Berkley Center

My first month in Ghana has been rife with reflections on identity. I am confronted by my race every day at my new home in Legon, Ghana. I am the only white woman in my program, and one of few white students on campus. I am adjusting to standing out in a way I never did in the United States. People call out “obroni” when they pass me. Obroni is a local word meaning “foreigner,” used most frequently in reference to white people. Professors will notice if I am absent. I am stared at in public places and am almost always overcharged at stores. That being said, I am so grateful for friends who are willing to discuss racial identity—and other identities—with me. These friends don’t mind hanging out with the white woman who, in turn, makes them stand out. I am learning a lot about how I carry myself and the space that I take up.

Recently, my program has started taking students on short trips. These trips have forced me to deeply consider my personal identities and how these identities inform my experience in Ghana. This past weekend, my program took a difficult trip to Cape Coast. We visited the Assin Manso Slave River where slaves took their last bath before being forced into slave castles, or dungeons, on the coast. We were able to see the exact stretch of water where this occurred. It was surreal and heartbreaking; I felt like I didn’t deserve to be there.

Next, we traveled to one of the aforementioned slave castles, the Cape Coast Castle. The English built the castle in 1610, and it held 1,300 slaves at a time. The castle had a “door of no return” through which slaves crawled before being forced onto the ships that would transport them across the Atlantic Ocean. We viewed this door and toured the castle and dungeons. The floors of the dungeons really stuck with me; they were originally made of brick, but as we walked into the chambers, we noticed that the floors were made of uneven, unrecognizable black material. Over hundreds of years, feces, urine, blood, food particles, and material from decaying bodies accumulated and essentially made a new floor on top of the original brick.

As stated, I felt like I didn’t deserve to be entering these spaces. I felt ashamed to be a white person. I was more uncomfortable in these spaces than I have ever been, anywhere, in my entire life. However, it is important to confront the legacy that white people have left and that many are still leaving. It’s ugly and inhumane. White people must confront this legacy each and every day. It’s not enough to say you have friends who are people of color or claim that you’re an ally. For those of you reading this who identify as white: How do you actively fight racism and remnants of the institution of slavery in America? I urge you to thoroughly consider that question. That’s what I’m doing now.

I’m working through my purpose for being here. I am absolutely here to learn a multitude of new things and have new experiences. However, these reasons don’t seem as genuine as the reasons that many of my classmates have shared with me. Many classmates feel like they’re returning to somewhere and something. Most of their family members will never visit Ghana, so my friends and classmates feel like they are a link to the past. It’s meaningful, heartbreaking, and even hopeful in a way.

I’ve been doing a lot of listening—more than I ever have before. Many of my peers now want to learn where their ancestors may have been sold from whether here in Ghana, on the Gold Coast, or further south. I cannot begin to imagine the pain and generational trauma a task like that would unleash. It’s difficult to hear these stories and know that I have little more to offer than a compassionate ear.

My study abroad experience thus far has been both challenging and enlightening. As my semester in Ghana progresses, my identities will continue to provoke deep personal reflection.