What the Hayk?

When we lived in Eritrea, our house sat at a “roundabout” on the west side of town. I write “roundabout” in quotes because, if there had been pavement, the open area in front of our house would have most certainly been a roundabout. Instead, however, the open area was a sandy convergence of several dirt roads. Ours was the only residence in the circle. The police station sat across the road to our right and a Catholic monastery and dairy to our left. Across the way was the American Hotel which, at one time, probably offered lodging but currently offered a worn down basketball court, and hot and cold drinks.

During the war for the independence of Eritrea, our villa served as an office for the Ethiopian army. The window shutters in our house were riddled with bullet holes and the yard filled with bullets and the remnant of a military vehicle.

We were advised to hire a night guard who could also watch our property during our monthly trips to the capital city. Our landlord handily offered *Dawit as a good candidate. Since we knew no one else, we hired him. Dawit was just a teenager. He sported kinky hair cut short, bright eyes, and a winning smile. He spoke English sufficiently for us to communicate, which was good for us in the early days before we’d even begun language study.

Mixed Blessing

Dawit was a mixed-blessing for us. In some ways we really benefited from his presence. He gave us insight into the culture that was still so new to us. He did odd jobs we didn’t know how to do (and sometimes didn’t want to do!) and ran errands for us. One task Dawit took care of, when we first moved into our house, was removing bullets from the back yard. 

Our house included a large back area of land that had overgrown during it’s time of disuse. Before we moved in, the military vehicle had been removed. But bullets—some live—still covered the area. Dawit worked to gather all the casings and the live bullets into a big pile and then got rid of them.

His pleasant demeanor and his willingness to help was the good part of the mixed blessing. He lived in the side building on our property: a room and a bathroom that opened to the tiled area to the right of our house. Sometimes we could hear him singing or listening to the radio, but he never bothered us and always did what he could to help.

We were two of only five foreigners living in the town, and because of the war, most citizens hadn’t seen foreigners in years. I am sure that Dawit marveled at these strange new employers come to live in his town. One encounter with Dawit stands out to me as probably equally confusing to him and myself.

Pots and Pans

I’d brought several pots and pans with me from the States. Not many, of course, since our packing space was limited, but I did bring a few good Teflon nonstick pans for cooking. After several weeks of cooking on the gas stove, I had burned enough food to bake in some pretty stubborn black spots on the outside of the pans. 

Dawit needed things to do when we traveled up to Asmara once a month, so I asked him to scrub my pans for me.

And he did.

When we returned, he presented to me the pans with absolutely no Teflon left on them. He had scrubbed them completely “clean”. No burnt spots, no baked food, no Teflon. I was now the owner of several very silver-colored and very NOT nonstick pans.

“Thank You”

Through gritted teeth, I thanked him. I knew he was only doing what he thought I’d asked him to do. I am sure he wondered how in the world this American lady could have burned so much “food” into the pans like that. 

We didn’t understand each other, but we did the best we could.

Difference of culture. 

Both of us asking ourselves, “Why would they do that?” 

Neither of us working with complete information.

Appreciation > Comprehension

I think that thriving in a different culture requires appreciation more than comprehension. It’s noble to seek to understand someone else and we should make our best effort to do so. But if we never can get to that point of comprehending, can we appreciate them anyway?

Hayk

Many years later, when I was studying Arabic in a different country, our teachers would tell us that it’s OK to ask the question “Why do you say it like that?”, as long as we were willing to accept that sometimes the answer would be: “Hayk” (“that’s just the way it is”). I think it’s the same when learning to live in a different culture:

It’s good to ask why, as long as we are able to accept the fact that sometimes the  answer is:

Hayk.

What Do You Think?

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*Dawit is not this guy’s real name. Don’t be trying to track him down.