A kid who caught the travel bug? Or a young humanitarian injecting passion into life

If there is anything I have learned from my short stint so far in the "professional" world is that life is all about perspectives. Some see me as a young, hardworker trying hard to make a name for herself, others see me as an entitled member of a generation of freeloaders seeking recognition for a job not done. I see both as problematic, I see them as peices of a pie. A big, multi-flavored complicated pie. This idea of perspective, however, helps us understand why we struggle to be heard and understood in our world.

I love to travel. I love to learn. I love to travel and learn. Some think I am a young girl that simply caught the travel bug. I saw glimpses of the world through travel with my parents from a young age and it appears that I seek to see the world and be a tourist. It is, in reality much more than that. I am a student of the world. I see in our world the eixtence of extremes. Where there are the extremely rich, there are the extremely poor. Where there are the radical leftists there can be found the radical conservatives. In the West or "Global North" I see in these extremes the excesses of privileged lives. We often see our lives as mundane despite the existence of multiple outlets for creativity, resources for change and really just an abundant amount of "stuff" to do. We create boredom because there is nothing on tv, no good songs on the radio and no one is tweeting anything new. We forget the roots of who we are and struggle to fill our days with meaning. We forget that our geography or our skin tone have contributed and created our success.

So why do I seek to travel, to work with new cultures, to understand their lives, their stories, their pain, their humanity?
I see in them my family, my story, my hopes and my dreams. My parents were not given any gifts by their geography. They were born in Iran and created their destiny by changing their geographical location (at least that's my perception). What is it about where we are born or live that dictates our lives? Without rights, freedoms and resources there can be little hope to see entrepreneurial spirits grow so ambition is replaced with poverty and desire with violence. It is a choice to change this but a choice that is not available to most. For a world where most of the wealth is in the hands of the fewest we must look critically at ourselves and understand why we are the way we are. We must see our flaws, our vices, our racisms, our judgements and instead of denying them try to understand why they exist.

This is why I travel. I am not naive, I realize that I cannot save the whole of Africa or Latin America, nor do I wish to. What I want is to share the stories of those we do not understand and foster that understanding. Perhaps an example will better explain what I mean...

I miss Africa. I spent only 19 days in Uganda and Rwanda. I miss it everyday.
I miss the pulse of the streets and the red dirt. Some stories say that the red earth is a result of the blood spilled by the African people over lifetimes of conflict. Others maintain that the red earth is the blood of humanity, the clay that created human life. You can feel those stories in the ground and it beats through you and creates a oneness with the world. I miss the genuine nature of a people whose history is often denied. I miss the contradictions of religion and service found in the organizations that advocate change. I miss the stories of pain, triumph, heartache, loss, success, love, fear, retribution, endurance. I miss the stories of life. The stories we in the West have often become too jaded to share. I miss the stories of life that don't involve cell phones, hot fashions or celebrity gossip. I want to see real life the way it is lived throughout the world and I want to use that to make our life, in our home stronger, more understanding and richer in humanity.

I want to see all fo the world, the pretty, the ugly and the in between and learn from it. I want to see racism, I want it to knock me down and hit me in the face like a sharp and biting wind so that I can get up stronger and more prepared. I want to sit with those plagued by poverty and even if I cannot stand along side them and understand their lives I can help them see their value and they can help me see mine. I want to see loss and feel resilience and share loss and resilience in my own life. I want to share stories and bring them back with me and by giving a voice to things we don't understand, maybe we'll be more willing, as a society to learn.

I am overly idealistic and maybe it is that I am entitled. Maybe it is that I am a pretentious child of privilege enacting that status by acting as a "saviour" of sorts. Or, maybe thats your perception. Maybe it's bigger than that. Maybe I am afraid and in that fear I find life. In the discomfort that comes from being out of my comfort zone I feel alive. It is in those moments that I really feel and allow others to feel with me. It is in those moments my pain and my loss is one with that of my brothers and sisters of choice around the world. It is in those moments, stripped of convenience and judgement that I can learn, I can teach and I can create change alongside those who choose to be advocates of hope with me.

I don't travel to see, I travel to immerse. My parents taught me a long time ago that the world is bigger than me and my needs, my wants and my desires. They taught me to care about people. Little did they know I would consider all the world people worth caring for. It's more than the travel bug, it's a change we can believe in.

"Wait for Tomorrow, You'll Be Alright."

When I was little my brother, in an attempt to prove his God-like skills to my sister and I, put my childrens books in the oven. He was trying to highlight the scientific fact that the paper wouldn't melt or burn above or beyond a certain temperature. Of that he was sure. He was so certain and confident in what he said, he was unfaltering in what he knew. So sure that he really put our books in the oven, our beloved stories that we held so dear to our heart.

He was right, the paper didn't burn, it didn't ignite. Nothing happened to the paper. Not a damn thing. We nervously sat, shrieking and screaming, clutching his lean, stronger than our arms begging him to pull the books out and as we did, the glue and the binding that held those invincible pages together began to slowly cook. The books pages began to come apart and soon those stories were less cohesive units but just seperate pages with oozing goop, warm and soft around them. The books were ruined, pages intact.

He had been so confident, but there had been something that he had not accounted for. There are always things we don't account for. My brother, like most of my family, is wise, and has since learned to take into consideration more than just the pages. He doesn't always see the story for the book. My family, for example, sees me now as a law student. I am, taking the lsat prep courses to buy myself some time to see if that is where I should end up, or if I should go where I see myself, TFA or someother noble cause that I deem equally worthy and would be just as priviledged to work for.

In the mean time, I try to put all the pages in order for everyone to read but it seems like they were never meant to go in the right order to begin with. At least not in my stories .