Kenya is at heightened security alert. Shopping malls have guards at their entries checking bags and boots for bombs. Individuals are avoiding busy places at peak times. Expat spouses are being summoned by their partner's employers to security briefings.
Picture the scene: the height of summer here, a table with homemade cakes, a dappled verandah, a gathering of co-opted spouses who have shrugged themselves from comfy leggings and kaftans to lever themselves into a dress for a more formal setting.
Two men hold the floor. Sit back in the comfy chairs, legs splayed wide apart. They are the employees. Their attitude to the spouses is clear.
'Well THIS is a nice life you have here. Is this what you do with yourself all day?'
The addressed spouse smiles sweetly. Hackles rise.
The spouses understand the need for the briefing. They live here after all. Have turned up. Can't help but be aware of potential and reality of gunshots on their street, of random violence where we are the wealthy in a country with very real pressures for the majority of the population, of the overhang from the major violence after the last disputed elections. We are the ones who make decisions whether to get an escort car home from a party, or whether 10 minutes drive on quiet roads is really completely fine. Weigh up whether the urgent need for the best bread in Nairobi from ArtCafe is worth a rapid dash into primetarget mall. Who are out and about at school run time, and occasionally get caught in demonstrations by stonethrowing individuals. We are also are attempting to size up the situation, to manage the inflow of potential visitors during the next year, correlated against the potential of disruption in the wider political scene. We came to toe the party line. But in the hope of information too.
But the disdain and arrogance of the Employees was evident. They were the Experts. The ones with knowledge, even though it wouldn't be appropriate for them to share it. For security reasons of course. We were the Little Women. The Captive Audience. Nothing more.
We sat through long stories which were far from relevant to our situation. Buttonholed by the old geezer at the club keen to share his tales of armchair battle. We stirred, asked pointed questions, linked to our queries and experiences. Were rebuffed. We noted areas where, in our analysis, the game might be raised for little or no cost. Were brushed aside, put down, made to feel inadequate.
Complexions became flushed. The captive audience started describing themselves as clients. Articulated positions more clearly. Formulated very pointed statements. To no avail. Water off an obtuse duck's back.
But here's what I was too incensed to articulate at the time. Couldn't think how to say it all spruced up in my flowery dress and high heels in my husband's work setting. But back in the leggings, speaking as an individual, for myself alone, here we go.
We are experts at this too, in our own ways. We, the Little Women, have lived in insecure circumstances before, far far worse than Kenya. Have brains and local contacts. Several had been evacuated from precarious hotspots. Others had continued living in precarious hotspots, in Bosnia, Islamabad, Belfast in IRA times. Others had reached their own accommodation, in situations where if something went wrong, even a burst appendix, you were on your own. St Helena, reached by container ship, miles and miles from helicopter range. Have supported partners working in difficult, isolated, volatile, hard-to-decipher warzones for NGOs which couldn't afford satphones. Others of us, who more sensibly, had failed to turn up, had served - are serving - in the armed forces at senior levels. For expat spouses now are no longer just women, and we women have our own careers, which may also be as army officers.
Last night at a party I was talking to a mate of mine. Who it turned out had been born in Nigeria, had lived as a child through the early stages of the Biafran war, whose father had stayed behind to run air traffic control on the bush runway into which brave pilots flew cargo planes to seek to relieve the famine. The guns and bombers were close by. The landing lights were only put on for ten seconds per landing, to hope to minimise enemy attack. If the pilot had navigated wrong, was in the wrong position, ten seconds is too little time to recover. My mate became a refugee at the age of nine. She's lived through alot. Has come to terms with precarious situations. Despite knowing her well I hadn't known it till last night.
We all have our hinterlands. Don't you dare assume that what you, with your limited insight, see, is all that there is. Don't you dare assume that because women have worn flowery dresses, because we, in our British way, listen politely, don't maul you at your first arrogant sweeping statement and insensitive client-obtuse rebuff, that you can take us, our assent, fawning glances and gentle applause as your right. And next time, I'll be the one in leggings waving stroppy placards in the front row.
Picture the scene: the height of summer here, a table with homemade cakes, a dappled verandah, a gathering of co-opted spouses who have shrugged themselves from comfy leggings and kaftans to lever themselves into a dress for a more formal setting.
Two men hold the floor. Sit back in the comfy chairs, legs splayed wide apart. They are the employees. Their attitude to the spouses is clear.
'Well THIS is a nice life you have here. Is this what you do with yourself all day?'
The addressed spouse smiles sweetly. Hackles rise.
The spouses understand the need for the briefing. They live here after all. Have turned up. Can't help but be aware of potential and reality of gunshots on their street, of random violence where we are the wealthy in a country with very real pressures for the majority of the population, of the overhang from the major violence after the last disputed elections. We are the ones who make decisions whether to get an escort car home from a party, or whether 10 minutes drive on quiet roads is really completely fine. Weigh up whether the urgent need for the best bread in Nairobi from ArtCafe is worth a rapid dash into primetarget mall. Who are out and about at school run time, and occasionally get caught in demonstrations by stonethrowing individuals. We are also are attempting to size up the situation, to manage the inflow of potential visitors during the next year, correlated against the potential of disruption in the wider political scene. We came to toe the party line. But in the hope of information too.
But the disdain and arrogance of the Employees was evident. They were the Experts. The ones with knowledge, even though it wouldn't be appropriate for them to share it. For security reasons of course. We were the Little Women. The Captive Audience. Nothing more.
We sat through long stories which were far from relevant to our situation. Buttonholed by the old geezer at the club keen to share his tales of armchair battle. We stirred, asked pointed questions, linked to our queries and experiences. Were rebuffed. We noted areas where, in our analysis, the game might be raised for little or no cost. Were brushed aside, put down, made to feel inadequate.
Complexions became flushed. The captive audience started describing themselves as clients. Articulated positions more clearly. Formulated very pointed statements. To no avail. Water off an obtuse duck's back.
But here's what I was too incensed to articulate at the time. Couldn't think how to say it all spruced up in my flowery dress and high heels in my husband's work setting. But back in the leggings, speaking as an individual, for myself alone, here we go.
We are experts at this too, in our own ways. We, the Little Women, have lived in insecure circumstances before, far far worse than Kenya. Have brains and local contacts. Several had been evacuated from precarious hotspots. Others had continued living in precarious hotspots, in Bosnia, Islamabad, Belfast in IRA times. Others had reached their own accommodation, in situations where if something went wrong, even a burst appendix, you were on your own. St Helena, reached by container ship, miles and miles from helicopter range. Have supported partners working in difficult, isolated, volatile, hard-to-decipher warzones for NGOs which couldn't afford satphones. Others of us, who more sensibly, had failed to turn up, had served - are serving - in the armed forces at senior levels. For expat spouses now are no longer just women, and we women have our own careers, which may also be as army officers.
Last night at a party I was talking to a mate of mine. Who it turned out had been born in Nigeria, had lived as a child through the early stages of the Biafran war, whose father had stayed behind to run air traffic control on the bush runway into which brave pilots flew cargo planes to seek to relieve the famine. The guns and bombers were close by. The landing lights were only put on for ten seconds per landing, to hope to minimise enemy attack. If the pilot had navigated wrong, was in the wrong position, ten seconds is too little time to recover. My mate became a refugee at the age of nine. She's lived through alot. Has come to terms with precarious situations. Despite knowing her well I hadn't known it till last night.
We all have our hinterlands. Don't you dare assume that what you, with your limited insight, see, is all that there is. Don't you dare assume that because women have worn flowery dresses, because we, in our British way, listen politely, don't maul you at your first arrogant sweeping statement and insensitive client-obtuse rebuff, that you can take us, our assent, fawning glances and gentle applause as your right. And next time, I'll be the one in leggings waving stroppy placards in the front row.
OMG could not have put it better we need to talk x
ReplyDelete