I recently returned home to Kenya after seven years in America pursuing my PhD in Clinical Psychology. Since I relocated, I have been experiencing varying levels of what has been referred to as the culture shock of reentry—and I anticipate this will continue for many more months.
There have been many enjoyable things about being back home, such as the beautiful weather—a welcome break from the cold and wintry East Coast, which was my home for the past two years. I have also enjoyed the rich Kenyan delicacies, and of course reconnecting with loved ones. Additionally, there have been many reminders that I have been away for some time, such as remembering to keep left while driving, especially on deserted roads, and learning to be patient when things don’t seem to be moving as efficiently and speedily as I was used to in the United States. There’s also readjusting to a less independent lifestyle, and observing the ways that things and people have changed.
Although I visited home a number of times during my seven years away and stayed updated on the current events through social media, being home has still required both internal and external adjustments. I will be reflecting on the significance of place as one who is Kenyan and was living in the US, and also as a person relocating to my home in Kenya. I will describe three salient aspects of this adjustment process: how being in this new (old) place—home—has impacted my sense of safety, how it has made me reexamine my identity, and what transitioning looks like in this new season.
On New Year’s Eve, many Kenyans cross over the year at a kesha, an all-night prayer vigil. But on the last day of 2019, my sister was set to attend such a service at a local church when she received a text message that caused her to contemplate changing her plans. It was an alert about a heightened threat of terrorism, cautioning citizens to maintain vigilance in public places including shopping malls, hotels, and places of worship—the very places revelers would be when leaping into the new year and decade. While she and many others ended up attending the kesha without incident, less than one week later, we woke up to the news of a predawn attack by Al-Shabaab, an extremist group linked to Al Qaeda, on a military base in Manda Bay, Kenya. This area is used by United States armed forces who provide training and counterterrorism support to East African Partners, and three Americans died as a result of the attack. Later in the afternoon, I watched a news clip reporting a heightened police presence in the central business district to enhance security around places of worship and public areas.
“Place” for me has been a reminder of the effects of terrorism. On entering every public place—a mall, a supermarket, a church—one must go through a search. For instance, when driving into the local mall area, there’s a security checkpoint where every car door is opened for a physical check, sometimes involving dogs searching your vehicle. Upon entering the building, each person goes through a metal detector or undergoes a physical check reminiscent of airport security. Similar experiences are common in other public settings including churches and hotels.
I imagine Kenyans have become accustomed to these security checks, but having recently returned home, I had forgotten about how the fight against terrorism has become so embedded in the everyday life of a Kenyan. This attentiveness to safety is not far-fetched. It was only in January 2019 that a major terror attack at a hotel in Nairobi’s Westlands area resulted in the death of 21 persons, plus the five attackers. Never far from Kenyans’ memories are the events of the 2015 Garrisa University attack in which 148 people were killed, the 2013 Westgate Mall terror attack where 69 lives were lost, or the US Embassy bombing of 1998, which resulted in 213 deaths. Living in America shielded me from a constant awareness of the realities of terrorism.
The threat of terror attacks on Kenyan soil is an ongoing concern with implications on various sectors of society. At an individual level, I do not necessarily feel unsafe, and I have already adapted to the routine of multiple checks. In some ways, the security checks become reassurances that our physical safety is being attended to, and for some they may bring a sense of psychological ease. I wonder, though, if for others the checks are a constant reminder of our vulnerability. Being back in Kenya has been a reminder of the global war on terrorism and the real, tangible impact for those residing in the country.
Since moving home, I have often found myself noticing the mzungu (white person) whenever we are in a public space. There have always been foreigners in Kenya, and especially in Nairobi where I was born and raised, but I was hardly cognizant of them. Now I see and take note of them often. Notably, there’s a significantly higher proportion of Chinese nationals in the country than had been present when I left seven years ago. This has been occasioned by the influx of Chinese-funded infrastructural projects, resulting in new Chinese communities in our midst. These communities are a potential missional opportunity and, thankfully, there have been some efforts to reach out to them with the message of the gospel. There’s much more room for cultural exchange and hospitality, as well as working through prejudices and rivalries, as we grow in understanding God’s reign over all peoples, especially those who are ethnically and culturally different from us.
During my time in America, my identity as a Black person, minority, foreigner, international student, and African/Kenyan became salient. Now I find myself attentive to the experiences of the foreigners in our midst and wonder if we are being hospitable and sensitive to their needs. For instance, I was delighted to see that the Kiswahili songs at church had English subtitles so that non-Kiswahili speaking visitors could follow along. I was also encouraged to see relatives invite a Chinese family for dinner during the Christmas holiday.
Although I do not entirely miss the sense of “sticking out” that characterized my experiences during my time away in the US, I am grateful for the lessons it taught me. I learned what it feels like to be at the margins and to feel invisible and unknown. I also experienced what it felt like to be objectified and exotified, when only one aspect of me—my Blackness or my African-ness—was all that was seen. At other times, I felt seen and celebrated for the fullness of who I am, with the complexities that my multiple identities revealed. I found spaces where I could be myself, fully and unashamedly, and grew in relationships where there was a mutual give and take.
I found that being “different” allowed me to discover parts of myself and my identity that seem to be cultivated only when one is in the minority. As J. Derek McNeil notes, when one has lived as a social “other,” ethnicity and culture matter.1 It was during my time away that I identified most strongly with being an African, and with the treasures and histories of my African roots. I began to admire, appreciate, and invest in African art. I read more about my people, and more deeply understood their victories, struggles, and the strengths they possess. I also saw the “other,” those in the majority culture, with a new lens. Before, I only idealized them. I had few relationships and distant interactions with those who were racially different from me. Being in close proximity, however, forced me to confront my own feelings of inferiority and to wrestle with expressions of superiority. My Kenyan, African, and international student identities also carried their own privilege and power. I learned to sit with these different nuances in my identities, which helped me have a deeper understanding about power, privilege, and the fragility that comes with it. I could see the blind spots of those in the majority culture more clearly, as well as the damage inflicted on minorities in different contexts. I felt the anger and pain that comes with realizing the gravity of what people have endured, but also the sense of pride in seeing that despite the challenges, somehow, they have refused to give up.
I identified with other minorities and learned to mourn with them. As a Black person, I saw the struggles of my African American brothers and sisters as they navigate what it means to live in a predominantly white-majority context. As an immigrant, I empathized with the pain of fellow immigrants with a precarious legal status that makes education and employment opportunities challenging. Learning about the displacement from their land and other historical injustices against Native Americans grieved my heart. Learning to step into the pain of not just cultural groups but individuals with multiple identities and nuanced stories, and being a witness to their lived experiences, was transformative. I carry their stories in me. I also saw sides of God I had not experienced: the God who looks after the foreigner, who is the defender of the weak, and who hears the cry of those who are without any other helper (Ps 68:5–6, 140:12, 146:9; Ex 22:21–27).
Back home in Kenya, those identities are no longer salient. Instead, I now represent the majority—and with my doctorate, I am among those who have privilege. I am grateful for the ways that my time in America shaped me. I pray that as I get more comfortable, I will continue to be cognizant of the privileges accorded to me and how to lay down myself for the sake of the other. I am reminded of Paul’s words in his letter to the Philippians, that their attitude should be similar to Christ Jesus, who although being in his very nature God, did not consider equality with God as something to be exploited, but instead emptied himself (Phil 2:5–8). I don’t know what emptying myself will entail on a daily basis, but I endeavor to be one who lays aside my privilege and entitlements for the sake of others.
In this season, “place” also represents transition, which brings with it both the excitement of starting afresh as well as the sadness of letting go. New beginnings offer opportunities to explore new terrain. As the excitement of being home fades away, I am learning to embrace the adjustment of this new season. Finding new routines, enjoying the season of rest, managing my expectations of what I ought to be doing, not comparing myself with those around me whose careers and social networks are already established, are all part of the process for me. I am learning to sit in the discomfort that this transitory season brings even though it feels challenging to do so.
The move from an affluent, Western nation back to Kenya raises interesting feelings. It has been tempting to compare how differently and efficiently the systems work, and difficult to not feel a sense of despair at the resource and infrastructure limitations, and lack of conveniences, compared to what I had become accustomed to. In his dissertation, George Marquis describes the reentry adjustment of Fulbright alumni who hail from North Africa and South Asia.2 He notes that these participants were returning to areas of the world that are culturally and developmentally different from the United States, posing unique challenges compared to those returning from less-developed contexts back to the West or Europe. I was comforted to note that, like me, these participants found the changes they had experienced cognitively, behaviorally, and attitudinally were brought to the surface in their new home environment. It was also not uncommon for the participants to question whether returning home was the correct decision, while also feeling a strong desire to make an impact through transferring the knowledge, skills, and new perspectives they had gained. Further, as they learned to detach themselves from their experience abroad, many had strong feelings typical of the process of grieving over separation and loss. I resonate with some of these experiences and have been reflecting on ways to process these feelings.
My sister and her friends participated in a vision board creating activity for the new year. Inspired, I purchased a notice board that I converted into a memory board using different memorabilia like keychains, lanyards, cards, jewelry, pictures, my old license plate, and many other personal odds and ends. I arranged these in a colorful ensemble depicting numerous people, places, memories, and experiences that all reflect my time in America. I intend to hang this board up as a visual reminder of that season of my life and as a memorial stone for future seasons. It is reminiscent of the Lord’s instruction to Joshua to have 12 men from each tribe of Israel carry a stone from the Jordan river in order to build a memorial that would be in place for future generations. The memorial was to be a reminder of how God dried up the river before their eyes and kept it dry until all had crossed over, just as he had done previously at the Red Sea (Josh 4:22–24).
I am hoping that as I adjust in this new season and the memories of my seven years begin to fade, this memory board can stand as my place of remembrance of all the ways God showed up for me, the people he used to shape me, the lessons he taught me, the ways I grew, and the person I became. The process itself also provided a tangible way of processing the feelings of loss and sadness that accompany the leaving of an old place for new beginnings. It has been one way of saying goodbye to the part of myself that is no longer useful for the journey ahead and beginning to embrace the self that is needed for this next phase of my life. It has also been a way to share with others about my journey and tell them of the faithfulness of God during the seven years I was abroad. As much as I want to move through this transition phase quickly and get onto the next new thing, I have learned the value of the process. Building this memorial board, as well as journaling, coloring, and having honest conversations with loved ones are all ways I am navigating this transition. Grief has no formula, so I am learning as I go.
One of the helpful ways I have been conceptualizing this season of transition is Naomi Hattaway’s “I Am a Triangle” illustration on understanding her repatriation experience. The concept was one she learned indirectly from Mission Training International, which offers a debriefing and renewal program for those involved in cross-cultural ministry. 3
Imagine there is a person from Circle country who boards a plane and moves across the world to Square country. Circle citizen now lives in the midst of Square settlers, and they may adapt to a degree, but will never become a truly Square settler. At the same time, this Circle citizen will also start to lose a bit of their Circle culture. The normal Circle things start to blend together with the new Square culture. The major holidays in Circle country might dissipate a bit to allow for the celebration of Square festivals. Favorite comfort foods that remind them of Circle country give way to the acceptance of new Square foods. The Circle culture never quite gives way to the new Square norms and at the same time doesn’t go away completely either. They slowly—and seemingly unconsciously—evolve into something completely different. The transformation to a Triangle Tenant begins. Being a Triangle means you have some of your original Circle culture mixed with some of your newly adopted Square culture. You are no longer 100 percent Circle, but you’ll never be 100 percent Square. You are left—almost hanging—somewhere in the middle. Now, imagine that after some time, this Triangle Tenant hops on yet another plane and returns to Circle country. This Triangle doesn’t revert to the previous Circle status just because repatriation has happened and he has landed home. This Triangle remains forever a Triangle. 4
I definitely feel like a “Triangle” and I am learning to accept that I will never fully return to being a complete “Circle.” Kenya has changed too, and it is not the “Circle” country I left seven years ago. I find comfort in knowing that the same God who was present with me prior to my departure, while in America, and now in this new season, remains unchanging. I can continue to rely on him as I navigate this new season. He remains the God of all places, and he is faithful to work out his purposes over my life no matter what place I find myself in.
Sheila Konyu Muchemi (PhD ’18, MAICS ’18) earned her PhD in Clinical Psychology at Fuller, and completed her internship and postdoctoral fellowship at Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital in Washington, DC from July 2017 to October 2019. The following December, she relocated back to her native country of Kenya, where she looks forward to joining in the ongoing efforts to address mental health concerns from both a psychological and spiritual perspective.
I recently returned home to Kenya after seven years in America pursuing my PhD in Clinical Psychology. Since I relocated, I have been experiencing varying levels of what has been referred to as the culture shock of reentry—and I anticipate this will continue for many more months.
There have been many enjoyable things about being back home, such as the beautiful weather—a welcome break from the cold and wintry East Coast, which was my home for the past two years. I have also enjoyed the rich Kenyan delicacies, and of course reconnecting with loved ones. Additionally, there have been many reminders that I have been away for some time, such as remembering to keep left while driving, especially on deserted roads, and learning to be patient when things don’t seem to be moving as efficiently and speedily as I was used to in the United States. There’s also readjusting to a less independent lifestyle, and observing the ways that things and people have changed.
Although I visited home a number of times during my seven years away and stayed updated on the current events through social media, being home has still required both internal and external adjustments. I will be reflecting on the significance of place as one who is Kenyan and was living in the US, and also as a person relocating to my home in Kenya. I will describe three salient aspects of this adjustment process: how being in this new (old) place—home—has impacted my sense of safety, how it has made me reexamine my identity, and what transitioning looks like in this new season.
On New Year’s Eve, many Kenyans cross over the year at a kesha, an all-night prayer vigil. But on the last day of 2019, my sister was set to attend such a service at a local church when she received a text message that caused her to contemplate changing her plans. It was an alert about a heightened threat of terrorism, cautioning citizens to maintain vigilance in public places including shopping malls, hotels, and places of worship—the very places revelers would be when leaping into the new year and decade. While she and many others ended up attending the kesha without incident, less than one week later, we woke up to the news of a predawn attack by Al-Shabaab, an extremist group linked to Al Qaeda, on a military base in Manda Bay, Kenya. This area is used by United States armed forces who provide training and counterterrorism support to East African Partners, and three Americans died as a result of the attack. Later in the afternoon, I watched a news clip reporting a heightened police presence in the central business district to enhance security around places of worship and public areas.
“Place” for me has been a reminder of the effects of terrorism. On entering every public place—a mall, a supermarket, a church—one must go through a search. For instance, when driving into the local mall area, there’s a security checkpoint where every car door is opened for a physical check, sometimes involving dogs searching your vehicle. Upon entering the building, each person goes through a metal detector or undergoes a physical check reminiscent of airport security. Similar experiences are common in other public settings including churches and hotels.
I imagine Kenyans have become accustomed to these security checks, but having recently returned home, I had forgotten about how the fight against terrorism has become so embedded in the everyday life of a Kenyan. This attentiveness to safety is not far-fetched. It was only in January 2019 that a major terror attack at a hotel in Nairobi’s Westlands area resulted in the death of 21 persons, plus the five attackers. Never far from Kenyans’ memories are the events of the 2015 Garrisa University attack in which 148 people were killed, the 2013 Westgate Mall terror attack where 69 lives were lost, or the US Embassy bombing of 1998, which resulted in 213 deaths. Living in America shielded me from a constant awareness of the realities of terrorism.
The threat of terror attacks on Kenyan soil is an ongoing concern with implications on various sectors of society. At an individual level, I do not necessarily feel unsafe, and I have already adapted to the routine of multiple checks. In some ways, the security checks become reassurances that our physical safety is being attended to, and for some they may bring a sense of psychological ease. I wonder, though, if for others the checks are a constant reminder of our vulnerability. Being back in Kenya has been a reminder of the global war on terrorism and the real, tangible impact for those residing in the country.
Since moving home, I have often found myself noticing the mzungu (white person) whenever we are in a public space. There have always been foreigners in Kenya, and especially in Nairobi where I was born and raised, but I was hardly cognizant of them. Now I see and take note of them often. Notably, there’s a significantly higher proportion of Chinese nationals in the country than had been present when I left seven years ago. This has been occasioned by the influx of Chinese-funded infrastructural projects, resulting in new Chinese communities in our midst. These communities are a potential missional opportunity and, thankfully, there have been some efforts to reach out to them with the message of the gospel. There’s much more room for cultural exchange and hospitality, as well as working through prejudices and rivalries, as we grow in understanding God’s reign over all peoples, especially those who are ethnically and culturally different from us.
During my time in America, my identity as a Black person, minority, foreigner, international student, and African/Kenyan became salient. Now I find myself attentive to the experiences of the foreigners in our midst and wonder if we are being hospitable and sensitive to their needs. For instance, I was delighted to see that the Kiswahili songs at church had English subtitles so that non-Kiswahili speaking visitors could follow along. I was also encouraged to see relatives invite a Chinese family for dinner during the Christmas holiday.
Although I do not entirely miss the sense of “sticking out” that characterized my experiences during my time away in the US, I am grateful for the lessons it taught me. I learned what it feels like to be at the margins and to feel invisible and unknown. I also experienced what it felt like to be objectified and exotified, when only one aspect of me—my Blackness or my African-ness—was all that was seen. At other times, I felt seen and celebrated for the fullness of who I am, with the complexities that my multiple identities revealed. I found spaces where I could be myself, fully and unashamedly, and grew in relationships where there was a mutual give and take.
I found that being “different” allowed me to discover parts of myself and my identity that seem to be cultivated only when one is in the minority. As J. Derek McNeil notes, when one has lived as a social “other,” ethnicity and culture matter.1 It was during my time away that I identified most strongly with being an African, and with the treasures and histories of my African roots. I began to admire, appreciate, and invest in African art. I read more about my people, and more deeply understood their victories, struggles, and the strengths they possess. I also saw the “other,” those in the majority culture, with a new lens. Before, I only idealized them. I had few relationships and distant interactions with those who were racially different from me. Being in close proximity, however, forced me to confront my own feelings of inferiority and to wrestle with expressions of superiority. My Kenyan, African, and international student identities also carried their own privilege and power. I learned to sit with these different nuances in my identities, which helped me have a deeper understanding about power, privilege, and the fragility that comes with it. I could see the blind spots of those in the majority culture more clearly, as well as the damage inflicted on minorities in different contexts. I felt the anger and pain that comes with realizing the gravity of what people have endured, but also the sense of pride in seeing that despite the challenges, somehow, they have refused to give up.
I identified with other minorities and learned to mourn with them. As a Black person, I saw the struggles of my African American brothers and sisters as they navigate what it means to live in a predominantly white-majority context. As an immigrant, I empathized with the pain of fellow immigrants with a precarious legal status that makes education and employment opportunities challenging. Learning about the displacement from their land and other historical injustices against Native Americans grieved my heart. Learning to step into the pain of not just cultural groups but individuals with multiple identities and nuanced stories, and being a witness to their lived experiences, was transformative. I carry their stories in me. I also saw sides of God I had not experienced: the God who looks after the foreigner, who is the defender of the weak, and who hears the cry of those who are without any other helper (Ps 68:5–6, 140:12, 146:9; Ex 22:21–27).
Back home in Kenya, those identities are no longer salient. Instead, I now represent the majority—and with my doctorate, I am among those who have privilege. I am grateful for the ways that my time in America shaped me. I pray that as I get more comfortable, I will continue to be cognizant of the privileges accorded to me and how to lay down myself for the sake of the other. I am reminded of Paul’s words in his letter to the Philippians, that their attitude should be similar to Christ Jesus, who although being in his very nature God, did not consider equality with God as something to be exploited, but instead emptied himself (Phil 2:5–8). I don’t know what emptying myself will entail on a daily basis, but I endeavor to be one who lays aside my privilege and entitlements for the sake of others.
In this season, “place” also represents transition, which brings with it both the excitement of starting afresh as well as the sadness of letting go. New beginnings offer opportunities to explore new terrain. As the excitement of being home fades away, I am learning to embrace the adjustment of this new season. Finding new routines, enjoying the season of rest, managing my expectations of what I ought to be doing, not comparing myself with those around me whose careers and social networks are already established, are all part of the process for me. I am learning to sit in the discomfort that this transitory season brings even though it feels challenging to do so.
The move from an affluent, Western nation back to Kenya raises interesting feelings. It has been tempting to compare how differently and efficiently the systems work, and difficult to not feel a sense of despair at the resource and infrastructure limitations, and lack of conveniences, compared to what I had become accustomed to. In his dissertation, George Marquis describes the reentry adjustment of Fulbright alumni who hail from North Africa and South Asia.2 He notes that these participants were returning to areas of the world that are culturally and developmentally different from the United States, posing unique challenges compared to those returning from less-developed contexts back to the West or Europe. I was comforted to note that, like me, these participants found the changes they had experienced cognitively, behaviorally, and attitudinally were brought to the surface in their new home environment. It was also not uncommon for the participants to question whether returning home was the correct decision, while also feeling a strong desire to make an impact through transferring the knowledge, skills, and new perspectives they had gained. Further, as they learned to detach themselves from their experience abroad, many had strong feelings typical of the process of grieving over separation and loss. I resonate with some of these experiences and have been reflecting on ways to process these feelings.
My sister and her friends participated in a vision board creating activity for the new year. Inspired, I purchased a notice board that I converted into a memory board using different memorabilia like keychains, lanyards, cards, jewelry, pictures, my old license plate, and many other personal odds and ends. I arranged these in a colorful ensemble depicting numerous people, places, memories, and experiences that all reflect my time in America. I intend to hang this board up as a visual reminder of that season of my life and as a memorial stone for future seasons. It is reminiscent of the Lord’s instruction to Joshua to have 12 men from each tribe of Israel carry a stone from the Jordan river in order to build a memorial that would be in place for future generations. The memorial was to be a reminder of how God dried up the river before their eyes and kept it dry until all had crossed over, just as he had done previously at the Red Sea (Josh 4:22–24).
I am hoping that as I adjust in this new season and the memories of my seven years begin to fade, this memory board can stand as my place of remembrance of all the ways God showed up for me, the people he used to shape me, the lessons he taught me, the ways I grew, and the person I became. The process itself also provided a tangible way of processing the feelings of loss and sadness that accompany the leaving of an old place for new beginnings. It has been one way of saying goodbye to the part of myself that is no longer useful for the journey ahead and beginning to embrace the self that is needed for this next phase of my life. It has also been a way to share with others about my journey and tell them of the faithfulness of God during the seven years I was abroad. As much as I want to move through this transition phase quickly and get onto the next new thing, I have learned the value of the process. Building this memorial board, as well as journaling, coloring, and having honest conversations with loved ones are all ways I am navigating this transition. Grief has no formula, so I am learning as I go.
One of the helpful ways I have been conceptualizing this season of transition is Naomi Hattaway’s “I Am a Triangle” illustration on understanding her repatriation experience. The concept was one she learned indirectly from Mission Training International, which offers a debriefing and renewal program for those involved in cross-cultural ministry. 3
Imagine there is a person from Circle country who boards a plane and moves across the world to Square country. Circle citizen now lives in the midst of Square settlers, and they may adapt to a degree, but will never become a truly Square settler. At the same time, this Circle citizen will also start to lose a bit of their Circle culture. The normal Circle things start to blend together with the new Square culture. The major holidays in Circle country might dissipate a bit to allow for the celebration of Square festivals. Favorite comfort foods that remind them of Circle country give way to the acceptance of new Square foods. The Circle culture never quite gives way to the new Square norms and at the same time doesn’t go away completely either. They slowly—and seemingly unconsciously—evolve into something completely different. The transformation to a Triangle Tenant begins. Being a Triangle means you have some of your original Circle culture mixed with some of your newly adopted Square culture. You are no longer 100 percent Circle, but you’ll never be 100 percent Square. You are left—almost hanging—somewhere in the middle. Now, imagine that after some time, this Triangle Tenant hops on yet another plane and returns to Circle country. This Triangle doesn’t revert to the previous Circle status just because repatriation has happened and he has landed home. This Triangle remains forever a Triangle. 4
I definitely feel like a “Triangle” and I am learning to accept that I will never fully return to being a complete “Circle.” Kenya has changed too, and it is not the “Circle” country I left seven years ago. I find comfort in knowing that the same God who was present with me prior to my departure, while in America, and now in this new season, remains unchanging. I can continue to rely on him as I navigate this new season. He remains the God of all places, and he is faithful to work out his purposes over my life no matter what place I find myself in.
Sheila Konyu Muchemi (PhD ’18, MAICS ’18) earned her PhD in Clinical Psychology at Fuller, and completed her internship and postdoctoral fellowship at Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital in Washington, DC from July 2017 to October 2019. The following December, she relocated back to her native country of Kenya, where she looks forward to joining in the ongoing efforts to address mental health concerns from both a psychological and spiritual perspective.
