The "Khawaja Mentality".

…. Although my first year of teaching is drawing to a close (it seems I have barely started) this blog is yet to touch upon the ‘day-to-day’ realities and rituals of living in Sudan. With this in mind the following will frame my experiences of living in Sudan from the standpoint of the Khawaja, teacher and traveller. 

 Despite making every attempt to be inconspicuous, my residence in El Obeid has hardly gone unnoticed. Instead, like the ‘C’ list celebrity who does almost anything- but at the same time basically nothing- to raise their profile (as though famous for the sake of being famous), my exposure alone seems enough to ensure that heads swiftly turn, conversations abruptly change and one of a number of names is hollered my way as I pass on by.

 Indeed, it has proven nigh on impossible to escape the shouts of Tim, teacher, Ustaz, Christin, ‘white-boy’, nigger, ‘China’ and the like used to attract my attention. However, it is perhaps one name above all others that lingers on the lips of the Sudanese: “Khawaja”. Like an impulsive, excitable young child visiting a zoo full of rare and exotic animals , Sudanese drivers regularly slow down the traffic and wind down their windows just to exclaim ‘Khawaja/ Khawajia (f)’ in our direction…

 Khawaja is a term Sudanese people use when referring to foreigners, specifically white foreigners. In its spoken form its utterance evokes a palpable sense of the hospitality and warmth proffered by the majority of Sudanese. Far from feeling victim to some denigrating, discriminatory racial slur I feel recognised, even respected by this acknowledgement of my presence. I often consider it endearing how the ‘sita chai’ (tea lady) takes pride in remembering and recollecting the Khawaja’s preference for tea ‘bedoun sukker’ (without sugar), or how the young school-children pursue me with enthusiastic shouts of ‘Khawaja! Khawaja!’ simply in the hope that I may return their wave or, briefly speak English with them.

 But, unspoken, there exists an implicit ‘Khawaja mentality’. My white skin is a statement of difference, a presumption of status that is neither questioned nor censored, but simply given. Private, inconsequential moments are pierced by the stares of strangers, such that my nose pick, my absent-minded stumble or my subtle scratch become magnified where normally they would go unnoticed. Under these circumstances I feel the glare of countless eyes interrogating not only my every action but also my demeanour and appearance. Symptomatic of the ‘Khawaja mentality’ is its intrusiveness.

 However the ‘Khawaja mentality’ is not merely a superficial concept, devoid of deeper meaning and, by consequence root causes. Instead I would suggest that the ‘Khawaja mentality’ can be explained with reference to the idea of an ‘inferiority complex’ and ‘primitive’ understanding of difference.

1.  Primitive difference

The term ‘Khawaja’ intimates ignorance, rather than antagonism or indecency. Perpetual poverty as well as Sudan’s continuing status as an international ‘pariah’ has left Sudanese people isolated. Tourism is basically non-existent. Internal struggles for survival are pervasive. Exposure is limited.  Under these circumstances it seems no surprise that Sudanese people are highly sensitized to difference (whether in terms of skin colour, religion or language).  

 Moreover unlike the multicultural, multiracial and multi-ethnic diversity we are accustomed to in Western society, Sudanese society is still stuck in an ancestral ‘tribal’ mentality that views difference and diversity through a separatist mentality of ‘us’ and ‘them’. The importance attached to internal solidarity, by exaggerating the groups’ self-image, ensures that anything deviating from the groups’ characteristics (eg. racial difference) is seen in even more stark, black-and-white terms.

2. Inferiority Complex

My white skin is not merely a symbol of difference, but rather a ‘marker of status’. People assume that the ‘Khawaja’ is a source of betterment, development and prestige. From the students and teachers who, with neither evidence nor assurances in my ability, assume exposure alone will instill in them English fluency, to the ministry of education officials who act as though my presence is in itself a political statement of intent, it seems people have subconsciously internalized the tenets of the ‘White man’s burden’.

 With a non-existent tourism industry and limited international mobility (except from diaspora workers and political refugees), the Sudanese encounter with the Westerner- or ‘white man’- has overwhelmingly occurred within the context of colonialism and development (the NGO worker). Perhaps testament to how bad things have become since independence and, particularly, the commencement of Omar al-Bashir’s reign, the ‘Khawaja’ is both a reminder and promise of better days. We have heard numerous ramblings about general British ‘decency’ and the positive legacy the British left in Sudan, only to be destroyed by subsequent Sudanese regimes.

  Being in Sudan is good for the ego. I recently read that the roots of the word Khawaja are Persian, translating as ‘lord’ or ‘master’.  Whilst most Sudanese are unaware of this translation (most people use the term humorously), it embodies the undeserved deference rendered to the ‘white man’. The notion of the Khawaja is a false promise, a misleading and deceptive abstraction. In the current context of 'post development hype' fatigue this Khawaja illusion has become even more apparent.  Contrary to what people believe progress and development will not come at his hand. Similarly his pockets are not bottomless nor his mental faculties exceptional. The question begs therefore, with the exception of my ego, who exactly is the Khawaja good for?