Confronting the Mirror: travels in the Realm of the Other

source: personal archives, 2023.

When I started traveling, fifteen years ago, there were questions I never asked myself. Everything seemed new and alluring, and I viewed the world with a certain naïveté. Not that I was completely unaware of its injustices or wealth, but I was still unconscious of my place in it, of what it meant when I ventured beyond my own home. I don’t think I was capable, at the time, of distinguishing between prejudice and fair observation, nor of measuring the influence of the judgments that arose within me when faced with new places or cultures. It was only slowly, as the years and travels piled up, that I became aware that, like every human being, I was inhabited by a set of principles, values, and social beliefs, which shaped my perception of the world much more than I realised, and sometimes, without me even knowing it.

I traveled with carefree abandon, taking my first impressions as light truths, sufficient in themselves, and forming almost definitive opinions without ever really questioning their origins. Even though I always made an effort to approach each destination with the curiosity and empathy that I believe are mine, I too often neglected the time for reflection and research. But gradually, I realised that even these were less a characteristic of my own personality than a social construct, a sense of discomfort began to overwhelm me. I resented this intellectual laziness that kept me from making the effort to analyse and learn when the moment came to truly understand what surrounded me. I took notes, of course, but they remained buried in my journals, without any lessons being drawn from them.

Traveling the way I did then was a form of intoxicating lightness: I didn’t burden myself with history, the economic, social, or political contexts of a place, and I brushed quickly past the true understanding of its values or the organisation of its society. This had a certain advantage: the wonder of the first moments was continuously renewed, and the difficult work of moving beyond appearances, of deconstructing them, and confronting the harsh reality that these encounters between different humanities sometimes bring to light, was rarely required.

This realisation, along with the years spent lost in books, exploring the accounts of journalists, anthropologists, and travelers, brought with it a host of uncomfortable questions and seemingly insoluble problems. From then on, each journey came with its share of misunderstandings and disenchantments, as much as of wonder. I had to learn to observe myself as much as I observed the other. I had to understand that, in reality, we can only see the world through the lens of our own origins and accept the many dissonances this creates. As Levi-Strauss frequently spoke of, there exists a notion of “neutral observer”, describing the anthropologist's delicate position, forcing him to be detached from himself to understand the other, without losing the necessary reference points for his analysis.

The more I traveled, the more I observed the world from this perspective, and the more I found myself alone in the face of these contradictions: my values, what I considered just, ethical, or normal, were not necessarily shared where I found myself. And thus, the eternal question remained: Was it possible for me to truly apprehend and observe a culture whose values and workings were opposed to my own? Was I capable of going beyond my own framework of understanding to grasp the other’s? And, ultimately, should I even do so?

This awareness intensified particularly when I found myself in Dubai a few months ago. As I contemplated the strange landscape before me, I was seized by a vertigo: what was I doing here, and was it really necessary to travel thousands of miles to the Arabian Peninsula to discover a region whose social practices – particularly towards women and migrants – revolted me deeply? And while I measured the gap that separated me from this world, trying to imagine the life I might have led there, crowds of tourists, undoubtedly unbothered by these concerns, strolled along the beaches with a smile on their faces.

I have often heard people say that they would never set foot in countries like the Emirates or others, on principle, because of what they considered inhuman or immoral. And this question haunts me. I can’t help but think that if the whole world rushes to vacation destinations in countries where human rights and political regimes leave much to be desired, it’s a tacit way of acquiescing, of showing that what happens there doesn’t concern us, as long as our own experience is unaffected. In doing so, we end up believing that, ultimately, there is no real connection between these parts of the world and ours, between these individuals and us. And we live separate humanities.

Yet, I have continued to travel to places where I understand neither the values nor the ways of life, confronted with misunderstanding or frustration. Every encounter with the other has made me realise the distance between the lens through which I see the world, and the deeper understanding I must have of it. And if I continue these travels, it’s not because indifference or naive acceptance has gotten me to the point of caring about nothing, but because I am convinced that only through confrontation with what surprises us, disturbs us, or revolts us, can we lay the first stones of this long learning of humanity. As I have said before, I do not believe that any people, any place, or any culture is inherently devoid of interest, richness, or humanity. At every street corner, if we take the time to observe, we can discover an infinity of hidden beauties, no matter where we are.

What we must try to understand, however, is why and how such values, such ways of life, or such injustices have taken root in these places. And in doing so, it is crucial never to forget to turn back on ourselves, imagining ourselves as the other, and to see in us everything that might seem immoral or revolting.

References:

• Claude Levi-Strauss, Tristes tropiques, 1955

• Claude Levi-Strauss, La pensée sauvage, 1962

• Samah Karaki, L’empathie est politique, 2024.