TRAVELING BACK in time to pick myself up from Zanzibar is not the kind of writing I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
But when I count the years I lived there and the hours and days since, thinking and writing about that place, it sometimes feels like I never left, and that’s when I’m convinced about the potency of spells we cast on ourselves—how I longed to live there when I was younger and now I live there forever.
Yes, I’m home now and the skies are gray and it looks like rain this morning. I’m prepping for an interview later this afternoon and I’m typing in my bra and underwear because it’s too hot in the upstairs bedroom, but a part of me is still trying to figure out what actually happened that night in 2014, when a bomb went off in the market and scared the shit out of everyone who feared the attack might be tied to rising Islamist movements on the islands.
I remember sitting at an outdoor cafe sipping on a spiced latte with some friends when the news rippled through town. No one knew what had actually happened, but photos of a bloodied body quickly circulated through social media—speculation and suspicions abounded, and of course, we all wanted to know if we were safe—if this beloved island was still safe—if foreigners were still welcome here—if the film festival would go on as scheduled, after all that chaos?
People say an explosive device was thrown from a car passing the mosque near the corner photo shop where I used to go to take my passport photos—a familiar little corner buzzing with life at all times of day and night. How could this happen and who were the culprits?
I remember wanting so desperately at the time to believe in an explanation that had nothing to do with Islam. But the young man who lost his life that night had traveled from Tanga to attend a religious conference. Several others were injured.
I’d been living in Zanzibar for long enough to sense the uptick in political tensions as debates raged over the future of the union between Zanzibar and mainland Tanzania. I remember the growing competition between CCM and CUF ahead of the 2015 elections, and disagreements among Muslim organizations all formed part of the island’s political landscape.
A few reports emerged about that night—but nothing definitive or comprehensive in terms of motives or conclusions—and I’m sitting here so far away from it all now, thinking about how these religious-political fault lines continue to crack throughout the world.
I’m older now and perhaps less desperate to reframe uncomfortable truths.
In the years since I lived in Zanzibar, incidents of violence tied to Islamist political ideology continue to rise in places like Somalia and Sudan, Mozambique and northern Nigeria, among others. I continue to read my friend’s ongoing reports about the encroachment of Islamic State insurgencies all along the Mozambican coastline.
I wonder why these realities are so often difficult to discuss with real honesty—why acknowledging that certain extremist movements rooted in political Islam contain a violent ideology can feel, in some conversations, like an accusation against an entire faith.
These harrowing reports remind me that the people on the frontlines of these horrors depend on others in relative safety to name and document the truth as it unfolds.
I’m also thinking about what that bomb going off in the market taught me about making assumptions before a story actually takes shape. No one actually knew what happened that night but newspapers had already headlined trigger words like extremism and terrorism.
Fear is not the same as evidence.
Still, I lived through the UAMSHO years in Zanzibar, when Sheikh Farid and his followers made his vision for an Islamist uprising clear and many people wondered where the island was headed.
Farid and his followers were arrested in 2012—they were silenced, their beards were shaved—and the movement never took hold there in the way that violent extremist movements have taken hold in other parts of East Africa.
And the exact facts of the explosion remain unchecked.
When I think of the islands, I still think first of warmth and hospitality, of daily rituals of faith, of the call to prayer drifting through Stone Town and the divine kindness of people who welcomed me into their lives.
When a bomb goes off in a place you love—you seek answers indefinitely.
But when I count the years I lived there and the hours and days since, thinking and writing about that place, it sometimes feels like I never left, and that’s when I’m convinced about the potency of spells we cast on ourselves—how I longed to live there when I was younger and now I live there forever.
Yes, I’m home now and the skies are gray and it looks like rain this morning. I’m prepping for an interview later this afternoon and I’m typing in my bra and underwear because it’s too hot in the upstairs bedroom, but a part of me is still trying to figure out what actually happened that night in 2014, when a bomb went off in the market and scared the shit out of everyone who feared the attack might be tied to rising Islamist movements on the islands.
I remember sitting at an outdoor cafe sipping on a spiced latte with some friends when the news rippled through town. No one knew what had actually happened, but photos of a bloodied body quickly circulated through social media—speculation and suspicions abounded, and of course, we all wanted to know if we were safe—if this beloved island was still safe—if foreigners were still welcome here—if the film festival would go on as scheduled, after all that chaos?
People say an explosive device was thrown from a car passing the mosque near the corner photo shop where I used to go to take my passport photos—a familiar little corner buzzing with life at all times of day and night. How could this happen and who were the culprits?
I remember wanting so desperately at the time to believe in an explanation that had nothing to do with Islam. But the young man who lost his life that night had traveled from Tanga to attend a religious conference. Several others were injured.
I’d been living in Zanzibar for long enough to sense the uptick in political tensions as debates raged over the future of the union between Zanzibar and mainland Tanzania. I remember the growing competition between CCM and CUF ahead of the 2015 elections, and disagreements among Muslim organizations all formed part of the island’s political landscape.
A few reports emerged about that night—but nothing definitive or comprehensive in terms of motives or conclusions—and I’m sitting here so far away from it all now, thinking about how these religious-political fault lines continue to crack throughout the world.
I’m older now and perhaps less desperate to reframe uncomfortable truths.
In the years since I lived in Zanzibar, incidents of violence tied to Islamist political ideology continue to rise in places like Somalia and Sudan, Mozambique and northern Nigeria, among others. I continue to read my friend’s ongoing reports about the encroachment of Islamic State insurgencies all along the Mozambican coastline.
I wonder why these realities are so often difficult to discuss with real honesty—why acknowledging that certain extremist movements rooted in political Islam contain a violent ideology can feel, in some conversations, like an accusation against an entire faith.
These harrowing reports remind me that the people on the frontlines of these horrors depend on others in relative safety to name and document the truth as it unfolds.
I’m also thinking about what that bomb going off in the market taught me about making assumptions before a story actually takes shape. No one actually knew what happened that night but newspapers had already headlined trigger words like extremism and terrorism.
Fear is not the same as evidence.
Still, I lived through the UAMSHO years in Zanzibar, when Sheikh Farid and his followers made his vision for an Islamist uprising clear and many people wondered where the island was headed.
Farid and his followers were arrested in 2012—they were silenced, their beards were shaved—and the movement never took hold there in the way that violent extremist movements have taken hold in other parts of East Africa.
And the exact facts of the explosion remain unchecked.
When I think of the islands, I still think first of warmth and hospitality, of daily rituals of faith, of the call to prayer drifting through Stone Town and the divine kindness of people who welcomed me into their lives.
When a bomb goes off in a place you love—you seek answers indefinitely.
