It’s 9:30 pm, and the only thing standing between my bed and me is a steaming cup of milk—straight from the cow. I’m sitting at the dinner table with my home-stay family in the Tanzanian village of Bangata. We’re all huddled around three cell phones as our source of light since the electricity went out again and I’m staring at a cup of thick, whitish liquid. There are seven of us in total, but no one is really talking. We maxed out my Swahili abilities long ago, and I’ve come to experience a whole new world called sitting in silence. It is as comfortable for them as it is uncomfortable for me; I am caught with indecision about whether or not to wait it out for the sake of cultural experience or gulp down the milk and run for my room. Fortunately the battery-operated radio is still bringing us Tanzania’s latest hits, and a healthy dose of Celine Dion’s greatest hits— just enough noise to accentuate our own silence.

These are the moments when I ask myself what I’m doing here. Studying abroad? Got it.

Whenever these thoughts strike me, which also happens when we are driving around the national parks and snapping pictures of elephants, I find myself thankful that the academic director already had us do a writing assignment on “Why am I here” and I can just look back for clarification. My answer in simple terms: I came here to learn.

I place a big emphasis on coming here to learn in part because I want to clarify that I did not come to Tanzania to “help.” There is definitely a common mindset that Westerners going anywhere in Africa are supposed to be helping or creating change by alleviating poverty.

It has been a fact of life here since the colonial period, and up to this very day with the International Monetary Fund, World Bank, and influx of non-governmental organizations. In a Foucauldian sense, all these institutions assert incredible power by defining what is better for Tanzania through the idea of development. But in many ways these organizations are selling a pipe dream to Tanzanians. Development, whatever that means, isn’t happening in my home-stay village, no matter how much Western education is emphasized.

Development here seems to happen in enclaves—in the national parks, in secure mining areas, in fancy hotels for tourists. And even if these institutions really were meant to serve Tanzanians, as I said, there is a lot of power in the idea of defining what is better for other people.

As a newcomer here, I shy away from the idea of helping or defining because I have no right to think I know what Tanzanians need or to think that I could provide it. Yet even though I am conscientious of this dynamic, I may never be able to completely escape the value system I grew up with, which has its own definition of poorness and its own call to action. Even the guilt I feel when my home-stay mama spends all day cleaning the house is itself a value statement. Guilt is an unconscious way of defining what I think is better.

It should be straight forward that studying abroad is for studying, but when your home-stay brother asks you for money to pay his school fees or your neighbor can’t afford malaria medicine, the line is suddenly blurred. It gets back to the idea of power and privilege.

What should we do as transient members of this community? Our actions are an unsustainable solution for the people living in this village. In other words, is it fair to provide something that will no longer be available in a month? But at the same time is it possible to let someone go without what ought to be a basic human right? And how can we ever act without the foresight of knowing the consequences of our actions? As of now, I have no idea—but I am hoping that my experience here will offer a bit of insight and that I’ll figure it out one day.

For now, the bottom line is that I came to Tanzania not to help, but simply to learn, and so far I’ve accomplished my goal. I’ve learned that giraffes make funny runners. I’ve learned that warm milk straight from the cow is not my cup of tea. I’ve learned that Tanzania still loves Celine Dion. I’ve learned to succumb to the awkwardness of sitting in silence.

And I’ve learned that being an American student in a sub-Saharan African country means navigating a dynamic of power and privilege. What I would still like to learn is how to navigate that dynamic both with humility and with grace. But I’ve still got a few months to fit that in.


Megan A. Shutzer ’10, a Crimson editorial editor, is a social studies concentrator in Leverett House. She is studying abroad for the semester in Tanzania.