship and enter a throbbing throng of people blocking the gates. Most are men with car keys in their fists and ill-fitting sandals on their feet, hawking unofficial taxi rides and tour guide packages.
Through this sea of sweat and panic I learned to take on a steely, stone-cold stance—stiffening my posture against the nudging, tugging, and pulling—as I made my way to the other side of the street in the shade of the old church. I had to act as if I knew exactly where I was going and why I was there.
I had to walk with a purpose and seek out my people even when I often arrived alone and walked by myself or with a friend to our hotel. I had to learn to see through and beyond the current scene. I had to keep going—to block all the incoming distractions and bids for my attention.
On an epic walk around town last weekend with an old friend, we stopped into a theater and ended up talking about whether or not we’d ever had any interest in acting. I used to love acting in plays when I was a kid—I auditioned for roles in community theater and also tried out for parts in high school plays—and had a lot of fun memorizing lines and staying late after school for rehearsals. I even directed a few theater projects as a teaching artist.
But at some point I lost all interest in acting. I think it’s because I remember feeling distinctly self-conscious of myself on stage in various roles I played—I remember thinking to myself as I delivered my lines, “you’re acting and the audience can tell.” I found it very hard to step fully into the experience—to surrender myself—even temporarily—to the role’s demands. It’s a skill I greatly admire in talented actors who can fully embody the character.
I’ve been thinking lately about all of this—how we are at once passing through and playing various parts—Shakespeare said it himself—all the world’s a stage, men and women merely players. But even when we’re just playing ourselves we’re also acting—to the best of our ability—as our most current selves, letting (sometimes willing) past roles fade to black.
Recently, I realized that this same idea appears in Jewish mystical thought, like Rabbi Jacob who describes this world as a hallway “before the world to come; prepare yourself in this hallway, so that you may enter the banquet hall,” or Rashi, who says that this world is a Friday and the world to come is a Saturday (shabbat).
Wherever it’s coming from—Islamic or Judaic roots—the message pierces me into the wider-awake state of a traveler. If we’re all just passing through this corridor, if we live with the notion of this world as a temporary space to rest under god’s tree, then we also come closer to accepting that all of this is temporary. The idea used to sadden me but now I see it as an invitation to set ourselves free. Risk gets reshuffled as love.
Which reminds me of another Swahili phrase I carried home with me: wache waseme (watachoka, watalala). Loosely translated, it means “let them talk (they’ll get tired, they’ll sleep).” In Zanzibar, where individuality is largely an illusion—where the collective rules and keeps all eyes on you—it could sometimes feel oppressive to me make any move without reverberations of judgement.
Living on an island is like performing in perpetual play in which you are at once the actor and the audience at all times—a quantum kind of play: I say thank you to the guy selling me a pack of a cigarettes, and half-way across town, someone whispers to another that I’ve started smoking again. I arrive at the port in Zanzibar after a three-hour ferry ride back from the mainland and my neighbor is already texting me to tell me she knows I’m back.
“Let them talk” is a kind of social insurance—a form of linguistic armor to shield oneself from the clang and clatter of the collective. So many people whispered when I broke up with the man who had been violent with me. Let them talk. So many people whispered when I was having issues with my visa. Let them talk. So many people made assumptions when they saw me walking down the street with any man (that wasn’t my ex). Let them talk.
If we listened to everyone else all the time, we’d stop listening to ourselves, and in this world—this world of becoming and preparing—we learn to take chances by hearing ourselves think—allowing ourselves to become vessels for messages beyond us, too.
Have you ever arrived in Dar es Salaam by ferry from Zanzibar?
Picture this—an insane calamity of chaos and clamor as passengers disembark from the enormous ship and enter a throbbing throng of people blocking the gates. Most are men with car keys in their fists and ill-fitting sandals on their feet, hawking unofficial taxi rides and tour guide packages.
Through this sea of sweat and panic I learned to take on a steely, stone-cold stance—stiffening my posture against the nudging, tugging, and pulling—as I made my way to the other side of the street in the shade of the old church. I had to act as if I knew exactly where I was going and why I was there.
I had to walk with a purpose and seek out my people even when I often arrived alone and walked by myself or with a friend to our hotel. I had to learn to see through and beyond the current scene. I had to keep going—to block all the incoming distractions and bids for my attention.
On an epic walk around town last weekend with an old friend, we stopped into a theater and ended up talking about whether or not we’d ever had any interest in acting. I used to love acting in plays when I was a kid—I auditioned for roles in community theater and also tried out for parts in high school plays—and had a lot of fun memorizing lines and staying late after school for rehearsals. I even directed a few theater projects as a teaching artist.
But at some point I lost all interest in acting. I think it’s because I remember feeling distinctly self-conscious of myself on stage in various roles I played—I remember thinking to myself as I delivered my lines, “you’re acting and the audience can tell.” I found it very hard to step fully into the experience—to surrender myself—even temporarily—to the role’s demands. It’s a skill I greatly admire in talented actors who can fully embody the character.
I’ve been thinking lately about all of this—how we are at once passing through and playing various parts—Shakespeare said it himself—all the world’s a stage, men and women merely players. But even when we’re just playing ourselves we’re also acting—to the best of our ability—as our most current selves, letting (sometimes willing) past roles fade to black.
