Kneading Perspective

I hesitate as I publish this post. I don’t feel that I have the right pretend like I understand the tensions of my host culture in a way that will somehow benefit you. I have been here for less than six months, and I’m just starting to get my feet wet in regard to the spiritual and political atmosphere. Yet, I am compelled to write.

The land I live in is full of tensions. Tensions to the West have been going on for years. Tensions to the North have escalated in the past few years, and recently spilled into our neighbor to the East in a dramatic way.

After our trip to the East at the end of last month, I found myself with a hunger for perspective. I wanted to understand what was happening, but my perspective was immature and one-sided. It was like a lump of bread dough that had been stirred but never kneaded. It was soft and pliable but wouldn’t hold its shape in the heat of the oven.

The first Arabic session I had after my trip I asked “Lana,” my primary language helper, to share her opinion of the former regime leader. Her perspective surprised me a little, but I was grateful to hear her point of view – which I’m now realizing many of my neighbors share. Days later, I had a two-hour session scheduled with a different language helper. I decided to ask the same question, knowing that “Nadeem” loves to read and that his ideas and opinions are probably based on a broader foundation.

What surprised me more than Nadeem’s answer (which was, indeed, opposite of Lana’s) was how much he seemed to enjoy talking about it. He shared opinions, acted out stories, and did his best to help me understand the history of a centuries-old conflict. He was committed to only speaking in Arabic (since, after all, it was a language session) and helped me by recording new words and explaining them in terms I could understand. I was committed to only Arabic, too, knowing that if I want to think like Arabs think, using their primary tool for thinking (words) in their language (Arabic) is necessary.

I enjoyed the history lesson with Nadeem, so the next time I had a session with him I asked him to talk to me about the tension that was building our neighboring country to the East. “How to you know what I’m telling you is right?” he asked, after making a 5-minute recording summing up the conflict and what he saw as potential solutions. “I don’t,” I replied. “But, I want to learn the Arab perspective more than I want to learn exactly what happened.” He seemed to appreciate my answer and we went on with the session, listening to the recording and discussing new words.

“Maybe tomorrow you can tell me about the history of this country,” I said.

“Of course,” Nadeem responded. “I love history. I love talking about these things.”

Nadeem’s love for history was apparent as he made a 10-minute recording summarizing the history of my host country. Nadeem has been here his whole life, but much of his family history lies on the other side of the river to the West. And, since it’s impossible to discuss the history of one side of the river without the context of the other side, his history lesson cracked open a door that I wasn’t sure I was ready to walk through.

I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that the conflict across the river is a tense topic for any informed person who lives in this region, regardless of their religious affiliation. It had never been a topic I had given much thought to, and spending all my life in the West, the situation seemed fairly cut-and-dry. One side must be wrong, and the wrong side would have to eventually give in. The more I learn, though, the less confident I am in any ideas for resolution.

A few days after the history lesson of my host country with Nadeem, I was downtown with Lana, and she was showing me some key chains, each with figures representative of our neighbor to the West. “Do you know what these are?” she asked me. I didn’t have any idea, so she recommended that once we got back to the center we could talk about it. “I don’t want to talk about it in the street,” she said.

When we started talking about the symbols the next day, I was surprised by Lana’s emotional response. We were only a few minutes in when she signaled for me to stop the recorder, on the verge of tears. “I don’t think I can talk about it right now. It’s too sad.” What surprised me is that Lana’s family isn’t from the West. Her father’s family is from the North and her mother’s family has been here for generations. Yet the situation and the recent history obviously touched her deeply. “You should ask Nadeem,” she said. “He knows a lot more about it than I do.” I took her hand and nodded, and we moved on to a new subject.

Our conversation was all that was necessary for the door to swing wide open. “Nadeem,” Lana said during a break, “She wants to know more about the key, about Handala, and about the former president.” Nadeem looked at me, nodded, and said in English, “You got it.”

That afternoon’s two hours with Nadeem was interesting and sobering. He described the symbol of Handala (you can do your own research if you’re interested) and the former president of the country. We listened to the two recordings, which was enough to fill our time. “Maybe tomorrow you can tell me about the key?” I asked. That was the topic that had brought Lana to tears.

“Maybe,” he said. He didn’t mention it the next day, so I decided not to bring it up again. Instead, we talked about how Arabs and Americans perceive each others’ cultures in ways that aren’t necessarily true. Not surprisingly, the discussion somehow made its way back to the West side of the river.

“You need to talk,” Nadeem said halfway through the session. “Why is it that I do all the talking in our sessions? What is your opinion about all of this?” I nodded, knowing that he was right. Listening takes less effort that talking, and I’ve come to the point where I can understand many things (with lots of help, of course). The majority of my talking was focused on negotiating meaning and asking questions.

Sharing my opinion on a political situation felt like it was a little bit out of my league. “It’s important for me to hear you,” I told Nadeem. “I want to learn your perspective, because most of what I read or watch comes from a Western perspective. And, I don’t really know what to think about the conflict. It’s sad. It’s hard.” Knowing that it was important for me to speak, not just listen, I told him some about life in South America and how it’s different from life here. That topic was more comfortable.

I can see that my perspective is being shaped. It’s like that lump of dough, mixed but not kneaded. My language sessions, my reading, my conversations with people, and unique experiences are kneading my perspective: pressing, turning, folding, pulling, shaping. It’s not painful, but it’s not comfortable either. My small-town life in America – without the historical tensions that exist here – was easier.

The current tensions in my mind and heart aren’t going away. The kneading will continue. Have you ever baked a loaf of bread that wasn’t properly kneaded? I have. It comes out flat and dense. Edible, but not ideal. I’m not ready to put my perspectives in the oven yet. I haven’t yet gained the right to shape them into a loaf that will be presentable to you or to anyone else. But, by the work of the Holy Spirit, I will continue to have my thinking changed (and, ultimately, transformed into His perspective) and someday I will be able to serve you thoughts and ideas that are presentable and helpful. Until then, I will continue to do all I can to embrace the kneading process.