Identity

"The value of identity of course is that so often with it comes purpose."

Richard R Grant

And so to Zanzibar. This is the final leg of my journey, and for some reason I feel like I've 'made it' although really this has been some of the easiest travelling I've ever done. I'm not going to wax lyrical about the 'tranquil turquoise sea' or 'stunning beaches' as a. it's probably raining in the UK so you don't want to hear about it and b. you can read about all that in a Sandals catalogue, I expect, should you so wish.

I'm at the bar one night and I get talking to a guy called Ahmed who has the glazed look of a typical Zanzibari. Whether that's a natural state of relaxation from life on a beach or self administered by local rastas is undeterminable. Our conversation jaunts from his excellent theory of 'good lazy' and 'bad lazy', existence and consciousness, free will and destiny, the ills of religion, the American civil rights movement through to what it means to be Zanzibari.

He tells me about a trip he took to Europe where he met some English men who asked him where he was from. He replied 'Zanzibar', to which my learned countrymen said they had no idea where it was. He explained that Zanzibar is an island, part of Tanzania to which the English chime 'Oh Tanzania! We know Tanzania!". This made him furious, and he also complained of having a Tanzanian passport rather than a Zanzibari one to produce to customs when he travels. "They have no idea where I'm from unless they check the place of issue, but who does that?" he bemoaned.

This gets me thinking about identity, both in terms of how we define ourselves and how others define us. When meeting anyone new we tend to ask similar questions to understand and define that person. How old are you? Where do you come from? What do you do? Do you have a family? And so on. These assets form a picture in our mind of who we are talking to, and help us empathise and understand them at a basic level which then shapes how our relationship with them develops.

In this way I can understand Ahmed's irritation at being defined as a Tanzanian rather than a Zanzibari by fellow travellers, customs officials or indeed people on the mainland of Tanzania. There is a problem with defining people in this way as it does not take into account their collective history, their culture or their beliefs and values.

So I set off to Stone Town, the main city of Zanzibar, to find out what real Zanzibari life is like, and how this differs from those on the mainland. The Old Town, a world heritage site,  is a maze of Arabian architecture with bustling streets that tumble in and out of each other. Traders shout from their shops selling spices, kangas and traditional paintings as children scramble after chickens which have escaped from their coops. Men sit on corners drinking the local spiced tea as women in brightly coloured shawls sell mandazis from small stools on their front porches.

The ornately carved wooden doors which open out onto the winding streets are one of Zanzibar's most noticeable facets. Coach loads of tourists stare fascinated at them, taking an endless stream of abstract photographs. It occurs to me that although beautiful, what lies behind the doors are more interesting. They are a threshold to local life here, not necessarily representative of it in their own right.

I arrange a fixer, Saleem, to take me to meet people behind the doors to get an insight into what life is really like here. What people feel and believe, and to try and better understand their identity so that I might do the same.

At our first encounter I meet Sabah who is a mother of two. She lives behind a beautifully grand doorway which leads the way to a series of modest flats where three families live. Her husband is a street vendor, and she says that life is hard here and they struggle to get by.

She talks softly but intensely about the high unemployment on the island, and how inflation is making her life as a housewife more and more difficult as her basics like food continue to rise in price.

She tells me that her family has lived here as longer than anyone can remember, and she considers herself a true Zanzibari. I ask her about how she feels about the vote currently in parliament to make Zanzibar independence, and she talks passionately about her desire for free will, without control from Dar Es Salaam, and I'm struck with how much this seems like a struggle for identity rather than a matter of administration.

We move on to a local restaurant, Barwan (the name of an old Arabic tribe), where I meet James who is 18. His family has lived here for many generations, and like Sabah he does not know when they first settled here.

James is a waiter here, and between serving hungry locals who scoff Indian snacks like Bagia and chappatis he tells me about being a Zanzibari. He says that life is not good on the island, and too many of his friends from school are on the streets without work every day.

He also talks passionately about independence from Tanzania. "They are consuming us" he shouts over the restaurant's noisy din, and gesticulates wildly as he carves his point into the air with his index finger. "They are bigger and take advantage of us".

I'm struck by how his distinction between Tanzanians and Zanzibaris. Even as a young person who has never known anything but a united Tanzania and Zanzibar, he still sees his identity as strongly different to that of the mainland.

The sun baking overhead now, we shuffle along the shade of the old town to meet Moza who is 24 with two children. Her hands beautifully decorated with henna to show that she is married, she tells me her husband is a teacher at the local school. She lives in a humble apartment with an imposing grey door which reminds me of a jailer's gate. Not beautiful so much as curious.

She tells me about her fears for her children. To give them the best education, she and her husband pay for private schooling, and she says that her life is "50:50". Half the time they have enough money, but when her business selling fried snacks to local restaurants and passers by is slow they find it difficult to pay their children's school fees.

She shares her hopes for her children. How she wishes them to receive the best possible education and make a bright future for themselves in Zanzibar. Unlike the others I speak to, she believes Zanzibar is better off under a united Tanzania rather than to live under independent rule.

I think that for Moza her and her family's identity is much more about what you make of yourself, rather than where you have come from. Both her and her husband have been successful, and they are proud.

Finally we arrive at the home of Isa Hameed, who is the owner of a business producing pink sweets made from Bao Bab seeds.

Upstairs I meet his daughters who mix the seeds with sugar, spices and a red dye to give them their appealing colour.

Gathering around me, they tell me that they are proud to be Zanzibari, that the island has a tradition of respect for different cultures because of its rich history and influences from Arabic, Indian and European settlers.

They too want independence from Tanzania, not because they believe like James that they are being taken from financially, but that the influence of the mainland is destroying their own way of life.

Describing themselves as devout Muslims, they complain about those from the mainland and from overseas not dressing more conservatively. They say they want an Islamic moralist society which is more in keeping with Zanzibar's roots, and the history of the island.

Thanking Saleem for allowing me into these people's homes, my mind scrambles to try and make sense of what I've experienced.

Clearly many locals in Zanzibar see themselves as a distinct nation, one that is suppressed both from its economic potential and cultural heritage by the present union with Tanzania.

I think that their various struggles define them as much as their history, faith or communities. Whether that be to make ends meet, to find hope for a new generation, to educate their children or to maintain their culture and religious beliefs, all of them were passionate about something.

And maybe this is the point. That we are not necessarily defined by our past, by the work we do or the family we have, but by where we struggle to get to. What our beliefs are, our values, and how hard we are prepared to push for them.

For me its helped me understand that my beliefs, my faith in people and humanity define me. That social justice is crucial above all, and that rights be upheld. That this is who I am, rather than what labels can be associated with me. Of course what we do give clues to our identity, but if you want to truly understand someone, perhaps you have to understand what they are struggling for.