As we walked, I began rattling off all of my frustrations, while Josh lent me a compassionate ear: “How could your father be so insensitive? He didn’t even listen to us before jumping right in! How could a one or two-week, or even one or two-month government shutdown compare to the years of neglect and repression that the people of Sudan have suffered? So many Americans don’t even know what it is like to truly go hungry—to rely on bread as your sole source of nutrition. We have no concept of this! How can we all be so privileged and so narrow-minded? Why can’t we listen to one another, slowly and empathetically, instead of immediately jumping in with a response? Sometimes it isn't all about us!”
After a minute or two, I had finally calmed down enough to have a more productive discussion. Josh reassured me that his father (and mother) meant well. But they simply don’t share our perspectives, because they have not had the same experiences as us. It was a rare and wonderful gift that we were given—to have been able to spend nearly four years living and traveling on the opposite side of the world. And it changed us. It changed the way we see ourselves and the way we see our place in the world. His parents, like so many other Americans, never took that trip.
“They are old, now,” he said. “Their minds are, for the most part, made up. This is why it is so important for us to continue our work [promoting responsible tourism and cross-cultural understanding] with the younger generations—this is where real change can begin and continue for a long time to come.”
As soon as Josh said this, I was reminded of so many discussions I once had with my Vietnamese friends and co-teachers.
