But maybe this phrase is best expressed by the original author.

Almost exactly a year ago, a friend of mine, Helen Brennek, wrote a stunning post on her blog from Zambia entitled “People are People.” Though simple, the truth in this sentence made me pause for a minute. The elegance of the phrase and the brilliant piece of writing that accompanied it has stuck with me since then, a reminder and a boost of hope.

It is easy to look at all the difference, the distance that separates us, the different food and different dress. It is easy to think “how strange” and “how odd”. And yes, there are differences; that’s part of what makes people and cultures so interesting.

But there are many similarities too. Sometimes, it is easier to focus on the differences and forget about the similarities that pull us together. These similarities make it possible for a girl raised in a large Canadian city in a small family to move overseas and live quite happily with a Malawian family in a house of 8, or to spend a night in a rural Malawian village with a couple who have never travelled and devote their days to their farm.

Like Helen,  I have had to re-examine my assumptions and perceptions of the world.  I have had to re-examine my thoughts on the people in it.  And like Helen, I have reached the conclusion (time and again) that it is not where you live or what you look like but who you are that really matters.  Sounds simple, but unfortunately it’s easy to forget.

It is always easiest to see with children. They run around, play with toys, have no desire to do homework and try to outwit their parents to little avail. The little ones carry around a toy or blanket, maybe suck their thumbs; the older ones chastise the little ones just like I used to do with my younger sister (sorry Laura!).

Women love to dress up, do their hair, arrange their houses, gossip and visit. Malawian women, like women the world over, take pride in their appearance and their homes.

The men love cars. It doesn’t seem to matter where you are in the world, when a nice car drives by, all the heads turn. Boys race homemade cars up and down the road. While the cars might look a bit different, being made from discarded beer cartons with bottle caps for wheels and a twisted hanger for a push, the idea and the joy that it brings is the same as the boys playing with their Toys-R-Us cars infront of my house back in Canada.

A grandmother chastises her granddaughter for pulling at her dress and fidgetting, just as my grandmother did.   A grandfather spends his afternoon sitting in the shade, enjoying the visits of his neighbours and children under his grumpy fascade and harsh tone.

A wife in a village sitting near the window turns away from her lunch to look outside and observe the comings and goings of her neighbours. It is a gesture so familiar; one that I have seen my mother do many times out our front window, that I have done myself.

Like Helen said, “People are people”, no matter where you are.