My brother said to me once that I made Ethiopia out to be a some kind of prison. As if I’m serving a sentence. Just over the past week, I’ve come to realize this is true.
I struggle to know what to say about it. I could make some cute comparison to my life as a “prison”. But the truth is I’m fed up. My life has entirely revolved around my husband and subsequently our lovely girls. It’s not so terrible a thing – but I’m lost.
My friend lent me “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” last week – a timely read. “Being in a foreign country means walking a tightrope high above the ground without the net afforded a person by the country where [s]he has family, colleagues, and friends, and where [s]he can easily say what [s]he has to say in a language [s]he has known from childhood…What would happen to her here if he abandoned her? Would she have to live her whole life in fear of losing him?” I don’t fear abandonment as much as I fear something perfectly terrible will happen. To him. To me. To us. Whether it’s our own undoing or not.
I don’t want to spend my days and nights alone. I want ye selam fikir. I deserve. I’ve served my sentence.