March 7, 2008 American Students Abroad Can't Be 'Global Citizens' By TALYA ZEMACH-BERSIN In September 2005 I boarded a plane to Delhi with 23 other American students for a semester- long Tibetan-studies program in India, Nepal, and Tibet. I set off wide-eyed, hopeful, and full of expectations for what was sure to be a life-changing experience. The program had promised "exotic" excursions through "traditional and contemporary Tibetan and Himalayan culture," and I was eager to develop a greater awareness of the world beyond American borders. Both my home university and my program provider had informed me that by going abroad and immersing myself in a foreign culture, I would become a "global citizen." "Total cultural immersion," I was advised, is what makes study abroad such a tremendous opportunity for developing a better understanding of a new culture. I was encouraged to "act like the locals," "be a resident," and "become a member" of my host community. I was expected to assimilate into my new environment by speaking the local language, bargaining for prices, and participating in everyday life as if I myself were Tibetan. But once I arrived overseas, I quickly realized that studying abroad as an American student is far more complicated than simply learning how others speak and eat. International education entails navigating the social, historical, and political realities of what it means to be American in a world of undeniable difference and inequality. My home-stay parents, Jangchup and Sonam, were Tibetans living in exile in Dharmsala, India — a town flooded with tourists eager to see the Dalai Lama, buy goods made by refugees, snap photographs of themselves with beggars, and trek the foothills of the Himalayas. While Jangchup made peanut butter in the bedroom (the kitchen was too small) and Sonam knitted gloves to sell to tourists in the marketplace, my American classmates and I studied their culture, language, and religion. Although they called me "daughter," and I called them Amala and Pala, Jangchup and Sonam didn't treat me like family but as a guest of honor. Despite my protests, I always received five times more food than they served themselves, and I was never allowed to make my bed, step into the kitchen, or even turn on the bathroom light myself. During the last week of my stay, my academic directors handed me a sealed envelope containing a cash payment for Jangchup and Sonam's hospitality, which I was expected to give to them. As a first-world student, I had literally purchased a third-world family for my own self-improvement as a global citizen. While I was more than willing to give Jangchup and Sonam the well-deserved payment, I began to question the relationship of global citizenship to power and privilege.