International children: catalysts for change.

DOUNIA DORANI MOVED WITH her parents to Saudi Arabia at the age of 1, when her father was assigned as Charge d'affaires at the Djibouti Mission. Born in Djibouti, she was too little to know anything about her country of origin before being immersed into the Saudi Arabian culture. Her father's job had propelled her into becoming an international child--the embodiment of the vision of his work, as well as of other international civil servants.

"We came to the United States with two suitcases. I was only two", recalled 21-year-old Dounia. One of her earliest impressions of the United States was seeing people of different skin colours. "In our country we had seen dark-skin and black people, but we had never seen Asians or whites. It was a culture shock", she said. "We came from a small country where everyone knew each other. Here there are so many people--some would approach us with a humble tone; others would approach us with a very nasty tone. We weren't used to that."

Dounia's younger brother, Seif, was born in Djibouti as well, and the youngest, Anas, in New York City. Typical of international children, they always have an unconventional answer to the basic question, "Where were you born?", and to the next natural question, "Why were you born there?" However, the fundamental and sometimes lifelong question they often ask themselves is, "Outside of my immediate family and those families like mine, where do I fit?"

I know the internal tension that these questions posed on children of international civil servants like me. I am of the first generation of globally mobile children who came into being as a result of the creation of the United Nations and the successes of the independence movements worldwide and the civil rights movement in the United States. I was born in a maternity centre in Monrovia, Liberia, to American parents, who worked with the United States foreign service. Unlike other women who returned to their country for the birth of their children, my mother trusted the Liberians, even when the delivery became complicated.

Although my United States citizenship was guaranteed at birth, my identity was always the sum of experiences I have had, without any overriding American cultural screens to decipher the tangible and intangible information I was receiving. On the other hand, my parents had the opportunity to become fully informed adults in one culture before choosing to embark in the foreign service lifestyle. In this regard, my upbringing was very similar to Dounia's, although we are a generation apart and have different countries of origin.

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Since Liberia is my point of entry into this world, it became the initial unconscious measuring stick to the four years of layering of cultures and perspectives of our subsequent posts to just-independent Tunisia, the early to mid-sixties United States and an intertwining combination of summers and vacations in Nigeria, Liberia and the United States, while attending an international school in Switzerland. I experienced all these before settling more permanently at 17 years old in my country of citizenship--the United States--at a time when the socio-cultural revolution of the seventies was in full swing.

How does an international child transition cultures? For one thing, most of us in such circumstances develop subconscious multi-sensory ways of receiving, interpreting and responding to the ongoing cultural data and signals surrounding us. It is, therefore, our primary and inherent survival technique as international children in our country of residence--with or without our families during our formative years, that is from childhood through late adolescent years--which is very familiar and very foreign to us, including in our country of citizenship. "Djibouti is my country. America is my home", Dounia said. "I never had a full childhood where I'm from. To remember, you have to start with your childhood, and so my childhood was here", she stressed. We build on what we know and become interpreters of what we learn.

"I learned not to judge a person right away when I see them", explained 15-year-old Anas. "There was a new boy who wanted to join our football team. He was half-Nigerian and half-Chinese. My friends thought he could not play. I told them to give him a chance and let him be a part of our team. He turned out to be a better player than my friends, so they can't say anything against him any more." Anas had a very difficult experience after September 11 (2001). "My friends on Roosevelt Island knew I was Muslim. After 9/11, they were sure that every Muslim was a terrorist. On the soccer field, they would go against me and my brother for being a Muslim. They would foul us for no reason. We got through it. Our friends eventually came back."

Anas also remembered how difficult it was for his older brother, Seif, to assimilate. "Every time he went outside to play, the other children would pick on him. He would get into fights. The next day, he would come outside again and act like nothing had happened, but the same thing would happen. When he was eight, he started taking karate. It taught him discipline, respect and tolerance", Anas said. "My brother is now a second-degree black belt. I followed in his footsteps and have become a first-degree junior black belt. Through sports, we have learned to command respect."

As international children, our immediate family serves as our constant base and personal repository of our collection of memories and experiences. While we are able to talk about those experiences with our extended family and friends, we usually don't share the same perspective because of the different levels of exposure that we had to international environments and the national framework of our countries of origin or host countries. This also causes some misunderstandings that force us to find ways to bridge the gap. The only thread of familiarity is the contents of our suitcases and the routine of our nomadic lives from one country to another. And, unpacked in our new home, they make us feel safe as we begin our assimilation process.

The lives of international children in their new home can be disrupted by their parents being sent on mission to another country without them. In my case, the Biafran War erupted six months after my father was stationed in Nigeria. Although my brother and I were ultimately allowed to visit him during school vacations, we were not allowed to attend school in Lagos, because the American school there was located right next to an army garrison. In the case of Dounia and her brothers, their father joined the United Nations in April 1997 and was immediately transferred to a non-family station in Baku, Azerbaijan, for four years and subsequently to a family station in Cairo, Egypt, also for four years. However, since the children had already become teenagers and felt it would be too hard to leave their friends and the lives they had built in New York City, they visited their father during school vacations. In 2005, Mr. Dorani was transferred to UN Headquarters and reunited with his family.

As international children, the reciprocal impact of this whole experience fundamentally contributes to our redefinition of wealth as being according to exposure, perspective and the humanity of friends, rather than through monetary means only. Yet, unless we have independent means, many of these tangible lifestyle experiences cannot be duplicated on the middle-class salary earned by international civil servants upon their return to their country of origin. These are among the paradoxes we grow up with and have to explain to our extended family and friends who have not had the same experiences.

Dounia attended the Winston Preparatory School after finding out she needed help with her learning skills. "It is located in a rich neighbourhood and had more white kids. It wasn't as diverse as any other school I had attended. I hung out with girls who had money, but had no ambition or understanding of history or culture", she explained. She mentioned about a friend, who received from her parents a lot of money and all the clothes and jewellery she wanted, but still was unhappy and later developed a drug problem. Recognizing the potential harmful impact of this situation, Dounia cut off their friendship. She also realized that being wealthy did not necessarily mean one was rich.

Summarizing her experience, Dounia reflected: "I didn't know who I was until I got to college. It was my first time having to make decisions and choices on my own. I now know the value of what I have experienced. It takes one person to change everything. Always help people who encouraged you so that when you come back you can help their children and that helps break the cycle of poverty, ignorance and dependence. One voice can open up everyone's ear."

The lessons we learn along the way as international children are indelible and guide us throughout our lives. They unwittingly turn us into catalysts of change. In so doing, it forces us to redefine the traditional meaning of who we should be, while allowing others in our midst to become who they innately are.

Dorothy Davis is founder and President of The Diasporan Touch, a special events and celebrity advocacy consulting company specializing in African diaspora. She managed the United Nations Development Programme's Goodwill Ambassador Programme and served as the Director of Public Affairs at the Africa America Institute.

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