Imagine you’re black, and you’re walking down the street when someone walks right up to you, shouts “black person” to your face, then keeps walking. Strange? Racist? You think it would never happen?

My husband and I have lived in Harare, Zimbabwe for about 15 months. Although we have been a bit lax in our studying, we have managed to learn some of the local language, Shona. One of the first words we learned when we moved to Zimbabwe was murungu. Murungu means “white person,” or “British person,” or sometimes just “boss.” We hear this word a lot. In downtown Harare, I have people walk right up to my face and say “murungu” before they keep walking. Talk about stating the obvious! Whenever we go to the rural areas, piles of children will yell out “Murungu! Murungu!” as we drive or walk by. Often I will hear “murungu” interspersed in a conversation that is happening close to me.

I can safely say that I hate being called murungu. I don’t mind it when kids use the word; it is often followed by peals of laughter, and said in innocence. But I hate it when adults refer to me as murungu, especially adults that I know and consider friends.

One of the biggest delights about moving to Zimbabwe has been becoming part of a huge, extended family. From the day I moved here, people started calling me mwanangu, which means “my child.” My husband, John, is everyone’s mukuasha (son-in-law), and he has more mother-in-laws than he ever thought possible! It has been wonderful to be welcomed into our Zimbabwean family by a whole host of mothers, fathers, grandmothers, etc. Being called mwanangu makes me feel that I belong, that I have a family, that I am accepted and loved. I love when people say “you are one of us,” because that is what we came to Zimbabwe for - to share life, to belong, to be one.

And yet there is always the looming accusation of murungu. Mwanangu says “you are ours, one of us.” It includes. But when someone says “murungu,” it is a reminder that we are separate, different, other. It excludes. That may not be the intention, but that is how it comes across. Whether consciously or subconsciously, the classifications of “in” and “out” happen because of the language that we choose.

I don’t think people usually say “murungu” with malice. It is just an identifying term that states an obvious fact. I am indeed a white person. I cannot tell you, however, the pain of hearing a friend, someone I trust and share my heart with, referring to me in a conversation simply as “murungu.” White person. Not Rochelle. Not friend. Not sister. Not daughter. Not human being. Just white person. Just different from us. It is painful and feels like betrayal. And yet, how many times have I done the exact same thing, referring to my friends as “Chinese families” or “newcomers” or “from broken homes” or “homeless” or any other category that lumps people together discriminately in groups that I have chosen for them?

Moving to Zimbabwe has made me much more aware of the power of labels we put on other people: “immigrant,” “woman,” “refugee,” “victim,” “friend,” “brother,” “Canadian,” “non-Christian,” “sinner,” “homosexual.” We likely use these words to state the obvious and to provide clarity for ourselves and others. But by using the labels, we are categorizing people - letting them know whether or not they are included or excluded.

I have realized that sometimes even our compliments can turn sour in a listener’s ear because they re-enforce “outsideness.” “Isn’t it great that a murungu can sing in Shona?” “Aren’t you happy to see a murungu?” “Your English is so good!” “Your food is delicious and your clothes are so beautiful!” You’re different. You’re exotic. You’re other. You are not one of us.

Am I trying to say that people aren’t happy when we compliment their food? No. Am I trying to say that we should censor every thought we have because we might offend someone? No. I am trying to say that we should be aware that the words we use can be interpreted in many different ways. I am trying to say that our language often impairs us in our desire to put across a certain intention or meaning. Sometimes when people tell me that I am fluent in Shona, I feel embarrassed, because I know that I am not. Sometimes when people tell me that I am getting very fat, I take offense, even though I know it is a high compliment in this part of the world. Anyone who has lived in a different culture knows the multitude of communication problems and misunderstanding that are caused when the words we use fail us in our intent to convey a message.

We all have various components that make up who we are, and many of us have the freedom to express the way we identify most. I will always remember sitting in a cattle shed years ago in Ingushettia - in the Caucasus - and meeting a family who had fled their home in Chechnya. There was a young woman sitting with her mother and her daughter. The world saw her as a tragic refugee. She saw herself as an opera singer. As she sang, I realized how often I have categorized fellow human beings, and I felt sincere compassion for the people burdened with labels that I have chosen to put on them.

When someone else gives you a label and tells you that you are “needy” or that you are an “immigrant” or that you are a “victim” or any other form of saying “different,” they are putting you in a box. That box can feel quite suffocating, and yet most people end up adopting the labels they are given. When someone calls me “murungu,” they are telling me that the colour of my skin makes me me. My race is more important than my personality, my intelligence, my relationships, my history, my gender, all of my other attributes. I am just different. But is being white really the core of who I am? Is there really more that separates me from people here than what unites me with them? Why are other people allowed to decide that for me?

A few years ago, my Salvation Army workplace got free tickets to a Thanksgiving dinner at a fine restaurant. I went with several of the “clients” I worked with and was completely mortified at the speeches thanking people for their generous contributions to the dinner for the homeless, the needy, the hopeless. It was good for PR. It was terrible for the self-worth of those of us who were meant to enjoy a nice meal but instead had disparaging labels stuck onto us.

Labels usually mean pointing out differences. Sometimes it is fun to be different. Sometimes it is exciting to be able to teach about your life, your culture, your way of doing things, your way of thinking, the things that make you different. But sometimes it is tiring and frustrating. Sometimes you just want to fit in and belong and be “normal.” Sometimes you just want to be Zimbabwean. Or Canadian. Or Salvationist. Or friend. Or human. Or “mwanangu.”

We have a subconscious need to categorize people, and the world will always find ways to divide us into “us” and “them.” But God has called us to the royal “we,” a huge “us,” a family of God that does not ignore our differences, but rather unites us in spite of them. We are all “mwanangus” - children of God. Let us not let our labels keep us from embracing one another as brothers and sisters.

by Rochelle McAlister
Reprinted with permission
This article first appeared on theRubicon.org

Writer: Rochelle and her husband John work for The Salvation Army in Harare, Zimbabwe. Rochelle just started a new position as the territorial HIV/AIDS Coordinator. They have learned that they always took electricity and food on the shelves for granted, and they appreciate any prayers you can spare for their new homeland. Feel free to follow their adventures on their blog.