Just before I turned twenty-one, I traveled to Haiti with a group of college students. The trip was a service project hosted by a local church in Cap-Haïtien, a beautiful spot on the north coast of the island.

I don’t remember much about the trip, other than thinking that I had fallen in love with one of the other team members. What I do remember is Haiti itself.  I remember a generous welcome and ready smiles; flexible timetables, warm friendship, and hospitality at the hands of strangers. I remember the relief I felt at being in a place where it seemed I was loved – not for what I did, but for who I was.

It’s been a long time since I thought about this trip, but I recently recalled my time there as Haiti graced the front page news when President Trump described it as a “shithole country.”

It turns out that I’ve spent a number of years of my life living or traveling in countries that now wear the label of “shithole countries.” I was raised in one, gave birth in two, and traveled to many more. I could write volumes on the lessons I have learned about life and people from these countries, but here are five that I lean into every day.

Hospitality

“If you have much, give of your wealth; if you have little, give of your heart.”
Arab Proverb

Growing up in Pakistan spoiled me for the future awaiting me when I returned to the United States to attend college. I imagined a bevy of strangers becoming friends and wanting to know about my life in Pakistan. I pictured someone adopting me, a lonely college student. I thought that invitations to tea, meals, and gatherings, or at least Friday night pizza, would be forthcoming in the United States. I was wrong. Other than a group of other students who had grown up overseas and with whom I sought comfort, I struggled to connect in the place of my birth. I would later find out that an estimated 80 percent of international students are never invited to an American home.

Hospitality is part of the cultural DNA of many countries throughout Africa and the Middle East. A couple of years ago, my husband and I visited Lebanon to hear more about the needs of Syrian refugees. Within eight hours of arriving, we were at the home of Lebanese Christians where we spent all day eating, talking, and laughing. We had never met them before. The day ended as we watched the sun set over the mountains of North Lebanon.

The next day a Shiite family invited us into their home in Beirut. Again, they were complete strangers, but took us in to share a meal that rivaled Thanksgiving dinner in the United States. The family placed raw and cooked kibbe – freshly ground lamb with spices, savory rice dishes with pine nuts, Fattoush salad made with crunchy pita bread, a variety of vegetables, homemade pita bread, and condiments, including pungent black and green olives in front of us, each dish rivaling the other in taste. When our plates were emptied the second time, our hostess hovered over us like a bee over a flower, urging us to eat more and making sure we tasted everything on the table.  Along with food, we learned about the family who had taken us in.

Our time reflected what I experienced as a child in Pakistan, where I had a front seat at weddings, birthday parties, Eid celebrations, and family gatherings; a witness to life unfolding with lavish hospitality.

Friendship

“Between two friends, even water drunk together is sweet enough.”
African Proverb

I was recently asked by a friend how to connect with a Muslim colleague from Ethiopia. “You cannot out love your Muslim friends,” was the first thing I said. I have been shown extravagant love and continual loyalty, even when I have not deserved it. When I have broken promises, spoken sharply, and not treated friendships with the care they deserve I have still been received with open arms and forgiveness.

I remember an incident a number of years ago where I angrily reacted to a situation, blaming a friend who was innocently standing nearby. I disconnected my head from my tongue and didn’t come up for air until I had exhausted my Arabic vocabulary. Thankfully, my Arabic wasn’t that large. Instead of turning away, my friend embraced me and gave me mercy followed by tea. It was exactly the opposite of what I deserved. But for her, our friendship was more important than my carelessness and anger.

In October, after my father died, I learned once again of the sweetness of these friendships. My Middle Eastern friends entered into my grief without embarrassment. They didn’t worry about saying the wrong thing, they simply responded by being present. I am continually humbled as I think about the way my friends approach friendship in contrast to my conditional attitude and the strings I subconsciously attach to friendship and relationships.