This is my first rainy season. My first time of packing ponchos and plastic bags "just in case". A season where all previous plans can be put on hold when the rains come. And, they do come. Before we even know it, the clouds have moved over the mountains and are upon us, in this valley.
Many of these seasons have come and gone. It's the rhythm of the land and of life here. I'm joining into the rhythm late, but still joining nonetheless. I bring with me foreign eyes, which allow me to see more than I want to, at times.
I see the rains, but I also see that I am living in a dry, dry land.
A country where fear and politics are intertwined; where obeying authority is a core value in the country's education system.
All behind smiles.
The welcoming smiles world-renowned to bring in tourists and feed the economy. Yet smiles from behind which speak words of xenephobia and the need to protect from "otherness".
This is one of the most well-off nations in the region, attracting migrants from surrounding countries, and even refugees from as far as Pakistan and northern China. Yet the government refuses to see refugees as such and a whole sector of economy is maintained by those who have been deemed unwelcome. Those who work under a shadow of fear cast from an unstable military [government].
There's a tricky dance happening between modernity and the preservation of tradition. I watch this dance every day. The more I learn the language, the more I'm able to speak this dance, as well. A dance to the tune of the monks' chants, revered songs of respect, and imported Karaoke songs which carry through the night.
Tonight I lay in bed as the wind brings the music through my windows. I wonder, will the rain come like it does here? Sometimes quite suddenly. Or, perhaps, the clouds have already begun forming. Transformation is a slow work, and one that requires many ingredients. So I close my eyes, pray, and hold onto the hope that the rains, indeed, will come.
