Out of Africa

Out of Africa

Chapter 2 - Guyana

This year will make 40 years since I left Guyana and settled in the US.

Four decades ago, my family left as part of the flood of departures from Guyana, due to the unstable economic and political environment. This led to Guyana’s ignoble designation as the country with the highest rate of “brain drain” in the Latin America and Caribbean region, and probably the world. Given that Guyana’s population has always hovered around the 750,000 mark, this is not an insignificant statistic.

But left we did, and we never looked back. As far as I can recall, I’ve been the only one in my family to set foot on Guyanese soil since the late 80’s. And that one visit was more than 20 years ago.

But now, I’m about to embark on a deep dive into my Guyanese heritage, with a specific focus on my African roots. This endeavor feels monumental. Exciting. Hopeful. Timely. Like a calling of sorts.

Let me explain.

For the greater part of the last decade, I’ve been doing a lot of work related to narrative change, as it relates to Africa and the African Diaspora. Before that, I had spent some years working in international development, and was turned off and offended by the underlying assumptions sometimes shaping initiatives to “help” people, many of whom looked like me and came from areas that looked a lot like where I grew up in Guyana. These assumptions centered around the belief that the people being helped—again, many of whom looked like me—didn’t have the know-how, the capacity, even the motivation to generate beneficial change; that their experience and intelligence levels meant they could only produce ineffective and inferior products and services without the benevolent aid of well-meaning foreigners (mostly American and European).

As a person of African and Guyanese descent, I found these assumptions not only offensive, but vastly inaccurate and shortsighted. So I set out to do my part to challenge those assumptions by finding and showcasing real people—who looked like me, from backgrounds similar to where I grew up—doing real work to generate real change. Rather than people waiting for handouts and salvation, through storytelling I sought to show them as they really were: people with dignity, vision, compassion, ambition, creativity, and drive. Not broken, but whole.

The more I did this work, focused primarily on Black people in various parts of the world, the more affinity I felt for Africa and its descendants. And as I engaged with African colleagues, with African creativity and innovation, I felt as if I was also uncovering layers of myself that I had not previously known or explored.

I was not born or raised anywhere near the African continent, yet I became aware of an unfolding connection, an expanding identity, growing inside me. That connection may have always been there, buried deep in my cells, obscured by time and distance and family influence, as well as a dominant American culture that didn’t allow much room for nuance or complexity outside of its own paradigms.

As a non-African, Black person in the US, my African heritage was always seen and validated through the lens of Black American history and experience. I was Guyanese, but in the American context this didn’t have much meaning or relevance when it came to matters related to our connection to Africa.

And while in my family we mostly embraced our Guyanese heritage, we were quite indifferent about our African roots. Being “African” was a nonentity, practically irrelevant, having no distinct place in our sense of identity or belonging.

This caused a bit of an internal dilemma for me, especially as my connection with Africa grew stronger. What does it mean to be Guyanese, of African descent? How can I know and understand what is African about me, and what is Guyanese about me? And how can I develop and embrace this understanding without appropriating what is not mine? The fact is, I am not African born—I can’t just declare myself African and count myself as such just because I feel an affinity, can I? I am Guyanese born, but I haven’t lived there in four decades. So when I say I’m Guyanese, it’s a truncated truth. I can’t own the parts that were broken off when we left, can I?

But a tree whose branches have been cut off can generate new limbs and thrive, especially if the roots are strong and deep. This is the heart and purpose of my quest: the deepest parts of my roots are in Africa, and a force emanating from those roots is calling to me, gently urging me to acknowledge, embrace, respect, honor and celebrate my African beginnings. It’s important not just for me and the development of my identity, but for all of us who were cut off, whether centuries ago or more recently, willingly or forcefully.

There’s a global movement, a force, if you will, calling people of African descent all around the world back to our African roots. I’ve seen it in Brazil, where Afro-Brazilians are proudly embracing and advocating for their natural hair, for example, and excitedly sharing their African origins revealed by DNA tests. It’s in Colombia and other areas in Latin America, where Afro-descendant communities are emerging from the margins to proclaim their relevance and belonging to their societies and to the African race.

As Africans and Afro-descendants, our roots are deep and vast and intricately interconnected. We are all part of something far bigger and more dynamic than anything we can imagine. We are not alone in the world, no matter what the conditions and societies we live in try to tell us. And we have far more power collectively to thrive and shape our own destinies than we ever dreamed. Imagine the impact if we all knew and embraced this truth.

And so, as I embark on this journey, my hope is that others like me—Afro-descendants in Latin America and the Caribbean—will join me in building and strengthening our African connections, our African heritage, and our African pride. We are at an important inflection point in our world. Let’s heed the call of our ancestors, who sacrificed so much to give us life, whose blood nurtured and nourished the roots that now connect us across the globe.

I am Guyanese? born in 1954,? Don't? matter wherever l am living, Guyana is my country and I love my my Guyana.?

回复
Yolanda Methvin

Afro/African Futurist. Consultant. Social Entrepreneur.

6 个月

“…. But a tree whose branches have been cut off can generate new limbs and thrive, especially if the roots are strong and deep. “. Love this! Keep growing. ??

Paulina Marta Migalska

Impact Strategist + Founding Partner at Akhandataa | Solutions for Impact

6 个月

Thank you for sharing, Yuniya?? What a beautiful journey you’re embarking upon?

Clara Kuo

UX Research Leader, MBA | Qual + Quant Research | Design Thinking | Product Strategy | Community-Driven | Delivered insights to fast track product, design and business decisions

6 个月

Thanks for sharing Yuniya R. Khan, MPA As a third culture kid, where any time I go to Taiwan I am seen as American, and I can’t explain all of the languages I speak, this resonated so much with me: “I am Guyanese born, but I haven’t lived there in four decades. So when I say I’m Guyanese, it’s a truncated truth. I can’t own the parts that were broken off when we left, can I?” With fractional identities, there are many truths and selves. (Cheers from a MIIS alumna)

Laura Dowler

Information Professional

6 个月

This is such a beautiful description of your exploration, Yuniya! I loved reading it.

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