« À la prochaine » is a French colloquialism meaning “until the next time” or “till we meet again.” I intentionally used this phrase when saying goodbye to my family members, work colleagues, and fellow hostel guests because it felt like putting a semi-colon instead of a period to the end of my mission.
I was reluctant to give a conclusive goodbye because I knew I would find myself in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) once again. I hope to hold the aging hands of my precious grandparents once more, fill my plate with my aunt’s incomparable sweet plantains, and venture to other regions of the country including the magnificent waterfalls of Zongo Falls. I also hope to continue serving the DRC by supporting and leading efforts to strengthen public health capacity. Spending 5 weeks working alongside a hard-working team dedicated to minimizing infectious disease transmission, and consequently improving the nation’s public health, I have a more realistic perception of what a career in Global Health may look like for me.
This trip reaffirmed that I have a strong interest in improving inequities in health outcomes. I want to carry out this work by partnering with communities most impacted by public health inequities while cultivating and equipping leaders who are well-acquainted with the needs of their communities.
Not surprisingly, on the plane home, I found myself rewatching the 2018 Marvel film starring the late Chadwick Boseman, Black Panther. This film depicted the fictional African nation of Wakanda, which evaded the detrimental effects of colonialism and exploitation, allowing Wakandans to preserve their rich resources and thrive with technological innovations unbeknownst to the rest of the world. I didn’t realize how much satisfaction it brought me to see an African nation unhindered by a colonialist past, prospering from its abundant resources and ruled by a just leadership. I questioned why we accept inadequate healthcare and education access, violent conflict, poor governance, and pervasive poverty as an indefinite norm for any nation, and what would propel change.
This reflection fueled my desire to learn from and walk alongside people challenging the status quo, such as Dr. Chérie Rivers Ndaliko, a UNC professor who carries out work in eastern DRC within high-conflict zones to empower Congolese students to tell their own stories and advocate for change through artistic expression. Similarly, conversations with my brilliant colleague inspired me, who dreamed of opening his own business in the DRC but faced funding limitations and was discouraged by the lack of Congolese-produced goods. I gained hope from a new acquaintance from Burkina Faso who spent many years working with a local organization supporting peacebuilding efforts in the eastern DRC and is pursuing a degree in strategic peacebuilding and conflict transformation, refusing to accept what has become the norm and believing in the possibility for change. This hope extends to the young football players in front of my grandma’s house kicking up sand in an intense match among neighbors, perhaps a few may ascend to the world stage.
As I enter the final year of my master’s program, I am motivated to continue embracing discomfort and confronting complex challenges to redefine what’s considered normal. À la prochaine, DRC.
Team photo at the national Institute of Biomedical research (INRB) in Kinshasa, DRC. In gray, in the center, is Dr. Jean-Jacques Muyembe, a Congolese virologist, microbiologist, and leader of the INRB. He is revered for pioneering the first effective vac ine against the Ebola virus. I am in a gray blazer, 2nd from the left in the middle row.
Well, dear readers, my time in Santo Domingo has come to a close. 11 weeks ago, I arrived to a new country in a region of the world that I had not had the opportunity to travel before. I came with little expectations and lots of ideas of how my time could possibly go. At the beginning of the summer, 11 weeks in a new country felt something like a lifetime, like something that would change me, move me. Now, 11 weeks later, I feel grateful and happy to share that this experience has been everything I could have hoped it to be. This experience has, indeed, changed me for the better, at the risk of sounding cliché. This is not to say that everything was perfect, or color de rosa, as I’ve heard folks say here. Working on a global project has been anything but straightforward. Managing communication between two teams, one in Santo Domingo and one in North Carolina, in two languages, has been complicated and tiring at times, not to mention working across various technologies. I had to interrogate my expectations from previous workplaces, where these barriers did not exist. But, as someone who wants to work globally, especially in other Spanish-speaking countries, this experience has been powerful in solidifying this interest.
As you can imagine, it is difficult to summarize, to communicate concisely, all the things that have happened over 11 weeks, both inside and outside of the workplace. So, instead of attempting to cover everything, I want to share about one experience attending a Kiki ball at the Spanish Cultural Center in Santo Domingo. This was my very first time attending a ball, actually. Balls, one of the defining features of ballroom culture, are historically Black and Latinx spaces where queer and trans folks perform to compete and win prizes. The 1990 documentary Paris is Burning is one of the most recognized films exploring ballroom culture in 1980s New York City. Having never been to a ball, when I saw the Kiki ball promoted on the Cultural Center’s social media, I automatically saved the date in my calendar.
Flyer for the Orgulloxa Kiki Ball.
At the Kiki ball, as with other balls, participants walked in different categories, which included face, runway, and voguing. This particular event was open to all participants, experienced performers or not, which isn’t always the case with other balls. Participants were then scored by a panel of judges on their performance in accordance with the category. What then unfolded, in my eyes, was a celebration of ballroom culture, of trans identity, of queerness, of community, creativity, and perseverance. I wish I had taken more photos – photos would describe the energy in the room much better than my words could. I walked away that night feeling full, grateful, and joyous to have been able to share that space with other community members. It is events like these that remind me why I choose to work with queer and trans communities, again and again and again. There, inside the walls of the Cultural Center, the hosts worked hard to create a space where there is no judgement, only celebration, of our diverse identities, a sharp contrast to what many experience on the streets, in their workplaces, in their homes. It is not lost on me the irony of this event being held at the Spanish Cultural Center, given the legacy of Spain’s colonization of the Dominican Republic. How would queer and trans communities be held and understood in the Dominican Republic, if the Spanish had never colonized the island? The legacy of colonization, alongside homophobia and transphobia, is what we must reckon with in our public health practice. After all, current public health trends, just like the significant HIV incidence among trans women in Santo Domingo, are often a result of what came before us.
I’ve been thinking about this post for a while now. I kept notes in my phone trying to write down small mementos I wanted to share. How could I possibly capture everything in one place? How could I possibly do my time in Bangladesh justice? It’s been difficult for me to convey my feelings with words but here goes-
In my previous post when describing Bangladesh as a “developing” country, I wrote, “I feel “developing” is a misnomer; it’s not the people but the systems that need development. The resilience of the Bangladeshi people is inspiring.” I had no idea the weight this would hold in the coming days.
Part I:
My practicum with Ipas Bangladesh was everything I could have hoped for and more. Working in an organization dedicated to improving sexual and reproductive health rights (SRHR) made me proud. In talking with my preceptor and other staff members, I would often share how much I loved the fact that public health work translates across the globe. We may have different backgrounds, speak different languages, eat different foods (holy spice), but we always share a common understanding and passion for ensuring people have access to services they deserve. It’s their right. Speaking of my preceptor, this was a note I kept in my phone following one of our many meetings:
“He is an angel of a human. He’d probably be embarrassed by me saying something like this. He has spent HOURS with me explaining and answering every question I’ve had. He comes off quiet and reserved but when you get him talking, he’s a wealth of knowledge and experience. I will forever feel indebted to this man as my first experience of leadership in public health. He told me public health involves being able to solve problems you don’t expect to solve. It includes logistical planning and people management as much as it does data collection and analysis. He taught me to be confident and assertive when necessary. Public health always involves pushes and reminders. This was definitely true as I initially had a hard time “bothering” people for help, even if it was their role to help me or provide me with information. I owe all these lessons to him.”
Ipas Bangladesh gave me an overview of the realities of life for many women in Bangladesh. I was able to do a deep dive in understanding the many challenges women face in seeking MR (menstrual regulation/abortion), PAC (post-abortion care), and FP (family planning) services. My focus was on the importance of empowering mid-level providers to bridge the global physician shortage and ensure these essential services are available and accessible at all public health facilities. Ipas is working to build the capacities of these mid-level providers, equipping them with the necessary skills to meet the needs of the women in Bangladesh. These trained mid-level providers are setting the example for task-sharing in reproductive health. I may be bias, but I think this is so cool. I had the opportunity to visit and interview some of these mid-level providers to understand their day-to-day responsibilities and the challenges they face within the current health system.
The lessons I learned are invaluable. I feel so incredibly fortunate that I had the experience and opportunity to work with Ipas Bangladesh. They set the bar high. I have a greater sense of confidence in myself and I’m thrilled about the possibilities that await me in international health.
My final presentation on midlevel provider empowerment for sexual and reproductive health services.
The road I would walk every day to get to the lunch room down the street from the main Ipas office.
My coworkers would bring new treats to the office for me to try. This is Laddu.
Part II:
The cute coffee shop workers would draw pictures in my coffee.
First time trying dragon fruit. This one was from Cox’s Bazar.
A local market selling hand-painted rickshaws and CNGs.
While my primary focus in Bangladesh was my summer practicum, I was also able to experience the culture, the sights, and the goodness of the Bangladeshi people. I was invited into homes for meals, coffee, chats, and experienced the absolute best fruit of my life (special shoutout to the mangos, pineapple, and lychee). At first, I was apprehensive to go outside alone because I was unfamiliar with the city and was briefed about my safety in Dhaka. However, once I finally got the courage, I found I was just fine. I became a “regular” at the nearby coffee shops and enjoyed visiting the local markets to look at all the different items and foods they offered. It was in these moments, at the coffee shops and markets, that I truly began to appreciate the subtleties of being human- a smile, a small gesture of acknowledgement. Despite my best efforts to become fluent in Bangla, there was often a slight language barrier. Yet, the gentleness and kindness of the people in Bangladesh is something I will never forget. These bonds and relationships are what made the next part of my experience so difficult.
Part III:
In early July, university students took to the streets in protest against a deeply flawed quota-based recruitment system for government positions. This system blatantly favored descendants of the 1971 liberation war, denying opportunities to qualified Bangladeshi students based on merit. Government jobs are highly coveted positions and this discriminatory policy created an impossible barrier for many. The protests, though initially peaceful, were met with a brutal response from the government. Instead of seeking peaceful dialogue, they unleashed violence, death, and hostility against their own people- their students, their future leaders. It was a heartbreaking betrayal of a country I had grown to love.
On the evening of July 18th, deafening silence. The government imposed a nationwide internet blackout. We were suddenly cut off from the outside world and the economy took a massive hit. People couldn’t pay their bills, add minutes to their phones, or even open their stores. Traditional media was heavily censored and my only source of information was the local newspaper or the hotel staff. Then things somehow got worse. A curfew was announced with “shoot-on-sight” orders. I felt fortunate to be in a hotel where my safety was a priority, but I couldn’t ignore the privilege that came with it. I struggled with my place in all of this. As an outsider, a foreigner, knowing I would eventually escape this tragedy, what was my role? I felt a mix of helplessness and rage. How could such violence be the response to students, like myself, making demands they had every right to make? The lack of humanity and empathy was overwhelming. It was a reminder of the fragility of freedom and the lengths some will go to silence individuals and maintain power.
I spent 24 hours inside a hotel for a week with no internet. I would go to the roof to see what was happening outside but it was quiet. No honking horns, minimal people, no street vendors- A stark contrast to the views I was used to seeing. I was able to get some text messages through and I joked with a fellow iPhone user about our texts being green. Jokes aside, it felt like we were living in a dystopia. There were foreign guests at my hotel and I watched as they left one by one. I was one of maybe 10 guests left. I had two weeks until I was supposed to go home. I wanted to stay, I wanted to see this through. I wanted to know my friends were safe. At the very least, I wanted to say goodbye to my Ipas team in person. So I waited. The Supreme Court did eventually reduce the quota for descendants of war veterans but at this point, it was not enough. Most of Bangladesh was fed up. They witnessed their friends and family being injured, or worse, killed, by their own government and associated parties. At this point, the movement was more than just quotas. It was a demand for freedom and justice.
A powerful article in the local newspaper.
The stunning view from my hotel rooftop. The sunsets were incredible the streets were so quiet during this time.
Part IV:
The internet slowly (emphasis on the SLOW) came back and I was able to return to the office for my last day. Things still felt eerie outside but I was thrilled to see my fellow Ipas team and say my “see-you-laters.” On August 2nd, I left Bangladesh. It was pouring rain and it felt somewhat symbolic. The rains were heavy, my heart was heavy but so full at the same time. The dichotomy of these emotions was something I was trying to accept.
I left Bangladesh having learned a multitude of things, some I did not anticipate. I was so incredibly inspired by the people of Bangladesh- a nation fighting for their rights at an unimaginable cost, yet emerging victorious. After I arrived home, many of my friends in Bangladesh reached out to inform me they had done it. They had overthrown their autocratic ruler.
So now, I can only hope for peace in the coming days for Bangladesh. I can only hope for a government that is built for the people, by the people. When I say, “it’s not the people but the systems that need development. The resilience of the Bangladeshi people is inspiring,” I mean it from the bottom of my heart. Their government system needed more than development, it needed complete transformation, and they knew it. The resilience and bravery of the Bangladeshi people will stay engraved in my heart forever. Until we meet again, Bangladesh. I am so proud.
The kitchen staff at my hotel gave this to me for breakfast on my last morning. It’s a mango! Unreal.
A skyline I will miss.
Other random mementos saved in my notes app:
“Everyone has their phone volume turned on. I know the ringtones by heart and oddly enough, I think I’ll miss it.”
“The honking of horns has become oddly therapeutic. The noise puts me to sleep at night.”
“The older I get, the more I’m learning just how much I appreciate human connection and the experience of being human. It’s powerful.”
“Every day I’m in a car, I’m surprised I’m not in an accident. The streets are wild but somehow, most people know what they’re doing.”
“It’s amazing what happens when people don’t have internet. The inability to live in reality, without distraction, seems impossible for some. I’ve come to appreciate it. It’s forced me to talk to folks here at my hotel that I may have not otherwise. It’s forced me to read that book I’ve been telling myself I’d start. It’s made me sit with my thoughts longer than I usually do. While circumstances for why this is happening are tragic, I’m trying to find an ounce of good in this reality we’re living in.”
