Interview Reflection

The loud and constant beeping and ringing of the telephones added credence to the harried look of the busy workers as they swarmed around the small office space in desperate attempts to justify their presence there. As they rushed about they gave little notice to the desk in the corner of the room, around which were huddled a small group of people, three apparent high school students and one tired looking black man. From far off, it would appear as if the four were ill at ease, the three huddled together while the fourth leaned back. However, as you drew nearer, it became obvious that the three were actually leaning forward, hungry for the answers to the questions they so eagerly sought after, while the man was leaning back not idly but in thought, regarding the memories that assaulted him at the questions the younger people fed him. It was a thoughtful scene, one that reminded the viewer much of a wise professor imparting his vast knowledge onto the younger ones below him.

“My name is Rashid Ismael. I was born in a small village in Ethiopia called Fiq. F-I-Q.”, the man began quietly, apparently oblivious to the tape recorder held close to him. “…I was the middle of almost 18 people, I grew up in that village until I was 6 years old”, he continued calmly. “…There are so many things I remember. Just herding the cows and just roaming, just in the middle of nowhere, absolutely nothing. Just whatever, you know, is whatever they tell you… There, if you get a piece of bread that day and a cup of water, and even though you don’t know what you will eat tomorrow, it is not under your control, but you are happy.”

Such a vast difference between the early childhood of a boy who was born the middling of 18 children, in a country that is today known as one with huge civil unrest; and that of the average American child, born and raised in the same country with no worries on whether food will be provided or beds made.

“When I was 6 years old and went with my Uncle…in other city called Chichiguta in further Ethiopia… And at the age of 10 I moved to Somalia”, he continues. As the conversation furthers, you are struck by one fact. Despite being born in Ethiopia and having spent his early childhood there, he obviously does not consider himself Ethiopian. “we as Somalian’s”, he says nonchalantly, never seeming to notice that he considers himself from a country that is not really his own. But is that entirely true? He obviously considers himself a part of that country, and why should he not? He cares, and that is enough to make it count.

Finally, the thing which struck the interviewees most, the thing which made them think, which made the teenagers lean in closer wondering if they heard correctly. “I was thousand times happier back there than here… Here you always need help, you are always, always under stress. There, if you get a piece of bread that day and a cup of water, and even though you don’t know what you will eat tomorrow, it is not under your control, but you are happy. You can go to your neighbors, you talk with them. I’ve been living here in the same place for three years and I don’t even know my neighbor. Who is my neighbor?”, he says cheerily, but the meaning behind the words is evident. “If the civil war stops I would be the first to move back. I don’t think I would stay one single day if I believe that I would be safe and would be helpful to my country. I would not hesitate to be back to my country… As Dorothy says, there is no place like home…

Your home is where you grow up, and where you had your childhood, and that is your home… Your memory is somewhere, and that somewhere is your home.” Almost idly these words are expressed, but the impact they have on the teenagers is obvious. Is life in their country really so terrible? True, their world is a cold one, devoid of human sympathy and the rural kindness that obviously pervades the home of Rashid. But is life in a world filled with such unrest really comparable to their own small, safe lives?

This interview had a huge impact on how I saw our own country. It saddened me, to think that life in our country, the country that is seen as the richest, the best, the happiest place to live, can’t even satisfy someone who has known so much pain through their own life.

Through the interview, our emotions changed from awkward and shy, unsure of how to proceed with the subject at hand; to plain inquisitive as we learned the story behind the man who sat before us. The story of a person who has seen more than we can ever imagine.