There have been days when I thought everybody here (including myself) had gone slightly mad. Why stay up talking till four in the morning, when class starts only five hours later? Why sit outside, in the blistering sun, just to serve as the main course for Mrs. Mosquito, her offspring and all their friends? Why ask a certain professor (whose name will not be mentioned here, but you know who you are) any question, knowing the answer will be abstract and will surely end with “something something rethinking"? The answers to these questions are simple: Because of the people. We stay up late, in complete disregard of the hour or the amount of drinks we've already had, because the companionship is of such an exceptional nature that we're inclined to forget next day's classes. The mosquitoes, lizards and giant ants don't bother us, as long as we've somebody to laugh with. And those abstract, incomprehensible answers...they challenge you to actually rethink your own position in life and any thoughts you may have ever had about it.

There have also been days when the harshness of everyday life came rushing back in again. Travelling through Yogyakarta, it's impossible not to notice differences of poverty and wealth, modernity and tradition, the local and the international, the centre and the periphery. To name just a few examples: Young Indonesian sex workers, accompanied by older men of Western origin. An old woman, begging outside an Apple store. Pizza-parlors and roadside shops selling Mie, Nasi Putih and Es. The huge shopping mall, sterile and with marble tiles, flashy escalators and shops with loud music. The small streets were the locals shop, full of smells and colours. Neighbourhoods where the people from Yogyakarta buy batik, and streets where the youngsters experiment with graffiti. The thousands, hundreds of thousands of scooters and only a few silly tourists travelling by foot. The impressive view at sunrise, the smog-filled skies at noon. Playing children, still wearing their school uniforms, and the Austrian exchange students wearing suits. At times like these, the differences become tangible and get diffused at the same time. Where does my life end, and where do theirs start? Or are the lot of us interconnected in ways beyond our comprehension? I am inclined to think the latter, though the thought simultaneously scares me and fills me with a sense of empowerment as well.

Having been part of the Summer School has made me realize a lot of things. Some of these are about others, and life in general, and some of these mainly concern myself. In the past few weeks, I’ve been confronted with issues of self-image and identity. Am I a Dutch woman of Afghan descent, or am I an Afghan woman with nothing more than a Dutch nationality? My passport says I’m Dutch, but the intense craving for a bowl of hot Ash (a traditional Afghan soup) makes me think otherwise. My temperament tells me I’m Afghan, but more than the others, I yearn for a big chunk of Leerdammer-cheese. The colour of my skin proves I’m not of Dutch origin when I’m home, but in the eyes of the Indonesian, I’m just as much a bouleh as the rest of the Dutch delegation. I’ve given up on finding a fixed identity for myself, and have come to terms with being a world citizen. The people in Yogya are my neighbours. The students from Uganda and India live just across the street. My Indonesian friend’s teaching me how to crack jokes in Bahasah, my Indian friend’s inspiring me to learn how to sing every time she sings songs on Indian folklore and my friends from Uganda are showing me how life can be very different in the country they love so much. In return, I hope they’ve learned a bit about the Dutch and their ways as well. Because really: A little understanding goes a long, long way.

By Samira, student of the University for Humanistics- Netherlands.