Part 1 of a Series on Migration, Diaspora, and Identity: Am I a Child of Bengal?

14 Nov 2024, 12.41am

It’s quite irrational of me to take to the internet for a post like this, but hear me out. The thoughts which I’ve penned down here are extremely personal and vulnerable, and I post them with the hope of reaching out to like-minded historians and social scientists, along with each of you reading this. One fundamental takeaway from studying the humanities is the importance of discourse analysis – to truly make the world a better place, asking questions is not enough. At this point in my academic career, I feel like I am fighting with swords in the air. Perhaps that’s because I ask questions in my papers, and my answers feel shallow due to the limited scope of my assessments. But perhaps there is no binary of question and answer – answers are sometimes not solutions, but rather efforts to listen, simply validate, and accept. The issues which I will discuss below, and later on in this series, reflect precisely such nuanced, imbalanced and unstable truth that has been not just my life, but also perhaps other diaspora like mine too. And will continue to be. Making a post on the internet is not going to change anything overnight, but I urge my peers, teachers, academics, anyone in a position of power, and fellow readers to ponder on my thoughts. If there’s anything that I’ve learnt from my degree in History, it is that you genuinely do not need a degree in History to open your mind to these themes. You need a heart, effort, humility, inquisitiveness and a willingness to listen. This is my stream of conscience – from the perspective of a child of diaspora.

My parents were born and brought up in Bangladesh and migrated to Singapore in their early 20s. I was born there but my parents fought tooth and nail to bring me here when I was just four months old, and I have been coddled in this utopia of a country ever since. Today, I write from a position of privilege. My father migrated here in 1996 as a migrant labourer – one of the most marginalised communities in this utopia – and earned this country’s citizenship. This is an obviously oversimplified overview of my life so far, but I will explore more in future posts. Since my birth, I have only been back to my motherland twice – once when I was 5, and once when I was 13. We may belong to the State of Singapore, but there is no clear answer to which Nation we belong to.

Both times I went back, I was there for a week and could barely get out of bed (thanks to food poisoning, argh). I have not tasted authentic Bangladeshi food in the Golden Bengal herself, nor have I celebrated any festival there, nor do I share any precious bond with my grandparents. Yet, the very Bengali concept of ???????? (birthland) has been instilled into me by my parents literally since I was born. Music, dance, poetry, literature, food, attire, tradition – you name it, my parents taught it. I was raised to be the exemplary Bengali girl in a land so disconnected from Bengal. And today, at 22, ??????????? (Bengali-ness) is the foundation of who I am. Yet, there is so much that I simply do not know. I grew up watching CDs of Bengali sit-coms of the 80s and 90s which my parents so nostalgically hold onto (my favourites are Aaj Robibaar and Nokkhotrer Raat). My mother has kept cassettes of songs from the 70s and 80s and 90s which line memories of her youth. My father has sung and recited age-old folk, revered compositions of Tagore and Nazrul and Sukanta, and introduced me to the timeless other works of Bengali legends. There is no end to my parents' teaching. Yet, I barely know anything. It is as though my house is stuck in an intangible cultural time-capsule of sorts from the small, modest, Bangladeshi township of Rajbari, which was cut off in 1996.

So I find myself asking – do I have the right to proclaim myself as a pure Bengali, when I am disconnected from the land itself on so many tangible benchmarks? Am I performative in my Bengali-ness? Will I ever truly be Bengali? (Noteworthy – I hate fish, lol.) How do I know that I know enough about my culture? There are so many more questions and insecurities, but I don’t know how to pen them down.

???????? (birthland) for Bengalis is not merely the physical land in which we were born – it the womb in which we are nurtured, the sustenance which gives us life, and our lives are to be in her service, connected by the umbilical cord of love, loyalty, and longing. The toughest of these three are the lattermost – longing is not romantic. I have seen migration as being a double-edged sword of gratitude and longing. Longing cannot exist without the first two. And longing is claustrophobic. From a child’s perspective, I see my parents longing for freshwater fish from the Padma river, the tranquillity of speaking in their mother tongue on the streets, and to smell the soil of their village after it rains. To migrate here – no matter how utopic it is – is to sacrifice their loyalty to their nation. Yet, their longing persists. To visit is an option, but it is temporary. Would longing for their homeland make them ungrateful for all that they have built in their utopia dreamland?

I have characterised Bangladesh in this post as a romanticised abode of warmth and migration as a peril, but I also acknowledge that my parents left Bangladesh for a reason, and being able to successfully migrate is a privilege and blessing. I hope to make a series of posts documenting my stream of consciousness as a child of diaspora, hopefully contributing to literature on diaspora (and maybe in future academics will stop playing mix and match with such delicate historical experiences). Future posts will explore my thoughts on language, cultural integration, identity, and the constant negotiation between home and foreignness. I do not have answers to anything, but I hope to delve into the complexities of what it means to belong somewhere, but not truly be there, and the emotional toll that this displacement often entails. Maybe it'll be there till my last breath -- only God knows. There is a certain kind of duality in being part of two worlds but never fully belonging to either. It is a condition that, while unique in its details, is shared by so many diaspora communities around the world, each grappling with their own versions of home, heritage, and the invisible lines that divide us from the land we call "ours." My story is not unique. I also, at the same time, do not dare to speak for every child of diaspora, for this experience is so personal and intimate to each individual -- "subjective" is an understatement.

Below, I detail other questions which I hope to ask:

On Language and Heritage:

• How does language shape our identity when we cannot speak it with the same ease or confidence as the people who have lived in the land for generations?
• What does it mean to carry the burden of a heritage that feels like an ornament, worn but not entirely lived? How do you claim ownership over something when your connection to it is more emotional than visceral, more spiritual than material?
• I often wonder how much of my Bengali identity has been preserved or diluted in this environment, and whether I have been able to integrate without losing myself. Is integration an act of assimilation, or is it a process of negotiation where two or more identities can coexist without erasing the other?

On Belonging and Nostalgia:

• What does it mean to truly belong to a place? To have roots, to feel like you are part of something larger than yourself, to be seen, understood, and accepted as a full participant in the community around you?
• I have the privilege of being a citizen of Singapore – all thanks to my parents who sacrificed their blood, tears, youth, soul, and so much more. All I had to do is to be born into the right family. Yet, in the face of heavy sacrifice, I still shamelessly ask – do I belong here in Singapore?
• I certainly don’t belong to Bangladesh – I’ve barely spent time there, and I don’t hold the passport either lol. And if I don’t belong fully here or there, then where do I belong?
• Is it possible to ever fully belong when your heart and soul are spread across multiple places, like a tree with roots in two separate lands?

For my parents, nostalgia is a form of survival – a way of holding onto their identity and dignity in a world that often sees them as outsiders. I wonder if my generation, born in exile but never fully immersed in the land we are supposedly from, feels the same weight of nostalgia. I honestly do not know why I feel nostalgic to Bangladesh despite barely having been there. Are my feelings valid? But again, I don’t have the answers to anything that I’m asking. This series will explore these questions, not as answers, but as ongoing inquiries, and maybe someone somewhere will end up using my words as primary sources one day, haha.

I conclude with the most important statement which I will make in this inaugural post: If I, a child who has received a stable upbringing in a politically peaceful land, must grapple with such instability in my identity, I cannot imagine how the people of Palestine are feeling. I'll leave it at this. If you’ve read so far – thank you. Not sure when I’ll feel confidently vulnerable enough to write again, but stay tuned.

With all my heart,

Shezuti Shazneen H