The UN says "yes", Anna says "no".
I stopped being in control a long time ago. I gave up my
health, my friendships, my finances; my dreams and told God that he could take
everything. Senegal would have to be on his terms, because I had no idea where
to even start. Day by day; step by step, I found myself overwhelmed by barriers
that I had never encountered before, yet each time as I prayed: each time as
they fell, I found myself empowered by the confidence that I can live a life
that far surpasses my own limitations.
One night, I needed a taxi. Thies Airport is 40km from Dakar
and my flight arrived at two in the morning. I was returning from ten days in
the UK following my aunt’s funeral, malaria tests, and visits to my best friend
in intensive care. Anticipating the blizzard of taxi drivers awaiting me: swarming
in Wolof whilst attempting to devour my money, I felt overwhelmed. I prayed. During
the plane journey, I discovered that the man on my right lived a few streets
away from me. As a Wolof speaker, he bartered for our taxi and insisted that I
pay only a fraction of the price.
A few days previously, it had suddenly become urgent for me
to move house. I could no longer continue teaching; therefore, I needed to move
out of school accommodation and hand in my keys almost immediately once I had returned
from the UK. In Dakar, house moves take months. The market is fiercely
competitive; fiercely expensive and has no furnishings. I felt paralysed. Where
would I even start and who would I live with? On a whim, I messaged a Central
African friend asking for advice. He replied immediately saying that he had a
spare bed; I could move in with him and his flatmates next week, for the ideal
rent, to my ideal location in Dakar. As well as moving to a new home and
starting a new placement in a museum only days after I returned, suddenly I was
no longer living alone: the three guys made me laugh, filled the kitchen with
bananas, and brought a warmth and optimism to my life.
This faith; this confidence in a God who knows me better
than I know myself, has given me a freedom that I have never felt elsewhere. Now,
I can relax whenever my circumstances overwhelm my capacity, because I know
that none of this depends upon me. The friend at my side is infinitely more
powerful and creative than I could ever be.
From this place of total trust, my circumstances allowed me
to have an interview with the UN. A lady on a boat provided the opportunity: talking
to strangers on public transport has always been a favourite hobby of mine. This
friendly face on “Isle de Gorée Ferry” introduced me to the “International
Organisation for Migration”: the UN’s migration body that is committed to
humane, legal migration that benefits both individuals and their societies.[1]
Upon sharing my passions and experience, my friend seemed impressed. Passing on
the number of a colleague, she suggested that I contact him. Thinking nothing
of it, I sent him a message. One week later, I had an interview with the IOM.
On the morning of the interview, the first challenge was to
overcome my fear of formalwear. I am infinitely more comfortable in wellies
than wedges; situations demanding social sophistication often have mortifying consequences.
A quick check in a café mirror was worth every over-priced franc: even during
the short walk from the taxi to IOM’s gates, I had managed to catch my head on
a branch and fill my hair with twigs.
The second challenge was far less frightening. I
had forgotten my passport. As an irregular frequenter of such redoubtable
institutions, I had never considered that I would be obliged to formally identify
myself. The copy on my phone pouted, then refused to load. I bit back a smile. God
and I have this running joke; that despite my capacity for preposterous
stupidity, he always finds some nifty little trick to hoick me free. I waited with
anticipation. The gate opened. My interviewer smiled at my predicament. “When you visit the UN” he explained, “you
really should have identification for security reasons. However, as we are one
of the more relaxed branches, you can come on in.” Nicely done.
The third challenge was an interview in French. We had hardly
differentiated between migrants and asylum seekers or broached the UN’s “2030
Agenda”,[2]
before it was time for a language swap. My brain buffered and panicked. What
was going on? Suddenly, the ludicrousness of my present reality wafted in and I
had to contain myself. Over the past month, I had stuffed CV’s into the inboxes
of anything that vaguely resembled a charitable organisation, and the only
success that I had met was the invention of “Frenglish”. At some point, my beleaguered
brain had ceased to distinguish between the two languages, and the result was
quite entertaining. Not a single person replied.
Yet here I was, in the middle of an interview with the “International Organisation for Migration”; all due to a chance meeting with a stranger on a boat! Now we were speaking in French. I told my mouth that if it produced anything nasal and foreign-sounding, that was good enough for me. As the conversation flowed, I spoke with words and confidence that were beyond my own. Leaving the interview; shaking slightly, I knew that this was where I wanted to work. I wanted to work for the UN in the field of migration.
Yet here I was, in the middle of an interview with the “International Organisation for Migration”; all due to a chance meeting with a stranger on a boat! Now we were speaking in French. I told my mouth that if it produced anything nasal and foreign-sounding, that was good enough for me. As the conversation flowed, I spoke with words and confidence that were beyond my own. Leaving the interview; shaking slightly, I knew that this was where I wanted to work. I wanted to work for the UN in the field of migration.
Eight hours later, the impossible happened. I was offered a
placement starting the next working day: one month’s data processing. For the
IOM, I would have spent a month buffing door-handles. I was ecstatic. This felt
overwhelming; incredible: too good to be true.
It was. Nine months previously, my boyfriend and I had
booked the very evening of my interview for him to land in Dakar. He was
currently flying somewhere over Morocco. I knew that a one-month placement with
IOM whilst spending three weeks with Joe was incompatible. I would have to
choose. Leaving the house, I smouldered
down the streets, swearing under my breath and launching grenades at God. How
dare he? What was going on? How dare he introduce me to my ideal career, offer
me a placement, then force me to turn it down? What was he even thinking? I scowled; my arms swinging like lances as I
half-tripped through chomping goats, friends brewing tea and women ironing
their clothes on the pavement. I was livid.
Gradually, with each pounding stride, the peace seeped in.
This peace knows no time nor circumstance, and it was not long before it had
completely consumed me. I suddenly understood. Today was not about the UN. I had not missed a divine propulsion up the
career ladder. This was about surrender. Could I bypass my ambition and
surrender my dreams? I have always defined success as being exactly where God
wants me; following his plans. Success could be cleaning toilets, unemployment,
working for the UN or taking a leisurely holiday. By letting go of IOM, I was proving that I was
not galivanting off on an ego-fuelled career campaign or crawling under the
weight of the world’s problems whilst isolating myself from everyone that I love.
That is not success. God only brings life in its fullness. Sending my
boyfriend home on the next plane, or leaving him in Dakar alone, would have
brought death to our relationship and to my mental health. I desperately needed
a break.
As Joe’s plane slid along Thies runway, slumbered to a halt,
then deposited him onto the pungent Senegalese soil, I felt free. None of this
depended upon me. Surrendering success reminded me that I was designed to be
intimately loved above anything else. Whilst accepting my design as a daughter;
the weight of control wrenched from my shoulders, I breathed deeply. Tomorrow
had never looked so uncertain, or so peaceful.
Well done Anna, we are all formed in character by thetway we respond to ourour circumstances... Some well and others poorly. You are certainly being well formed.
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