Jillian Maturo

“Ulinipokea kama ndugu.” You welcomed me like a family member. Those words were part of a farewell message from a woman named Bahati before I left Syracuse, New York. Bahati came to the United States from Tanzania in October 2023 with her three sons, and when we first met, I was still in the very early stages of learning Swahili. She did not speak any English, and rather than asking someone who actually spoke Swahili to work with her, I decided that I would try my best with what I knew. What I remember most is that she never made me feel inadequate for not knowing enough. She was willing to meet me where I was, speaking slowly, asking whether I understood, finding another word or synonym when I did not, and patiently helping me understand what she was trying to tell me. I thought I was helping her navigate a new country, but I was beginning to learn that understanding another person is never the responsibility of only one side, but rather it is something two people build together. That became the foundation of our relationship. Bahati taught me Swahili, and as my vocabulary grew, so did the world she was able to share with me. I would go to her home to help fill out paperwork, and somehow I would leave having been fed, having been asked how I was doing, and having learned something new from her. Eventually, what had begun as a relationship in which I was supposed to be helping her became a friendship, and I began to understand that what made our relationship so meaningful was that it never felt like a transaction. I was not simply giving something to her and she was not simply receiving it. We were helping each other, learning from each other, and making room for each other in our lives. Bahati is one of the people who inspired me to pursue social work because she showed me that I never want my work to be transactional. I do not want to reduce people to cases, needs, paperwork, or problems to be solved. I want to remember that every person I meet is a human being seeking the same things I am: safety, dignity, connection, and a sense that they belong somewhere. The most meaningful helping relationships I have experienced have never been one-sided. They are relationships in which both people have something to offer, even when what they offer looks very different. Today, I speak Swahili fluently, something that began with those early conversations with Bahati and grew through studying the language in school and eventually spending eight weeks in Kenya through an immersion program. My relationship with Swahili has become much more than learning another language; it is one of the ways I have learned to understand people, culture, history, and belonging. One of my favorite Swahili words is karibu, which means welcome. In Kenya, I heard the song “wageni wakaribishwa,” meaning that guests are welcome, and I think often about how powerful that idea feels in a world where immigrants and refugees are so frequently made to feel as though they are outsiders or people who do not belong. Ulinipokea kama ndugu reminds me of the way Bahati welcomed me into her family and community, but it also represents the kind of person I want to be. I want to move through the world believing that no relationship has to begin with a transaction, that no one should have to prove they deserve to belong, and that caring for one another is not an act of charity but part of what it means to be human. I believe we are all searching for the same things: to be seen, to be understood, to know that there is a place for us, and to treat each other like family.