Of strawberries & ginger
The journey was surreal. This wasn’t my first trip to Burkina Faso, so why did it feel so different? When I had visited five years ago, I was a relatively new global project director, leading a complex and innovative multi-country initiative. Back then, I was so focused on project activities that I never had the chance to soak in the feel of the country, its people. The most I had managed was a rushed visit to the tourist bazaar to grab the usual souvenirs, knick-knacks we collect as proof that we were there.
But yes, this trip was different. I was no longer a project director but a senior executive in the same organization, visiting for high-level strategic discussions, to meet the team, understand their challenges and aspirations, and reflect on the work we had done and would continue to do with women, girls, and communities. This was nothing like checking off an LFA with a two-person team to complete my project activities for the quarter. I was also deeply conscious of being a brown woman from Pakistan in an apex role. Would I be compared to the white chiefs and supervisors before me? Would I be good enough? I was not an expat living in the U.S., nor did I speak with an American accent or have an Ivy League degree. I was very much a ‘desi’ who grew up in South and Southeast Asia. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I peered out the plane window, both the good and the frantic. Little did I know that this trip would mark another milestone, shaping my journey and personal growth in ways I never imagined.
In preparation, alongside project reports and briefs, I had downloaded articles on Burkina Faso’s history and politics, as well as reports on its health systems and programs. The country had once been called Upper Volta (I had to Google the meaning of Volta. Why, oh why, colonizer, would you name a country Upper Volta?), later renaming itself the Land of the Honest People: Burkina Faso. I was eager to meet my friend and colleague in Ouaga, whom I often teased by calling ‘Mama Africa,’ fully aware of how politically incorrect it was at so many levels.
My flight was routed through Morocco, and for once, I had a front window seat in economy. Usually, I found myself cramped in the middle row at the back of a plane, opting for the cheapest ticket possible- donor money, duh. As the plane crossed the narrow Strait of Gibraltar, I gazed down at that thin strip of water, appearing so small yet carrying a mammoth symbolic value. This was the line dividing continents, cultures, and people, a reminder of the arbitrary borders that have shaped our lives, politics, and cultures. I thought of Tariq ibn Ziyad, the Muslim general whose army crossed these waters in 711 CE, ushering in centuries of Islamic rule in the Iberian Peninsula. I could almost imagine the boats making the journey, their sails taut against the wind, and the trepidation on the other side as the invaders approached.
Reading and romanticizing history, I was acutely aware that this crossing was more than a military expedition, but the beginning of a profound cultural and historical transformation. I had never been to Spain, though it remained a bucket-list destination. The Alhambra, with its intricate geometric designs and inscriptions, the music of Andalusia, remixed into house beats infused with Arabic, Berber, and Spanish influences. A bridge between worlds, resonating across cultures and centuries.
I found myself grappling with the weight of history. Are war, violence, and colonization ever justified? Can the beauty of what was created afterward, the art, music, knowledge, ever reconcile with the suffering that made it possible? It’s tempting to romanticize, but I wouldn’t drink from that cup. Especially since Burkina Faso itself has had its share of colonial imperialism. Over and over again, invaders become the invaded, colonizers are colonized. History repeats itself in cycles of dominance and resistance, often leaving devastation in its wake. The human cost is scrubbed from collective memory. And yet, history shapes us, how we interpret it and how we choose to carry its legacy forward. I indulged in these reflections, setting the tone for the rest of my trip.
At the arrivals exit, I was warmly welcomed by my hosts, two beautiful and strong women, one Burkinabé and one from Benin. They had already circled the arrival lobby, not recognizing me at first because I had a rag of cloth tied around my unwashed hair. They mistook me for an Arab wearing a hijab. We hugged tightly, the way women do.
Arriving at my hotel in Ouaga, I found yet another piece of history to feed my musings. My colleagues informed me that the hotel had been financed by Muammar Gaddafi as a symbol of Pan-African unity, built for an African Union summit. The building, though aged, still carried the weight of its grand aspirations. The peaceful and vast garden in the back seemed to whisper stories and dreams: big dreams, sometimes from not-so-big people.
Standing there, I was transported to my childhood in Beijing, China, and the sprawling Friendship Hotel, built by the Russians during China’s early years. Like this hotel, it was meant to be a monument to international camaraderie, tied to the ideological divides of the Cold War. Its expansive gardens, with manicured hedges and artistic landscapes, were spaces where politics and identity intersected, much like the one before me now.
As I stood in the garden, surrounded by echoes of a grand vision, I wondered: what is it about power that corrupts even the noblest of intentions? And how do we, as citizens of the Global South, untangle this legacy to create a future that truly honours those aspirations of unity and independence?
Who would have thought I’d be eating strawberries in Ouagadougou? To me, strawberries had always been synonymous with the cool, misty climates of England, Europe, or the northern regions of Pakistan. Yet here was my host, smiling warmly and offering me a bowl of bright red strawberries.
The revelation was staggering- not just that strawberries could grow in Burkina Faso, but that they were thriving well enough to be exported. It was a testament to the ingenuity and determination of the people here, turning what once seemed impossible into a sweet, juicy reality. I took a bite. They tasted pretty good, just the right amount of juicy, sweet, and tangy. Suddenly, these strawberries became more than just fruit; they symbolized possibilities and proof that dreams could take root and flourish even in the most unexpected places. A week later, back in Karachi, I saw a headline in DAWN, Pakistan’s biggest English daily: “Unexpected strawberry crop spins Burkina Faso’s ‘red gold’.” It was called an oddity, but it was happening, and it was profitable. An “oddity” can be good. An oddity can be the solution.
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