“In Unity We Can” is a bilingual spoken word poem written and performed by Bertha on her platform, “Being A Third Culture Kid”. The platform seeks to illuminate the experiences and significance of the third culture experience through storytelling. It aims to empower them to take up space in the world and demonstrate to those around them how to discover the beauty that is in every country, culture, and people of the world. After all, global citizenship is the single currency of the world!
For Faraway Friends is a collection of poems. All poems were written by Chana Noeth, and originally published on TCKsforChrist.com. Find out more about Chana and read more of the For Faraway Friends collection by clicking the link!
Letter to a Friend as I Leave
No tear runs down my cheek As I give you a last embrace As you stand and wave My smile remains steady My step is confident and sure As I turn and walk away Do not be fooled, my friend. I’m not so emotionless as I seem.
As I give you a last embrace I soak up what it feels like As you stand and wave I commit to memory your face As I turn and walk away I am hyper-aware of my surroundings. I am pensive and sentimental At our parting, my friend.
The air is slightly cool But not enough to bring a chill Your eyes are so bright and clear The sight of them makes me smile Your embrace is strong yet gentle Infused with the warmth of your affection And I’m amazed at how precious you are Though my time here was short— The things I’ll carry with me The memories shared That I’ll cherish forever.
It’s moist outside and I try to place it— I’m not sure it’s quite drizzling But it’s not considered a fog— Even the not-rain can’t decide But to lightly imply precipitation Not really enough for an umbrella But by the time I’ve walked far away It’s enough to leave me wet With reality: I’ll miss you.
And I’ll miss this street And I’ll miss that tree And I’ll miss that shop And I’ll miss the church And I’ll miss this weather That can never decide Whether it’s coming or going Just like me: I hope I’ll return But I don’t know if I ever will. And just like you say of the weather, It’s the spice of life.
And I wonder what you’re thinking As I leave you I wonder if you’re wishing I would cry or show emotion I’m pretty sure you’re thinking You’ll miss me too And I’m thinking How much I used to hate it When people would leave me. I know the feeling all too well.
I’m remembering how I felt When a friend came who I grew to love Poured herself all in (just like I have) Explored and tried new things— It felt like I’d known her for ages We talked about everything— And then she was gone. And she left with a smile on her face No promise of return (And I begged her to return).
(She never did.) Now I’m in her place And I’m reliving that parting— I don’t know exactly what you’re thinking But I suspect I know And that knowing makes this parting Very poignant for me. I’ve always been sentimental But it’s hard to leave a place When I know how it feels to be left It’s harder to enter a place And dive all in When I know it might hurt you to love me.
Dear friend, I don’t know why Life is filled with partings But it is. And that friend I met long ago Taught me a lesson about loving wholly So as much as it may hurt, I think it’s worth it And I hope you’ll understand That if I never see you again It’s not because I don’t love you. I do. And I’m so grateful I didn’t let fear hold me back From loving you. I think I finally understand how she felt When she had to leave me. Though I’ve not seen her since, I learned much from her And laughed and loved Even as I have with you.
Labor of Love
A groan of anguish seeks to escape— I barely contain it. Why, why, WHY Why does it feel so broken?
This was to be a joyful reunion, A celebration of the fruit of many years— Yet here is heartache in the happiness.
All those years of labor and love, Learning, laughing, making mistakes, Working hard, patiently longsuffering.
All those tears of frustration and fear, Not knowing if the work would last another day Drudging through bias and politics and sickness and war (Both the seen and the unseen)
All those years All those tears And for what?
After pouring our lives into these people, This project, this purpose, We’ve come back to visit and we find Such heaviness and hardship.
Was it in vain? To be put in a box and shut away As if it never happened?
Was it a waste? All those years All those tears— Gone?
I said my goodbyes years ago And tucked the memories into my heart As mementos of my childhood, My home, my friends. I thought I said goodbye.
And then I came to visit. All the memories, all the hopes and fears And laughs and loves All the good years Came flooding back.
But now I must leave for good. My heart is breaking again, Worse this time because This crack is on top of another Not yet fully healed.
All those years All those tears And for what? Would it have been better To never come here?
I cherished this place as my home I loved these people as my family I embraced this culture as my own And then I had to leave— Oh, how ecstatic this return!
Every moment excitement and joy Every interaction perfect Like I’m home again! But now it hits me.
I’m giving her my last hug—ever? Will I never walk this street again? Will I never eat fruit from that tree again? Must I truly say goodbye To this place I love?
Oh, the tears Oh, the years The pain of this loss is physical.
Why does it feel so broken? Will it ever be okay? And yet There is grace through the turmoil.
Love and loss Lament amid joy Seeds to harvest Unity amid division Together and apart.
All those years All those tears Seeds were planted. Bridges were built. Love was grown.
Maybe it seems Worthless Useless In vain Or a waste But no. We serve a God who’s always working Who’s bigger than space and time, Injustice and poverty.
Our work was not in vain Because the work was God’s. These friends are not lost Because they’re eternal family. This people is not done Because we’ll worship with them In paradise.
All these years are in His hands All these tears He holds in a bottle. God is working, Just wait and see.
“Growing Up Global”, a short documentary made at Mont’Kiara International School.
“This documentary has been made with passion and determination to give all those who struggle with their identities hope. Hope to find themselves. Hope to better understand who they are. No matter how lonely someone feels, it’s important to know that you are not alone and that there are other people feeling what you’re feeling somewhere in the world. It’s been a dream come true working on this project and we are very grateful for those who supported us.” – Ana Hummes Ota
Where do I belong? What is my culture? Where will I end up? Where is home? These are some of the questions that weigh on the minds of our modern day ‘Third Culture Kids’ (TCKs). Students attending international schools around the world have faced the challenge of assimilating into unfamiliar environments, making new friends, and learning local customs.
All of this sounds glamorous, but being a TCK has its challenges. This short documentary film highlights some of these challenges; it also sheds some light on the fact that if you are a TCK, you are not alone. The brainchild of a Mont’Kiara International School student, Ana Hummes Ota, Growing Up Global is a wonderfully balanced documentary that takes into account the lives a handful of students who recognize themselves as TCKs. Produced in collaboration with Mont’Kiara International School and a Portuguese journalist Madalena Augusto, it is a documentary that is bound to open the eyes of many viewers to the lives that these young global citizens lead.
Growing Up Global was premiered on Friday, August 30, 2019 at Mont’Kiara International School.
Music: “Where is Home” by Elliphant feat Twin Shadow.
Special thanks to Lisbon Works and Madalena Augusto
It’s barely dusk as we land, fireworks bursting confetti beneath us, covering over the tidy patchwork farms. He asks if the celebration is for us – no, it is a holiday you really ought to know, the celebration of your country’s independence. But you know another date for that. The child behind us wails, and her mother shushes her, murmurs soft words to say we are almost out now.
We trudge like lines of ants from the village, clutching our dusty things in tired hands, following whoever is in front of us, hoping they know the way. The line splits. We hover, indecisive. They examine our blue books and send us left with smiles like we’ve gotten passing marks on the maths test; the screaming child and her mother have green and go right.
The gate-keeper stares bored, wants to know if we have been on any farms recently. We laugh. He sprays us disinfected, showers away the disease of our arrival, sends us onward into the July night with stars too different to recognise. I pull up my trousers, re-buckle the belt we bought a week ago in the dripping heat of market, with the brightly sweating mother yelling at her toddlers while we tried to barter. The doors open like voodoo in front of us, and the wall says welcome home with the same confetti colours.
Seven years seems like seventy Each crisp breeze was glowing Singing everything from birds in trees To lions guarding young cubs on plains in breezes
Beating to a rhythm of a tribal drum I danced underneath a crying sky As we chanted our glowing style in feet Dripping in moonlighting Under intimacy of tribes wearing Little other than swinging skirts Made up of plants beads As beady blowing glow lit lamps All went down as the sun goes low
We rattled our cups A malty red wine brewed as stewy smells of aromatic scents expelled Alongside an African rice hot spicy spread Along came the moon god As we all stamped out our other life woes
An African I’ll Always Be by Michelle Campbell
Africa breathes deeply inside my soul its diversity greater than the oceans thoughts of its soil stir up my emotions as my memories take over control.
South Africa’s vast beauty feelings of forever on duty whether in the Drakensberg mountains hiking or enjoying fountains.
My heart overflows with wishful notions of a holiday to a game reserve peacefully the animals we observe ’til we see some exciting commotions.
Recalling the fish eagle’s distinct cry and giggling Malwaiian children waving goodbye burning our feet on the sand at the great Lake the mighty Boababs our dreams awake.
To hear a lion’s loud roar or an elephant’s rumble God’s creation makes you humble experiences one will forever store.
Dearest Africa runs through my veins on my lips she always remains, the place i run to behind closed eyes she is the world’s most neglected prize.
To Africa i’ll always be devoted little melanin, yet still her daughter daydreams of her, my soul water her essence adored and noted.
Dry season has come to Nkor at last, the smiles on our faces says it all. Early, before the sun wakes up and yawns, and wonder what day it is. We drag our dusty feet, deeply smeared by oil from last nights meal, through the wet waiting dew, into grandma Beri’s cornfield. everybody is present, everybody is singing, the birds are whispering, the children are dancing, Their cane baskets waiting to lift the days harvest. A sight of joy and singing. Our women wrap their fingers round the maize plants Snatching and Ripping, Our men fill their basket, lifting and carrying, running like warriors home and back. Before you know it its twilight, its time for feasting, the harvesters grind the goat meat between their Molars, Flushing it down with kegs of palm wine.
we carry our lives around in these memories by Shiloh Phoenix
Grey-blue air sweeps the porch clean with the force of a continent behind it; Africa’s breath, green and wild and wet and I am small standing here, cold in my soaked skin, embracing the weight of this whole world against my heart.
My days here are numbered, just a small handful left to drip out of my fists and then I will be gone; gone like the dust of the harmattan in July or the mangoes in January, and the rain will wash away every footprint I left as if it never was.
Clean bird-song rings out to welcome the sunshine, whistles of hopes that never died, and I huddle into my hoodie with every moment burned onto my skin so that I will never forget the taste of the wind, the power of the water, anything.
Three weeks later when I touch down to vivid grass and cold white air, the droplets on the window pane will resound lost echoes as loud as thunder, and I will trace my own handprint searching for the map of what I’ve lost.
Kuma calls across the rain-drop dust overlayed on tarmac predictions, and Pafode answers sharp lightning bolt facts; I speak this language quiet in my whole breath as loyal as a continent, but we all know that in the end no village could ever be mine.
In Maforay tonight it is raining pounding splatters on a tin roof and the dark is warm wet barrels full of hopeful promises that we will plant in the garden tomorrow
In Reading tonight it is quiet cracked sidewalks lining houses and the dark is yellow paned glass full of cautious doors that don’t ever open for strangers
My soul sleeps soaked in Maforay rainy season
My body breathes blasphemous in Reading summer heat
and i am nowhere much
{I’m disintegrated tonight, divided between places where I don’t belong.}
I’m still peeling from that sunburn by Shiloh Phoenix
The tree today is supple and heavy laden with the weight of too much rain but where you are the sun is an Egyptian god, relentless in his dominion
If I can carry this sunburn across the Sahara skies could I bring back my hands cupped full of water?
Life never works the way I want it to and neither do you oh Africa, with your back turned to me
Once I was yours now I am a lost memory swinging slowly in these trees that are not the same at all
{and its a constant reminder that my world is small – small in the millions of miles}
Lost Souls of Africa by Shiloh Phoenix
“it’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from you”
I once had a friend just black enough to be called n****r by strangers in Alabama but too white to be mistaken for Senegalese She left Cape Town years ago but she’s still tasting the warm salt of Africa’s ocean in her dreams and she told me even though winters in Minnesota are bitter cold they never numb her longing
My brother, black as the dirt his mother farmed her whole life, black as the silence about his missing father, wrote me a letter from the psychiatric hospital where they put him, telling me that he feels like he is losing his whole self in a war against himself and he doesn’t know who he is anymore I replied that California is where people go to get lost not to find themselves Go home, my brother you are a prince in your own land though the doctors here have named you psychotic
To the lost boys of Sudan I too have watched my workplace throw out food, and I too have done the math of how many people that could’ve fed, and I too have wept for the stories I cannot tell, the people who do not know how to care or even understand
Two years ago I watched a little white girl pack up all of her things and get on a plane to Sierra Leone but she was too young to know what she had gained and what she would lose or how mirrors never tell enough of the story
I have never met a land so alluring as Africa I have never known a people so full of yearning as the lost souls of Africa
Today it is a cool and grey afternoon in south-east Pennsylvania and I am gathered with a crowd of black boys, laughing at each other in Swahili, wearing skinny jeans and Nike sneakers while they pore intently over their English homework They are too new to know yet how much they’ve lost and I will not be the one to tell them
{Opening quote is from “Africa” by Toto}
Grey-Green Rain by Shiloh Phoenix
Why would you go back she asks Isn’t life better here
i smile Depends what kind of better
Financially she nods
i shrug I guess so but some stuff matters more
her eyes are intent above the rim of her mask but i can’t think of how to explain the warm freedom of Africa
grey-green rain i remember heavy mountain humidity mango juice sticky palm trees bent wind smoky night on red gravel dust and dust and dust
ashes on the breeze hunger boiling in pots whispered songs starch stiff in the schoolyard stars enough to bathe in
hot breath sweaty bus tilted in red mud roosters’ indignation choking silt water bare feet on firm dirt
baoba fuzzy sugar glass soda straws ice cream wet plastic wrinkled skin rough hope enough to taste
she is waiting my tongue is wet full of colour and memories but no words
Third Culture Conversations is a talk show about third culture kids: people who are raised in a culture that is different than the one their parents grew up in. We will explore identity, rejecting and embracing parts of our culture, and the struggle to fit in when you don’t feel like you belong. Hosted by Esteban Gast, Leslie Ambriz, and Manolo Lopez, on the SoulPancake channel.
Are you a TCK? A third culture kid (TCK) is “a person who has spent a significant part of his or her developmental years outside the parents’ culture” (Pollock, 1999). This video explores how TCKs feel about home and where they belong.
Josh Gibson Media – “I think the hardest part is not the memories themselves, but it’s searching for the box of memories and realising how far under the bed it is hidden, and how far away that world has become. But Sometimes it’s important to remember, even if it hurts. It’s learning to let go, whilst not forgetting. Its learning that there was a time for that, and there is now a time for this. Holding on to the memories of a place once called home, and knowing things have changed since. And when no one else can understand, because no one else has seen. Its remembering that God understands, God has seen, he was there. He’s collected those memories, the good ones and the tough. And that…that’s more than ok, that is enough.”
Josh Gibson is a London-based content creator with an eye for detail and a passion to create. Check him out at his website –https://joshgibsonmedia.com/
I’ve been sleeping on an airplane pillow all this while drowned in a white pillowcase folded over and set at the top of my mat and the impermanency has etched itself over top of every memory I have here I always knew I wasn’t meant to stay
But somehow that airplane pillow folded over and over itself until it was small enough to fit in my pocket, to go back the same way it arrived; and all my hopes got tiny too, squished and soft and transportable like maybe that could make up for the rest
But it didn’t and I left everything hopes and pillows and all the rest small behind me
