Duke Second Impressions

Ilayda Arslan – Turkey

Me and depression, we go way back.

When I was 14, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. The slightest, most minute chance of losing someone you love is painful, but losing someone that is your mentor, your best friend, is even worse. That event served like a magnet to the storm that is my depression. It just turned on a switch in my brain that I still haven't figured out how to flip off. I didn’t talk to anyone for months. It got to a point where I wasn’t able to leave my house, not even go to school or see my friends. When I cried, I cried without even feeling the tears running down my cheeks. I would see teardrops on my desk or on my notebook, and I would look up to check if water was dripping from the ceiling.

The thing about depression is that it’s hard to realize that you’re in it until you’re way deep in it. Unless you’re in the eye of the tornado, you can’t see it, it's just blurry up to that point. Depression has a way of sneaking up on you.

Imagine yourself in an open field that represents your life. You’re walking around and there’s a tiny storm cloud that’s following you, in the distance. Sometimes by chance you’ll run into it. Other times a stressful event draws it near. That’s how I think of my depression. It’s always there. A tiny storm that can become a hurricane in the blink of an eye. The open field that I share with it is never empty– I put my life there. But when the storm comes it’s so blurry that I can’t see anything. I don’t see what makes me happy, I don’t see what makes me sad. I don’t see what I love and what I hate because I don’t see anything, I don’t feel anything. I become numb. I have to remind myself that I have emotions.

I’m never prepared for the storm. When you see clouds, what’s the normal thing to do? You get up, close the windows, put on warmer clothes. Yet the thing about depression is that when you see the storm you just freeze and wait for it. You’re soaking wet by the time you decide that you should, or could, do something about it.

I’m an international student, so this is not home for me. Being home had a sense of protection. At home I could just go outside, go to places I recognize, see people and places that evoke memories that tie me to my sense of self. Here, I’m just a tourist.

Last year, I went back home to Turkey for Christmas Break. My house was filled with 20 or so loving relatives welcoming me. I went into my room, put my bag down, and looked around. It didn’t feel like it was mine. I closed the door, sat down, stared at the bedroom that I had had since the day I was born, the room I was raised in. It just wasn’t mine anymore. It still had the same bedsheets, the same candles, the same carpet. Yet I still sat down and cried.

That was the point when I felt that I had lost my past while not yet having a future. I was no longer a black spot on the timeline that was my life, I was a gray spot. I couldn’t sleep that night, I just got anxious until the morning. I was left with no sense of belonging and no home.

Whenever I felt lost to the point of being suicidal, I told myself that I was going to be home soon, that I was going to be where I belonged. When I went back home, I realized I no longer had that, and all of the self-convincing I had done went out the window. So, I got up in the morning and I thought “Okay. Today is the day I either kill myself or I push myself off the bottom of the pool and find the surface.” I decided to find the surface.

I tell myself that each time I feel like I’ve hit bottom. “If you want to stop here, you lose all chances of things turning back around. You think that if you go on you lose too? Take the chance. There is the smallest chance of you being happy in the future, whether it's tomorrow or in 10 years. Take that chance.”

I think there are multiple patterns of reactions I get when I seek help. There’s a common thread of people not understanding what’s going on. The most helpful reaction is when someone realizes that I’m going through something and instead of trying to fully comprehend what it is, they’ll ask me “What do you need me to do?” That’s music to my ears when I’m in that position. They are willing to help, and that’s all that matters. Sometimes it's just better to be there for someone without trying to see from their perspective.

At Duke, there are a lot of resources for people dealing with mental health issues, but there’s a lack of resources available to people who want to help those in need. Something I’d like to see more of are things like what we’re doing at TEAM (Teaching Everyone About Mental Health). We are trying to make resources available for people who are going through these problems, as well as people who are supporting them. We are the support for the support. When I’m depressed, people around me want to help but they don’t know how to. They think they can pull me out, that’s the problem. They don’t have the resources to help me in a productive way, and I think this goes for many who suffer like me.

In the last few months I’ve stopped trying to make people think that I’m happy when I'm not. I used to hide it when I was unhappy, I would put on that mask and act like everything was fine until I went back to my room. And I was miserable. The mask of happiness I would put on made people around me feel better, but it didn’t make me feel better. I always questioned myself and asked if I was being happy for others, or if I was truly happy.

The answer that I could give myself was not good enough. The whole 'faking it' situation just cemented my depression– I fed it in a way that was so subtle that even I didn't realize it for a long time. The damage is done, obviously, but now I know better. Maybe this way I will learn what makes me truly happy. Trial and error is risky but I don't have a choice. All I know today that I didn't know before is that being true to myself feels better. It makes me respect myself more.

**This is Duke International Association's project to showcase members of the international community and to urge people to break stereotypes by going beyond first impressions and taking a closer look at people's stories.**
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**TEAM. is an organization dedicated to providing support for the support—their website walks you through how to help a loved one with a mental health condition, diagnosed or undiagnosed. By understanding conditions, how to identify and address symptoms, and sharing stories, we can better understand how to be there for our friends and family.**

https://www.myteam.org/

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By Pau Guerra

Thandolwethu Mamba – Swaziland

I didn’t know Armenia was a country until the moment I found out I would be studying there for two years. I landed in Yerevan (the capital) at 3 in the morning, and hopped into a taxi. The next thing I know we’re driving away from the city lights, into pitch darkness for an hour. It was 5 in the morning when I entered campus, yet there were still people who had stayed up and welcomed me. Even though they looked half-dead from lack of sleep, the fact that so many people from such different countries would stay up to welcome a complete stranger gave me a sense of comfort and satisfaction in my decision to go to Armenia.

During my first year, I was one of six black students, all from Africa. We were the only black people in the town. Strangers would come up to me and ask to take a picture of me all the time. The staring I could ignore, but the nerve to come up to me and ask to take a picture? Or asking to touch my hair, asking whether it was real? It’s tolerable for a few weeks, but after 3 months anyone would be pretty tired of that. When it was time for me to go to college, I thought “I’ve survived being part of a very small minority for 2 years. The US can’t be that bad.”

I thought when I came to Duke that I was just going to be part of the big, culturally influential minority that is black people. It’s what I wanted because I’m a Pan-Africanist and I believe in the idea of universal blackness. For me, being a Pan-Africanist means that regardless of different languages and different cultures, I should be able to connect with someone from Mali as easily as someone from my home country, Swaziland. I was surprised when I got here and realized that there is a clear distinction between Africans and African Americans. It was hard for me to come to terms with that. The differences in experiences and realities might not be evident to an outsider, but they exist for me. After some time I realized that the expectation of having an instant bond with an African American student just by virtue of us both being black was unrealistic on my part. Branches grow towards different directions even though they share the same roots–and that’s the beauty of a tree.

I’m grateful that my time in Armenia forced me to spend time with people of different backgrounds and ways of thinking, rather than isolating myself with people who looked and thought like I did. I definitely grew a lot from that. When you look at someone you don’t know, you immediately think of stereotypes and preconceptions of what they are supposed to be like. You walk away telling yourself that you know them, and you really don’t. When you step out of your comfort zone and you have a conversation... it’s mind-blowing that you could have something in common. For example, my best friend in Armenia was from Mexico. Through him I fell in love with his country, culture, history, and food. Because of him, I felt a connection to Mexico almost equal to the connection I feel to Swaziland.

Pan-Africanism is all about unity. The presence of difference does not mean you can not have unity. Pan-Africanism is recognizing that we’re different, but our differences do not negate each other. When our differences juxtapose, they create something beautiful. They are not immiscible. We are one, but we are not the same.

**This is Duke International Association's project to showcase members of the international community and to urge people to break stereotypes by going beyond first impressions and taking a closer look at people's stories.**
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By Pau Guerra

PC: Cristina Michelle García Ayala

Nicolás Andrés Cort Ananías– Chile/United States

People will ask me where I’m from and I’ll answer, “Chile.” I’ve never lived in Chile. I identify with being Chilean because that’s my culture, but I’m not from there. My mom is Chilean and my dad is American– he’s Jewish. When I’m in America, I’m Chilean. But when I’m in Chile, I’m American. I always have to occupy that weird limbo because I’ve been exposed to both cultures. I was born in the UK and lived in Spain before I moved to America 10 years ago. Coming to the States you have to take a staunch affirmation of “yes, I am Latino.” Coming here you have to entrench yourself in the stance of “I am a minority and I do not identify with the vast majority of American cultural practices.” You have be more active in your identity, in your self-identification.

While I’ve been at Duke I’ve realized there are two identities that come out with respect to being Latinx. There are those who have always lived in the United States and happen to be have parents from Latin America. They center themselves around being American and recognizing their cultural heritage. The other identification I’ve come to notice is the type of Latinx who was born and raised in a Latin American country, and identifies strongly with the culture. I’ve had conversations with people who identify as one or the other, but I’ve not met too many people who are stuck in limbo like I feel sometimes I am.

I think there’s a linguistic and cultural similarity and affinity between Latin American countries that I think makes it so that culture can be fairly similar throughout the region– because of the shared language and shared history of Spanish colonization. However, there is no single shared story when it comes to Latinxs in the United States.

I feel that the Latinxs who were born and raised in the United States have a shared history of marginalization– due to their ethnic or socioeconomic status– that I feel is really influential in building a coherent cultural identity. The international Latinx students here at Duke generally come from more privileged backgrounds in their home countries, are more affluent and maybe less affected by the social issues that will affect the Latino community in the United States. I’ve come to be aware of all of these things while not fitting into any of them– so yes, while I may be Latino, I’m still white. As a result, I’ve not faced the same challenges that affect Latinxs in the United States. I do have white privilege and I have to be cognizant of that. When it comes to my sexuality, it’s important that I recognize the realities of machismo and the issues surrounding being gay in Latin America–or being a gay Latin American– even if I’m not personally affected by them.

If I had to pick, I’d say that I identify more with the crowd of people who were born and raised abroad, and I feel that coming to Duke has helped me explore that part of myself. Whenever someone asks me “What are you? Are you ––––?” I don’t know how to answer that. I think I never will.

**This is Duke International Association's project to showcase members of the international community and to urge people to break stereotypes by going beyond first impressions and taking a closer look at people's stories.**
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by Pau Guerra

Joshua France - United States/Japan

When people think of someone from Japan they don’t think of me. I mean, I’m American: my passport is blue; but I’ve lived there since I was 5. We were only supposed to be overseas for 2 years, but 2 years turned into 3 and 3 turned into 4...12 years in Tokyo, and now I’m back.

I grew up in Tokyo, which is a city with a strange dynamic–you have these huge, beautiful buildings; you have cutting edge technology...and then you have 1,000-year-old temples. You have robotics conventions and tech conventions going on all the time. It was inspiring, really, I wanted to try something related to STEM. I mean, what kid isn’t excited by giant robots, right? Right now though, I’m pretty much just focused on my first year Engineering courses, but maybe sometime down the road.

I think what I’ve grown to value most about living abroad is the ability to adapt, the ability to go somewhere and still feel like you belong even though you’re essentially an outsider. You learn how to “fake it ‘till you make it.” It never felt strange to me, living somewhere where everything was in a language I didn’t understand. I felt like I belonged in Japan. I returned to Tokyo for Thanksgiving break for a week and it felt exactly the same– I was comfortable just being there. And it was a level of comfort that I still feel I haven’t reached here, even though I’m American. Even though culturally things might’ve been pretty different, I think appreciating those differences is something that I’m grateful to have learned growing up abroad. Politeness in Japan means keeping to yourself, whereas here you’re expected to have some kind of interaction with almost everyone you see.

In the end though, a place is just a place, right? What really connects people to a certain place are the people there. Cultural differences aside, I guess that’s why I feel like I belonged in Japan, it was where my family and friends were, and I think that’s what really makes a home. The more time I spend at Duke, the more it feels like home.

**This is Duke International Association's project to showcase members of the international community and to urge people to break stereotypes by going beyond first impressions and taking a closer look at people's stories.**
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by Pau Guerra & Fulya Idil Keskin

Christine Kinyua - Kenya

'I’ve noticed that Americans have a fixation with identity: “What are you? What do you identify as? What’s this for you? What’s that for you?”, because it makes it easier. So everyone trying to break down my personality– trying to put me in a box– was just driving me nuts, because I couldn’t understand it. I just wanted people to let me be. Identity is complex. You can’t really expect people to mesh on the basis of a single term or a single physical characteristic. For example, just because you’re both Black doesn’t mean you’re living or have lived the same reality.

My reality as a Kenyan is colored with strokes of colonialism. The biggest evils a Kenyan citizen like me might perceive are former British rule, corrupt leaders, poor infrastructure and poor medical care. Our reality is farmers who aren’t able to take their kids to school. Education systems that don’t work for everyone. It’s a whole different world. While it is not my personal every day experience, it’s a lot of Kenyans’ realities. That’s what I think of when I think of home or what I am working towards dealing with.

The reality for African Americans is very different. It’s a reality based on slavery, racism, socioeconomic inequality... It’s a systemic thing against them as a minority of a larger community. Back home, I’m a part of the larger community, I’m part of the majority. I’m not the unusual, I’m the usual. Movements like Black Lives Matter don’t fit into discussions back home. What is that to them? Their lives matter, everyone around them is black. A guy who is busy worrying about a drought in Wajir– in northern Kenya– that’s not his problem. He’s worrying about the Somali war happening up north near the border.

The problem of coming here and not being aware of those different realities is that you get lost in navigating new identities that are very foreign and unfamiliar to you–yet other people expect that you should fully embrace and understand these identities as your own. There are expectations of you to know certain things, to be down with the struggle against an oppression and institutionalized racism you have no understanding of. There are things that I’m probably going to connect better with an African American, than, say a typical caucasian Westerner, but at the same time other minorities in the US are probably going to understand certain struggles here better than myself. So this whole meshing up of blackness as a monolith can get very annoying for me because I still don’t know what it truly means to be Black in America. Frankly, like I said Identity is complex, people should understand that before they try to simplify it for their own ease.'

**This is Duke International Association's project to showcase members of the international community and to urge people to break stereotypes by going beyond first impressions and taking a closer look at people's stories.**
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by Pau Guerra & Fulya Idil Keskin

Austin Lee - Hong Kong

I have an identical twin brother. I’m older by a minute. Apart from looking alike, we’re even similar in size, although he may be a little bit taller – or he’d like to think so.

It’s interesting how we also have very similar interests. I’m studying political science and economics. He is studying public policy and economics. We both like to debate and talk. We also have quite similar mannerisms too. And similar taste in food.

The first time he went off to college and I went off to college was pretty sad. It was the first time that we were going to be apart for a long time. At the airport saying goodbye to him was hard, and although we were both trying to be all manly and stuff, I think it really hit us that from now and onwards we would have different, separate lives.

We’d always attended the same school since we were young. We were never in the same class but we did try pulling classic twin tricks such as swapping classes and got away without the teachers noticing. We used to fight a lot growing up too. We’d blame each other for being late to school because we were out too late the day before. We did a lot of competing even for small things such as racing to the train station to go to school.

Now we are more mature so we barely fight when we see each other. I am very lucky that I got to see him every winter and summer so far. When we meet now we just share our radically different experiences. He goes to school in Abu Dhabi and his campus is basically in a desert without much around. His share of experiences is so different from mine as he spends his time in the Middle East. He’s also traveled a lot around the area, which I am quite jealous of.

Spending time apart really hit me how privileged I am to have a twin brother. We fought and argued growing up but at the same time we always had each other’s backs. It’s just great to have someone who whole fully understands you and who is able to really empathize with you on all levels.

I can’t wait to see him this summer. I don’t know what our summer plans are yet but I’m sure we’ll treasure our time together more than before.

**This is Duke International Association's project to showcase members of the international community and to urge people to break stereotypes by going beyond first impressions and taking a closer look at people's stories.**

Oliver Kilpatrick - Hong Kong

I’m a foreigner everywhere I go.

I was born in London, my mother is Brazilian, and my father is British. At the time, my dad was working in logistics in London. However, his company wanted him to move to Asia to coordinate new business opportunities in the region. Right after I was born they sent him to Vietnam. We only lived there for six months. Our next move was to Thailand. After three years there, we finally ended up in Hong Kong, where we have lived ever since.

At home, my parents spoke to me in a mix of Portuguese and English. I went to an international school where I formally studied German and Mandarin, but around me, most of my friends would converse with each other in Cantonese. Most of the expatriate kids would come and go; they would stay for few years and go back to their home countries. At one point, I was the only foreign guy in the entire grade. During the holidays, my family travelled back to Brazil to see our family there. This included my cousins who had been born and raised there. I would talk with them for hours about what living in Hong Kong as a Brazilian citizen was like. And the one recurring theme that I would always encounter was this idea of being a foreigner. Growing up, I felt uncomfortable classifying myself a true Brazilian, British or a Hong Kong local, no matter how much connection I felt to each of these places.

The breakthrough came when I realized that I could still love Hong Kong, embrace its culture and its people even if I wasn't strictly a local. Reaching the end of middle school, I began asking my Hong Kong friends to teach me few Cantonese phrases a day, take me out to eat the best street food, or clarify why they do certain things the way they do. Once I started actively learning about Hong Kong, beyond what I was used to as an expatriate, I felt more part of the Hong Kong community. I’ve learned that the fastest way to integrate into a culture that is not your own is simply by being willing to learn - it really goes far.

Though I may still be a foreigner everywhere I go, I’m grateful for my multicultural identity that allows me to connect with individuals from all over the world. I feel privileged to be in a position that allows me to understand how people perceive themselves and foreigners. I feel at home regardless of where I am in the world. I'm proud to call myself a global citizen.

**This is Duke International Association's project to showcase members of the international community and to urge people to break stereotypes by going beyond first impressions and taking a closer look at people's stories.**

Henry Yuen - New Zealand

I am in love with Nepal and consider it my home. My host family living near Kathmandu are some of the most generous people I have ever met. They have made it a point that I am and will always be welcome in their house. The principal in Kathmandu who I worked closely with is one of the most inspirational educators as well as the one of the kindest and passionate people I have had the privilege of knowing. Somehow the vibrant life and compassionate humanity simply draws me back to Nepal every summer since my first year at Duke.

However there was one part of my last summer in Nepal that I don’t talk about as much.

I was going to Nepal as a volunteer teacher from America. When I signed up for the program, I actually thought that I was changing the world, that’s how incredibly naïve I was. The fisherman’s village, called Majhi Gaun, we were going to was very remote, it was 5 hour journey by bus followed by a 4 hour walk.

The villagers grow rice, maize and millet. They also brew their own drinks. Nobody in this village has received a formal education. Bottom line this village is extremely rural.

And here’s the part that boggled my mind the most.

There were children in this village who were drunk.

One of my homestay parents would feed her grandson alcohol. Her name was Suntali Aunty, which translates to orange in English. Orange Aunty herself was President of the Women's’ Association in the village, but would be completely drunk while presiding at these meetings, talking to her heart’s content. These children, who were as young as three, were being given alcohol by their mothers because it would fill them up. Rice is expensive, you don’t have money. As a parent you are faced with this dilemma: would you leave your kid hungry or would you fill them up but get them drunk in the process? This is a reality for a lot of people living there.

There were people in that village who told kids they shouldn’t be going to school because they were poor. There were people in that village who may only have spoken twice in their entire lives. There were people in that village who believed the Chinese perform regular cannibalistic rituals. I was supposed to stay in the village for four weeks, but after two weeks, I just had to leave. I decided to travel to Hong Kong to see my brother for two weeks. When it was time for me to go back to the village, my trip got delayed by one day because I needed more time to gather my teaching supplies. I got up the next day, ready to head over, when I found out that there had been a huge landslide that had completely cut off access to the village. If I had been there, I don’t know how I would have gotten out.

I was struck by how unpredictable life can be. The fact came back to haunt me at Duke eight months later. It was the week before finals when the 8.1 magnitude earthquake happened in Nepal. Over 8000 people lost their lives. Orange Aunty died in her house while saving her grandson. The village was destroyed. While at Duke, it was finals week. Most people were busy stressing about their exams whereas all I could think about was the tragedy that had shaken Nepal. All my so called problems and stresses at Duke became irrelevant, there are things in the world that matter more sometimes.

**This is Duke International Association's project to showcase members of the international community and to urge people to break stereotypes by going beyond first impressions and taking a closer look at people's stories.**

Shafiq Haris – Malaysia

I grew up in a small town called Semenyih with my mother and grandparents, five minutes away from where I currently live – Kajang. Although I grew up in a household with a single mom, I never felt that it was incomplete. More importantly, I never noticed the absence of a fatherly figure in my life. Even when people offer condolences to me as though I’ve gone through a tragedy, I did not understand. There was nothing tragic about my life. I was fortunate to have an extended family that was easily accessible and constantly moving in and out of my house. For Sunday lunches, my grandma would prepare her children’s—and now her grandchildren’s—favorite dishes to provide everyone a reason to gather as a family every week. Despite having witnessed conflict in my family from fights between aunts and uncles to ones pertaining to money, I have witnessed how the intrinsic bond of a family transcends any sort of minor conflict within the family. Now, even after the passing of my grandparents 4 years ago, we still have weekly family lunches and dinners, with everyone in the family now pitching in and bringing forward their best cooking skills into the dining table in our new home in Kajang. The fact that all of us live within walking distance from each other has made us a lot closer as a family. This is something that I have carried with me throughout my experiences abroad— family is one of my strongest and most cherished values.

I always had a predilection for trying to step outside of my comfort zone and meeting new people mainly because I was always around people. However, nothing was a greater test of my ability to step outside of my comfort zone than coming abroad to America. When I was 7, I saw something in a primary school textbook of a kid saying, “I want to study really hard and get a scholarship to study abroad”. It was at that moment that I found that there is a way for me to see a new part of the world. From then I made it my goal to do everything in my power to get a scholarship to study abroad. By the time I was in 12th grade, I received a scholarship from the Malaysian Central Bank to study in the US. My life goal for the last 11 years had been achieved. But what is next? My experience at Duke gave me plenty of opportunities to ponder that question. Although that question is still mostly unanswered, I am sure that my family’s happiness and comfort is most important, especially for my mom who has sacrificed so much to make sure that I am where I am right now.

**This is Duke International Association's project to showcase members of the international community and to urge people to break stereotypes by going beyond first impressions and taking a closer look at people's stories.**