#thinking that any culture that isnt western and white-adjecent is primitive or barbaric

[elijasz]

I've been reading a lot of literature written by people who have been displaced and most recently I've read parts of "The Ungrateful Refugee" by Dina Nayeri, which I can only recommend.

After reading the excerpts, the story has sparked an internal monologue within me. Between the white german perspective I grew up with and was raised on, and the one that started growing when I sat down with my grandma years ago and listened to her story of being displaced.

That side of me that has to carry my grandparents immigration papers and marriage certificate to every visit at governmental bureaus, as proof that they changed their name to fit in. Where they ask me why my birth name is different from the one I carry now even though I have never been married. (And I want to say "because this country deemed their names unacceptable and wanted proof that they were there to stay and wouldn't be easily able to return" every time, but haven't done so yet.)

I grew up unaware of the violence my grandparents and parents had experienced at the hands of the government or their fellow citizens. I didn't experience any. This is important to say. I am white. I only ever had this citizenship and I only ever learned German in my childhood. I am the product of integration so perfect that I didn't even know about the displacement my family went through. But their story isn't the same as that of other people who had to move away from their homes, because my grandparents moved within Europe and looked almost exactly like the people of the country they moved to.

Nowadays they are seen as European and German. They speak German, my grandma lost her accent, though her grammar is still a bit "strange", as her own daughter puts it. I love her strange little sentences and it makes me sad that her own daughter mocks her for it. But I never thought of that linguistic quirk as a marker for cultural identity. I thought of it as my grandma's identity, unrelated to the language she spoke in the past.

It makes me angry that her own daughter now complains that people who flee to this country, "our country" as she likes to call it, as if she wasn't bullied and beaten for her name and behaviour as a child, should try to fit in and be grateful. Learn the language, customs, unspoken rules, so they can become invisible. Abandon their past because it must have all been horrible. Any reminder of their past is a thorn in the eye of the observer. Identity a sharp stone that cuts the soles of feet which walk over them.

I cried after reading the few pages of the book, because I don't relate to my grandparents culture much anymore. I know the smells, the food, the traditions. But they aren't too different from the ones of the country I've lived in all my life. They're from another white european culture and thus more accepted. And still my grandma chose to hide them and my mother chose to abadon them almost completely, only displaying them in the safety of our home and only ever as a memory of the past. They aren't part of my present reality. They are something only presented on holidays and rarely performed unless we visit the rest of the family.

I don't feel like it is my right to reclaim this culture. It feels like I will never belong in this culture because I didn't go through the same hardship as those who openly lived it. I look the same as all the other white people around me. Light hair, light skin, light eyes. I speak the same language and eat similar food. I am "one of them" and I have never had the burden of being seen as different because my grandparents, at least the one who survived, was too afraid to teach her children about their identity. And those children assimilated and integrated themselves and lost their past to the place that said it would help them and then ripped their names from them, their titles, their achievements, their language and culture. And then told them to be grateful. And they are. Oh so grateful. So grateful that every time I criticise this shithole of a place, they say "Be quiet. At least it isn't this other place that we have learned is bad and dirty and barbaric. Be grateful you're born here!" And for so many years I was greatful. But I'm done being grateful for erasure. Grateful for the knife that flayed my ancestors identity, cutting off the unloved pieces. I have no wounds. My mother hides hers under bandages so thick and old she isn't even aware they exist anymore. Or maybe she's in denial. But my tongue itches whenever I hear others speak my ancestors language and my heart grows when I hear their songs.

I would learn their language. But I already learned enough European languages. Sure, I can speak them outside of Europe. They are useful there. But for what reason? I don't want to be the one pushing the knife through others skin, even if just by accident.

So now I'm learning Arabic, as here it is a language many speak in secret because its unacceptable to the white people. I'm cooking Iranian food and Polish food and Sudanese food and yes also German food and I don't care if sometimes someone complains it smells weird when I open my lunch at work. So does theirs, but I'm not complaining. I'm happy they enjoy their lunch. If it tastes good and if the smell makes the heart of a single person grow and their song grow louder and prouder then it was worth the work put in. I have endured a lot, but I am still whole and I am privileged enough to wield a knife myself. I intend to use it defensively, though I know I cannot avoid accidentally cutting others.

I'm a teacher and I want to allow my students to feel understood and represented and not like they have to shave off parts of their identity to be good and acceptable and successful. I don't want them to think they have to endure the knife and the pain to be acceptable.

Cultural Superiority is bullshit. We, as europeans, didn't respect other cultures in the past and we don't do it today. We carry knives everywhere we go to cut off what we don't like and then act surprised when others come wearing armor. You don't need to make yourself fit in to deserve respect. You deserve respect because you exist. You don't have to thank the people who cut pieces from you. You don't have to wield a knife to flay yourself either. And you sure as hell don't have to be grateful for being tolerated.

You are deserving of your identity.