Black and White All Over

If you ask safari guides here in East Africa whether a zebra is black with white stripes or white with black stripes, you’ll get differing responses and passionate opinions.

One argument is that the base color is black, because the nose and tip of the tail are black, as are zebra embryos, apparently.

On the other hand, if you look at a Grevy’s or mountain zebra (two of the three types you find here in Kenya) the black stripes don’t make it all the way down to the belly, which is white. This supports the argument that the animal is white with black stripes.

Either argument can be convincing. But like a Rorschach inkblot, whether we see black on white or white on black may say more about our own perspectives – and prejudices – than anything else.

I am writing this as the world mourns the passing of Nelson Mandela – a black man, imprisoned by whites, for believing in dignity and freedom for all. A man who, despite the indignities he suffered, created, in the words of his friend and fellow Robben Island prison inmate, Andrew Mlangeni, “hope when there was none.”

I never got to see Mandela in person. But I did get the chance to visit Robben Island a few months back, when I accompanied Britt on a trip to South Africa. It’s where Nelson Mandela spent 18 of his 27 years of captivity.

Robben Island sits about 7 kilometers from Cape Town harbor. It’s small and flat and pretty desolate. The name comes from the Dutch word for seals.  Over the centuries it has been used to house outcasts, lepers, and the mentally ill. During WWII, it was a military base. During the apartheid years, it served as a maximum security prison for hardened criminals and for political prisoners (kept on different parts of the island). Like everything else, it was segregated.

Today, Robben Island is a national monument, museum, and UNESCO heritage site. There are about 100 inhabitants, living in the village that previously housed prison guards and administrators.

Visiting Robben Island is an incredibly moving experience.

Located near the southern-most tip of the African continent, it draws visitors from around the world. On the day I was there, my tour companions were wearing braids and baseball caps and turbans and headscarves. They spoke lots of different languages but were united in awe and admiration.

After a 30-minute ferry ride and quick bus tour past some of the island’s sites –including the rock quarry where prisoners did hard labor – we were taken for a tour of the prison. All of the guides are themselves former prisoners. Our tour guide was a man arrested at the age of 19 for being part of a student anti-apartheid group. He walked us through the different prison blocks, including the ones where people like Mandela were confined to individual cells with a thin mattress on the floor, no contact with other inmates, and a bucket for a toilet.

Our tour guide was not one of the more famous names to come out of Robben Island. But his speech was as eloquent and impressive. Here was a man used and abused by a system both cruel and unjust, who, several times a day, walks patiently past his old cell and speaks of the importance of peace and reconciliation. While others booed during the Mandela memorial service out of frustration with their current president, this South African talks passionately about the power and potential of moving his country forward.

Back on the mainland, I got a chance to visit the University of Cape Town with a friend. Like campuses worldwide, it was abuzz with youthful energy and activity. It was also refreshingly diverse and integrated, holding the promise of the rainbow nation, a term coined by Archbishop Desmond Tutu and described by Nelson Mandela this way:

"Each of us is as intimately attached to the soil of this beautiful country, as are the famous jacaranda trees of Pretoria and the mimosa trees of the bushveld - a rainbow nation at peace with itself and the world."

Prison cell, Robben Island

Barefoot Thanksgiving

I’m something of a Thanksgiving Grinch. Certainly, I’ve enjoyed many delicious and wonderful Thanksgiving meals with friends and family over the years. But the prevailing images I associate with the holiday are of tables laden with boring white foods – the dry turkey, mashed potatoes, mushy buns, and bread stuffing – punctuated only by the bright orange of too sweet sweetpotatoes and vivid red of runny cranberry sauces. In a way, the image in my mind’s eye of Thanksgiving meals is a reflection of the bland food years of my childhood, the days before Whole Foods, arugula, and exotic olive oils.

(I should note, before I get myself into trouble, that my mother managed to cook delicious meals in spite of the paucity of flavors and colors at the local supermarkets of the sixties and seventies.)

These days, people add things like ginger or Jack Daniels to their sweetpotatoes, instead of marshmallows. The whole meal has been transformed into something far more delicious than in the past, at least to my taste.

Still, as an expat in Nairobi, I was perfectly happy to give the whole holiday a pass this year. Britt was scheduled to be out of the country on a business trip. Our boys were each set to do Thanksgiving with friends and relatives in the States. It’s a regular workday, of course, here in Kenya. And our social calendar has been pretty full of dinners and parties of late.

But then, an opportunity came up that promised to be both meaningful and unconventional.

I’ve written previously about discovering the Africa Yoga Project and its Shine Center, in spite of being a total yoga newbie. Now, I find myself rather hooked, as Britt has been for years. It’s not so much the yoga itself. It’s the energy and positive spirit of the Shine Center. As soon as you walk in the door, you are greeted warmly. The atmosphere, like the classes, is young and a little bit rowdy. You are allowed to grunt and complain when your legs or abs are burning. Even the teachers do. It’s not just a place to work out. It’s really a community.

Which is why when I heard they were planning a Thanksgiving celebration at the Shine Center for the Project’s staff and families, I asked if I could help out. And that’s how I found myself cooking a turkey for the first time in my life – usually that’s Britt’s job.

I started by going to our local food shop to order the thing in advance. When I asked how much it would cost, the shopkeeper answered, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you a good price.” With that, what could I do? I ordered 3 kilos of orange-fleshed sweetpotatoes to go with it.

I struggled with our convection oven, smoked up the whole house, and showed up an hour later than anticipated at the Shine Center. But the turkey came out just fine. And though I missed the pre-meal yoga extravaganza, I was there in plenty of time for the feast itself.

As for the meal. There was lots of turkey. There was ugali (the standard Kenyan staple made of cornmeal) and rice, along with various greens and salads. There were different forms of potato, including more than 100 potato latkes, made by the founder and leader of the Africa Yoga Project, Paige, in honor of Hanukkah.  There were sodas, and bananas.

And while many of our friends posted beautiful photos of their exquisitely set Thanksgiving tables back in the States, we sat on the floor and ate on our laps.

We were barefoot. We were thankful. It was great.

Here’s a link to the Africa Yoga Project. http://www.africayogaproject.org/

Here’s a link to the story I submitted to NPR’s invitation on stories about expat Thanksgivings. http://www.npr.org/blogs/theprotojournalist/2013/11/28/247164653/project-xpat-thank-you-for-posting

Here’s a link to more of my photos of our barefoot Thanksgiving: https://plus.google.com/photos/113659574597169024424/albums/5951576870216555521   

Life in the Fun House

 

“Do you know there’s a room upstairs, with a ladder, that goes up to a another level?”

A boy, about age 10, is talking to me earnestly. His eyes are huge with excitement. His feet are covered in mud.

“Why, yes,” I reply. “That’s our bedroom. You’re not really supposed to go in there.”

I turn to see a 12-year old girl, leading a pack of others up one of the sets of stairs to what is supposed to be the off-limit territory of our house’s private quarters.

“Don’t go up there,” I say.

“Why not?” she replies saucily, cocking one hip.

“Because it’s my house, and I say so,” I answer.

The words come out firmly, and automatically. But it’s no use. I know a lost battle when I see one. She and her gang will give in for a moment, but sneak off again the minute my back is turned. Which it is almost immediately, as I see a group of boys trying to slide down the railing of the curving stairs leading from our house’s vast atrium to its second level. Not wanting to imagine the scene if one of them slips and wacks his head against the slate floor below, I’m off again like a flash.

“Off the railing!” I cry, snapping my fingers and making a swift downward motion with my arm. I’ve used my serious grown-up voice. I feel like I’m herding dogs. Another adult comes up. She’s a high-ranking manager, a regional director, and a parent. Just the ally I need. She takes over watch of the central spiral staircase.

In a few hours, the wreckage of lost battles will be evident. There will be mud everywhere, and tossed popcorn, and sticky, abandoned cups and plates. Small, mismatched socks will appear in odd places.

I’m a bit overwhelmed, but not mad.

I totally understand why children find our house irresistible. We live in the fun house. It’s big and full of wacky features and surprises. The first time we saw it, I could barely keep from jumping up and down with excitement, myself.

There’s also a huge yard and plenty of space to entertain. That’s why we’re happy to host parties, including this one involving 70+ adults and children representing some of the very multinational staff and families of Britt’s organization.

The set-up is a pot luck, which I love, because people bring the most varied and wonderful foods: Indian samosas and Greek tiropitas, chicken “lollipops” (tiny chicken legs) from Senegal and fried bananas, smoked fish canapés and giant bags of cashews, just to name a few.

Another great feature is all the games people contribute. This is an intergenerational crowd, with ages ranging from infants to grandparents. There’s fun for all ages, and everyone joins in. There’s croquet and sack races, badminton and a bouncy castle. There’s the frog game we brought from Peru, and games that involve balloons and bananas. At one point, there’s a giant tug of war.

 

The only unwelcome guest is the sudden downpour – after months of blue skies and dry weather. Hence the mud, and swarms of children inside the house instead of outside.

But a great time is had by all.

After a few days of scrubbing, and generous loan of a friend’s housekeeper to help ours, the house is back to normal.

We’re ready to entertain again the next weekend.

Because, after all, we live in the fun house.

Hallelujah, we live in Africa

 Photo: Starehe Girls Centre (http://starehegirlscentre.co.ke/)

For the first months we lived in Kenya, I would wake every day and marvel. I would hear the incredible morning chorus of birds. I would look at the bright blue of the sky and puffiness of the white clouds. And I would say to myself, “I’m living in Africa.”

Coming to a country like Kenya had been a longstanding dream of mine. It dated back to childhood, and the lasting impressions I'd gained from watching Daktari, Born Free, and animal kingdom shows on television. It was corny and naive, but deeply rooted.

After college, I thought about joining the Peace Corps or finding other ways to live and work in Africa. But that didn’t happen for various reasons. Instead I lived in Paris and Chicago and Washington.

A few decades rolled by.  

I finally did make my way into international development thanks to luck, bold moves, and the right husband. Having a couple of graduate degrees and years of experience in gender, health, and communications helped, as well.

It was while living and working in Peru that I got my first chances to travel to Kenya and Uganda. And I was hooked, immediately. I loved the smells, the scenery, and the encounters with people and nature. I was amazed by the light and the rich colors. Nairobi was so green compared to Lima, which is in the coastal desert.

When Britt got a job offer in Kenya, I was very enthusiastic. He accepted the offer site unseen, having never set foot in Sub-Saharan Africa.

Of course, living here has meant adding serious doses of reality to the romance of my first impressions – and childhood dreams. There’s the frustration, corruption, and dismay at poor conditions and bad infrastructure. There’s a car dependent lifestyle for those us living the life of privilege, and inadequate investment in human capital for most everyone else.

But there are also so many remarkable people and experiences here in Kenya. I regularly meet inspiring programs and individuals dedicated to making a difference in the lives of Kenyans, particularly its young people, and in its future. The obstacles are great. But so, too, is the energy and will to overcome them.

Last night, Britt and I attended a gala dinner, which was a fundraiser for a topnotch secondary boarding school for girls, called Starehe Girls Centre. It offers full scholarships to disadvantaged girls from all over the country. Acceptance is highly selective, and the girls who do get in do very well in terms of university admissions and academic attainment.

The girls were at the gala dinner, looking sharp and lively. They tended to guests and supplied much of the evening entertainment. I wish I had photos to share. The girls looked great. And so did Britt and I decked out in our black-tie finery. We mingled, enjoyed charming dinner companions, and bought raffle tickets to support the cause.

There were lots of speeches and a crowd full of what one table-mate described to me as Nairobi’s crème-de-la-crème.

But the most moving and exhilarating part was when the girls performed, joined at times by a professional singer or just singing a cappella. They sang traditional songs, one Christmas carol, and a lovely rendition of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. You know the song. It’s been picked up by lots of artists and was famously featured in one of the Shrek movies.

Here are just some of the verses:

I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
….
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

 Hallelujah, we live in Africa.

Yoga Bear

Photo: Africa Yoga Project

I exercise daily. Really. I run, I row, and I ellipticate on our various exercise machines. I take the dog on long walks in Karura Forest.

But none of these activities have spared me the aching of muscles you’d hardly know existed, one day after a 2-hour power yoga session. 

Britt is the yoga fanatic in our family. He’s been doing it for years, and has gone from a man who couldn’t touch his toes to one who bends in all directions, regardless of whether he’s right side up or not. For years, he’s been hounding me to join him. But I’ve held off. I find yoga intimidating, especially as a beginner surrounded by serious yogaphiles.

On the other hand, it does seem like a sport I should be doing. Though I can’t do the splits in three directions as I once did, I’m reasonably flexible. And everyone says it’s great for aging bodies. All that core strength and breathing and flexing.

What finally convinced me to give it a try was Paige Elenson and her Africa Yoga Project. Britt discovered this group and introduced me to Paige about a year ago, and he has been hooked ever since. For him the attraction is partly the workout of an intense power yoga session – but more importantly, it’s the energy, community, and spirit of the place.

 

Photo: Africa Yoga Project

Saturday morning at the Africa Yoga Project is an amazing experience. The 2+-hour class occupies 1 ½ newly renovated floors of Diamond Plaza in the Parklands neighborhood of Nairobi. The Saturday class is free (though you can volunteer a donation) and packs two levels of workout rooms. Most of the crowd is young and Kenyan. But it’s also probably one of the most diverse spots in Nairobi. There are school kids from the slums and tall blonds from the development world. There are acrobats and dancers, people who’ve done yoga for years, and a small smattering of beginners, like me. We even had a few musicians accompanying our sweaty moves.

For people like Britt and I, yoga is another way to work out, and to try to keep the mind and body in reasonably good condition.

But for most of the people at the Africa Yoga Project it’s much more. It’s about taking care and control of their bodies – and about transforming their lives.

Many of the people in the Saturday morning class, including the teachers and assistants, are from the slums of Nairobi or other impoverished areas. Their stories are heartbreaking and hard. They’ve been sold for food, affected by HIV/AIDS, and subjects of other cruel realities. For these young people –  some still school age and others heading families of their own – yoga has become a way for them to find a positive place and take control of their futures. It’s become about inner strength and resolve. And it’s become about being surrounded by a community of caring people. The place where the Saturday classes are held is called the Shine Center. It’s an apt name.

While the Shine Center offers classes other days of the week, too, most of the Africa Yoga Project’s work takes place in far more destitute places. Paige and her gang have trained and employed more than 70 yoga teachers, who offer 300 free classes every week. They go into slums and schools and orphanages. They also raise money to help with food, housing, health care, and other needs. They reach thousands of people.

If you ask US-born Paige about the genesis of the Africa Yoga Project, she’ll tell you it all started with a handstand. On safari in Kenya with her family, she came across some Maasai acrobats practicing their routine for a show at one of the safari lodges. She got out of her vehicle and joined them, launching a friendship and connections that would change her life. Seven years later, she’s married to a Kenyan, mother of a little girl, and the driving force behind a movement.

The type of yoga they practice at the Africa Yoga Project is called power yoga. It’s a great workout, but more importantly, it’s a remarkable way to inspire and empower.

You can learn more about the Africa Yoga Project at the website: http://www.africayogaproject.org/

 And in the news:

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2013/mar/25/yoga-kenya-jobs-enlightenment

http://www.npr.org/2013/04/12/177004536/yoga-project-changes-lives-in-nairobis-slums

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/05/31/yoga-in-africa/?_r=0

http://www.cnn.com/2013/09/20/world/africa/savannah-to-slums-kenya-yoga/

Hope. Photo: Africa Yoga Project

Paige and partners. Photo: Africa Yoga Project

Tomato, tomahto

For a number of years, I sang in a church choir in Washington DC. Our director, a brilliant musician and stickler for details, always said that sung English was a different language from the spoken version. He raged against hard “r”s, saying they sounded like growling. He didn’t think much of hard “t”s either, preferring something closer to a soft “d” instead. No vowel or consonant was safe from critique. Spirit of Life, something of a Unitarian theme song sung every week in our congregation, was contorted to “speeee reed ahf laaif. ”

He was right, of course. All that extra stretching of our mouths and focus on detail really made a difference. As odd as it felt coming out, it did make the words far more comprehensible to those in the audience.

Living in Kenya, I find myself once again stretching my mouth to form sounds in unfamiliar ways. Though English is one of the two official languages of Kenya, it doesn’t guarantee mutual comprehension among English speakers. Mine is a foreign version of English, of course. And the joke about being separated by a common language applies.

Over the months we’ve learned.

Asking for waah-der, as we Americans are tempted to do, is as likely to get you a blank stare as it is a bottle of water. Pronouncing it whaaa-teh takes more oral effort and dexterity, but is more likely to be understood.

Understanding what people say can be a challenge, too. For one thing, there’s not one English accent in Kenya, but many.  There are British influences, sing-songy Asian ones, and myriad styles and inflections reflecting the dozens of different tribal languages spoken in Kenya. There’s the English from different Anglophone countries, and the versions brought in by all the expats for whom it’s not a first language.

So, here are a few examples of common Kenyan English-isms:

There’s the omnipresent “kindly,” which is the Kenyan English equivalent of “please” – as in “kindly bring me some whaa-teh.”

Every time I back the car out of the drive, the guard says, “Oh, you are moving out,” as if I was packed and leaving for good.

Ask for the price of something and it will invariable cost “only [insert amount].”

Likewise, distances may be “not so very far.”

A term of respect for a woman is to call her “Mama.”  

The word “shenanigans” is more current than quaint, as in “no more shenanigans.”

Say “hello” to someone and the response is likely to be “fine, fine,” because the question, “how are you” is implied.  

This tendency to repeat words comes up in other instances, too, such as “sorry, sorry,” “slowly, slowly,” and “sawa, sawa” (which means, “okay” in Kiswahili).

These English-isms are part of the charm of living abroad and discovering the many was in which language evolves. Speaking English in Kenya, I realize how much of my own language is colored with metaphors and expressions that reflect not only my American heritage, but also the places I’ve lived, schools I’ve attended, and people I’ve worked with. And like many other English-speaking expats, I find my accent converging towards a common middle, where accents are dulled and enunciation is emphasized.

To really find a lingua franca, I should study Kiswahili, the other official language of Kenya, widely used here, in Tanzania, and to a lesser extent in Uganda. For now, I just know a few choice words or phrases.

In the meantime, I continue to contort my mouth in the hope of turning my English into something comprehensible. The choir director would be pleased.

The Help - Nairobi Version

“With money, you can do anything.”

These were the words of our housekeeper last week, as she stood before me with a small smile on her face.

I was tempted to reply, “Well, money can’t buy you EVERYTHING.”

But luckily, I didn’t. Instead, I said nothing, smiled back, and listened.

The fact of the matter is, when you are truly poor, having money or not DOES change everything. Being poor makes you incredibly vulnerable – to losing what little you have, to being taken advantage of, to missing out on basic services and opportunities, and the list goes on.

The edge between having enough or not is sharp and cruel. Even among those who have next to nothing, having a bit more creates opportunity – and envy.

Our housekeeper has been embroiled in a family dispute involving land and inheritance for several months. It revolves around her husband and some shady dealings on the part of his siblings to cheat him out of the small parcel of land that is his part of the family inheritance.

Land ownership is a very touchy issue here in Kenya. Many people have been robbed of their lands through colonialism, and post-colonial corruption, cronyism, and general dirty dealings.  Tenure and title are not always secure. Families are large, and plots broken up into smaller and smaller pieces across the generations. By tradition, only men have been allowed to inherit land. That is supposed to have changed with the passing of a new national constitution a few years back, but practices are slow to change.

In the case of our housekeeper, her in-laws have been stalling her attempts to obtain proper, formal title to their land, because they know that her husband’s health is failing from decades of chain smoking. She has become increasingly frantic knowing that the title is the only way to preserve their share of the family land, and the house on it, which they built largely due to her hard work.

After some ugly scenes and threats at home, she eventually came to me to ask for financial help to pay for the surveyor and title.

I was reminded of a scene in Kathryn Stockett’s book, The Help. An interesting read from any perspective, it is even more so when you employ household staff and live in a place that does have separate bathrooms for "domestics."  In the story, The Help, there is a character who works as a maid and asks her employers for an advance, so that she can send her son to university. They turn her down, pushing her ultimately to desperation, theft, and a prison sentence.

Though The Help is a work of fiction, it reflects many realities. And although it is set fifty or more years ago, the racial and economic –isms and inequities it highlights are still very present today. This is particularly blatant in our environment in Nairobi, where the disparity between our access to choice, resources, and options and that of the people who work around us day and night is so enormous.

Also similar to the book is the intimacy that develops from our interwoven lives. The NSA doesn’t need to tap our phones or read our emails to follow our comings and goings. They can just ask our house staff, who observes us daily and knows our every habit. Likewise, we are privy to many of the stories and problems that make up their lives.

Unlike the employer characters in The Help, we are much more willing to give our staff advances, or even financial gifts, to cover things like kids’ school tuition, driving lessons, or moving from a slum shack to something a bit better. I admit it’s a new experience for us. In Peru, household staff and guards never asked for loans. But here it is common and accepted practice for the haves to be expected to help out (or be hit up by) the have-nots.

Our housekeeper is better off than many. She and her husband have some land and a house with electricity and running water. This is largely because she is smart and thrifty. And she has worked for people like us, who pay her 2-3 times the usual salary for housekeeping. But she is still poor. And the fact that she does have a few resources makes her prey to jealous and greedy relatives, who are all too ready to exploit the notion of sharing the wealth.

So, I got her the money she needed. And I gave her the next day off, so that she could go to the various land and title offices to file her paperwork. It was the following day that she told me how having the money needed made all the difference.

Is the matter fully settled? Not at all.  But the proper wheels are in motion, and this week’s hope has replaced last week’s desperation.

I read a lot about giving and development. Which strategies work best? There’s lots of discussion and little agreement. What is the right balance between accountability and just giving people money? Is direct payment better than services, microcredit better than macro-changes, teaching to fish better than giving a fish?  The jury is out and debates continue.

One thing is sure. Sometimes, you have a chance to do something relatively small for one person that represents something really big to them. May we all understand and seize that chance.

More than a Mall, a Microcosm – What the Westgate Attacks Showed Us

“Though I can’t imagine you hanging out at a mall, please let me know if you are ok.”

Thus started a message among the many we received from friends and family concerning the horrific terrorist attack on the Westgate Mall here in Nairobi.

Luckily, we were not at Westgate on that ill-fated Saturday (September 21). We were spared  the terrible deaths and drama caused by a carefully planned terrorist attack that would last more than 72 hours.

We weren’t even in Nairobi.

We were out of town, in the Maasai Mara reserve. We were on a safari trip planned well in advance to celebrate the visit of our older son. Far from the gunshots and grenades, we were watching migrating wildebeests, lolling lions, and an elusive black rhino. We were in the savannah and off the grid.  It was not until evening that we heard the news.

But as was the case for many other people, the Westgate attacks did hit close to home.

Westgate is a 10-minute drive from our house. It’s where I used to go 3-5 times a week to buy groceries, get cash from the ATM, and have the occasional pedicure. If I look around our house, it’s full of stuff purchased in one Westgate store or another. It’s also the place we went for an easy meal out or to catch a movie. We were there for lunch just two days before the attack.

While my friend was right to note that I’m not normally a mall crawler, the whole context and meaning of shopping malls is very different here compared to Europe, the US, or even Latin America. In Nairobi, and all over Africa generally, malls are not just places to shop. They are where people of all different backgrounds and economic levels go to meet and browse. Malls offer an environment that is clean, accessible, attractive - and normally, very safe. 

The international media has repeatedly referred to Westgate as an “upscale” place filled with “rich” Kenyans and diplomats.

But that gives a false impression.  

Sure, you could find a pair of Nikes, eat sushi, or go into a casino that smelled of stale smoke at Westgate. But there was no Armani, Louis Vuitton, or even Benneton to be found. The more common brand names were Bata shoes, Mr. Price pillows, and Nakumatt groceries.

Going to Westgate was akin to going downtown or to a pedestrian shopping district.  It was open to anyone, including people with little money but a desire to have a chat or inexpensive cup of tea in a pleasant place.   

And as the pictures of victims and fleeing escapees depicted, Westgate presented a microcosm of the rich cultural, economic, racial, and religious diversity of Kenya.

Though politicians have played on tribal tensions in the past, mostly associated with land disputes, Kenya is in many ways a remarkably tolerant melting pot. The landscape of Nairobi is dotted with churches, mosques, and temples of different types. Styles of dress range from turbans to tank tops, saris to business suits, and t-shirts to chadors. Dozens of different languages are spoken, though you can get by many places with either of the two official languages, English and Kiswahili.

This is not to say that everyone gets along all the time.

But if the terrorist attacks have done one thing, it has been to unify the people of Kenya. “We are one” is the new slogan and resilience the new mantra.

There are countless examples of how that’s been put into practice. Thousands of people of all walks and types lined up to donate blood for the attack victims, not only in Nairobi, but all over the country.  Girls from one school I know of, many of them orphans and all of them quite poor, collected nearly $2,000 worth of coins to send to the Red Cross relief efforts. Individuals of every stripe helped others to escape the mall during the standoff. From the national to the most private levels, the color of mourning has been as varied as the rainbow of inhabitants who populate this city.

There are countless stories of heartbreak and heroism to have emerged from the Westgate attack. But one that I find especially emblematic was told to me by a friend. She described how her au-pair was trapped in the Nakumatt supermarket during the first hours of the attack. Recently arrived from England and in her early 20s, she took refuge along with many others in a back storage room. There she ended up next to a young Kenyan woman of a similar age, wearing a headscarf. They chatted to give each other courage. When volunteer rescuers came to help them escape hours later, they ran out of the building together -  hand in hand. 

Strangers helping strangers to escape to safety. Photo: Reuters/Goran Tomasevic