I walk to the bus.
I walk to the Printing Press.
Bonjour, Madame!
Bonjour, Vazaha!
Comment ça va, vazaha?
Tanjombato is slowly starting to feel like home to me... I know my way around my neighborhood, I can take the bus into the city, I know how to order food and juice and laundry soap at my favorite hotely.
But every day I am reminded that this isn't my home. I'm reminded that this will never be home. I'm reminded that I will never fit in here.
I will always be the white person, the vazaha- the foreigner. I may live with a Malagasy family, and eat rice 2x a day, and take the taxibe, and eat at hotelys, and speak Malagasy (ish), but I will never shed that identity of being the other.
This isn't a post to make you feel bad for me. Or a post for me to complain about how I'm othered. On the contrary, I'm grateful for this experience.
Being the other is not new for me. I'm sure most of us can think of some time we were the other- the only Christian in science class, the only person who enjoyed school on the football team, the only gay kid in the youth group, the only disabled person at work...
But this is the only time I've been the racial other.
And man, is it different.
It's one thing to be the only nerd in gym class, and it's something completely different to be the only person of your skin color in daily life.
White people are a rarity here in Madagascar. Frankly, we stick out like a sore thumb. I don't really blame anyone for staring at me, or really even for yelling at me. I even freak out a little when I see another white person.
The thing that gets me is how the topic of race here intertwines with that of colonization. Maybe you noticed- whenever I get "heckled" (for lack of a better word), it's most often in French.
The word vazaha is Malagasy, it means foreigner.
But the rest of it is almost always French.
In 1883, the French attacked Madagascar: it was declared a colony in 1895 until the Malagasy finally won independence in 1960. The French presence is still fairly strong here- there are French tourists, French businessmen, menus are in French, French is taught in schools, wealthy familys speak French, the airline here is AirFrance.
It's reasonable for Malagasy to associate vazaha with 'French'.
Bonjour, mademoiselle!
Comment ça va?
Bonjour vazaha!
French.
It angers and saddens me.
"Colonization is violence, and there are many ways to carry out that violence." -Philip Gourevitch
Being associated with colonization leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
I have never clung more tightly to my label of American than when I'm assumed to be French in Madagascar. When people holler at me in French, I usually respond with "Salama!" Or "Manahoana!" (Hi, how are you/good morning). Reactions vary from "Miteny Gasy?!" to broad smiles to a rapid fire string of Malagasy. It is so unheard of for a white person to speak their language that they freak out when I say "hello". And if I say "Mbola mianatra" (still learning)- oh man. That gets me smiles and hand shakes and pats on the back. And almost as soon as I speak those two words in Malagasy, I start hearing "Amerika" being thrown around. Seems to me, Malagasy love Americans- in part because of the Peace Corps, but also in part because we're seen as the white people who bother learning their language.
I don't know very much about colonization yet. I barely know the history of colonization in Madagascar. But I do know it makes me uncomfortable and queasy. And I know that I will be doing a lot of reading and thinking on the topic in the coming year.
Until then, I will keep on trying to exist as an alternative here- not Malagasy, but not a typical "vazaha" either. I will keep on trying to learn to sympathize with being a racial other.
I will keep these two things ever present with me.
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