On Being a Foreigner

Obruni is a local Ghanaian word for which the simplest, most direct translation is “foreigner”. But really, it is a word that means as little or as much as you think it means. For instance, it was first used to refer to the Portuguese explorers that initially set foot in this region of West Africa in the 15th century. Then it simply meant “white man” (that was a notable feature for the native dark-skinned peoples living here), and to some people that’s what it still means today. Or it could mean much more than “white man”. It refers to women. It refers to people of any ethnicity. In fact, it refers to anyone at all who doesn’t have dark skin. Even native-born Ghanaians find themselves called this if they are "fair"-- basically anything lighter than a 60% cacao chocolate bar.

But obruni is a term of the South. In northwestern Ghana, we foreigners are lucky to have two words to describe us, the other being nansala. This term literally means "human" in Waale and Dagaare (the local languages) but basically means the same thing: you are not from here.

Walking through town, I hear a chorus of hisses and "nansalaaaaa" as native Ghanaians try to get me to buy their wares or just want to greet a white person. In the Upper West, foreigners are rare, so many people have never seen a person with light skin in the flesh. Children are a mixed bag. Some are so jazzed to meet me they look like they might explode. They either greet me with excited cries of "nansala!" or the robotic rhyme they are taught in school to acknowledge foreigners: "Nan-sa-la, How-are-you?, We-are-fine, Thank-you, and-you?" If I ignore them, they figure I do not know the local term for foreigner and immediately charge into screaming obruni after me. Some have run up to me to touch my white skin, hoping it will "rub off on them," or to attempt to touch my "nice hair" (although this doesn't happen much, considering that I am at least twice as tall as they are). Others, though, are scared of me. Whenever I go to the market, many little ones cower behind their mothers' vegetable stands for fear I might look at them and burst into tears if I do.

At first, I willingly accepted being called nansala and would respond back as if it were my name. However, as time goes on, that willingness has lessened. I now hesitate to turn around when someone calls out "nansala poga" ("white lady") in my direction. Sometimes, I just ignore them.

Why is that? Aren't I hurting my chances at integration by refusing to engage in conversation with these individuals? I could be learning some new Waale terms if I made stronger attempts to befriend them.

In addition, the Peace Corps staff and other Ghanaians who have come to know us Americans will insist that obruni and nansala are not derogatory terms. “The children don’t know not to shout it at you.”  “It really just means ‘foreigner’.” 

After a lot of thought, I think I know the answer to why it bothers me: being called a "foreigner" in the U.S. does not have the same neutral meaning as it does here. Foreigners are who Americans like to pin all of their problems, who "don't belong here," who are a reminder that America is a land of huge diversity and is not purely lily-white. Truly, being called a foreigner there is an insult. It is a bully's reminder that you are an outsider and do not deserve respect afforded to the "in-crowd" of "natural-borns."

Then there's the reminder that I am not, and never will be, a true part of my new community. Experiencing that for the first time is my privilege showing. In Chicago, everywhere I went was either racially-mixed or majority-white, meaning I never felt out of place because of the color of my skin. Meanwhile, students of color at my majority-white university, for example, felt like outsiders every day. As a result, most search for and find emotional refuge in groups dedicated to those with such oppressed identities.

Although one does not need to be called "a foreigner" to see the privilege PCVs experience here.  It’s the mosquito net I expect and easily have access to. It’s the lock on my door. It’s the flush toilet and shower I enjoy while my students use cement latrines and the grass. It’s the room I have all to myself. It’s the extra care my Ghanaian neighbors take to prepare "Americanized" (aka less spicy) food for me, and it’s the Pepto-Bismol I don’t go anywhere without. It’s the nice band-aids on my sunscreen-protected skin.

But it's also more: It’s the giggles when I offer high fives. It’s the genuine appreciation from people around town when I try to take part in local dances. It's the mild offense taken when I don't greet someone I pass on the street. It’s the pride my neighbors display when I get excited about learning new Waale terms. It’s the excitement my students and I feel as they teach me how to cook and farm. Put simply, it’s the details of my life here that are just as new and strange to me even if it's old news to my community.

More than that, though, nansala is the moment I realize that my students still can't spell "red" even though they're in the 6th grade. It’s the “no” in their eyes when I ask if they understand an assignment even though their hands say “yes”. It's the excitement they have just to color and express themselves in an education system that rewards remote memorization and copying.

Nansala is why I’m here. I could ignore it and just live in this country for two years as a teacher and then go home. It would definitely be easy to do. But no, I’m here to share and learn. After my time here, I want to be able to show my friends and family the lives of people they'll probably never meet but have made so many assumptions about, who have such foreign lifestyles and yet are human just like them.