Don’t expect ethnic people to whitewash themselves
There’s no point promoting diversity if we expect people to sacrifice their cultural identity, writes Jehan Casinader.
The other day, a woman approached me on the street and started chatting about a story I had written. It was a delightful conversation. As she walked away, she said, ‘‘By the way, you speak such good English. Where were you born?’’
I’m pretty sure my brown eyes turned jet black. But I offered a weak smile and said, ‘‘Oh, thank you. I was born in Lower Hutt!’’
That simple exchange has been repeated throughout my life. Each time, I wonder: ‘‘But what if I didn’t speak such good English? What if I didn’t speak English at all? Would you still like me? Would I still be welcome?’’
I find myself in a fortunate position. As a journalist, I can challenge authority and communicate with thousands of people. But in order to gain that privilege, I did what many young people from minority backgrounds do: I suppressed my cultural identity.
I was five years old when I realised that my skin colour would cause problems. A girl at school asked me, ‘‘Are you brown because you don’t shower?’’ It’s one of my earliest childhood memories – a traumatic memory – and possibly the first time I realised I was different.
Throughout primary school, I pronounced my own name wrong so that I wouldn’t have to correct everyone else. (Even now, I don’t pronounce my name exactly as it should be said.)
My parents sent me to Tamil classes so I had a connection to our
Sri Lankan language.
I wasn’t interested. I refused to take Sri Lankan food to school. I wouldn’t wear Sri Lankan cultural dress to the school formal. These markers of ‘‘otherness’’ would have jeopardised my social status.
When my classmates made jokes about Asian people, I said, ‘‘You do know that I’m Asian, right?’’ They said, ‘‘No, you’re not. We’re talking about people with slanty eyes.’’ I was reminded that there is an ‘‘us’’ and ‘‘them’’, and I was perilously close to being part of the ‘‘them’’.
Back then, New Zealand’s Asian community was less than a third of its size today. In the media and pop culture, I rarely saw anyone who looked like me. As an aspiring journalist, I knew I would have to work hard to earn my place.
As an ethnic person, you can only enter (and stay in) a predominantly white space – like the media, politics or corporate leadership – if you play by the rules. And really, there’s only one rule: blend in. You’re expected to assimilate into the dominant way of thinking, acting and being.
I was determined to prevent my ethnicity from getting in the way of my career, so I made it as invisible as possible. I never spoke about my experiences of racism and unconscious bias. I didn’t complain when I found myself in environments that lacked diversity. I bottled up the emotions that come with straddling two cultural worlds.
I became the kind of brown person that mainstream New Zealand can accept. I’m ethnic – but not too ethnic. I was born here. I have a Kiwi accent. I’m educated. I earn a decent living. I like barbecues. I can make scones. I drink alcohol. And most of my friends are white.
I sound like you. I make myself relatable to you. I communicate in a way that makes sense to you. I don’t threaten you. I don’t make you uncomfortable. And I keep my most controversial opinions to myself.
As a result, I have social capital. I’m welcomed into spaces that many ethnic people aren’t allowed to enter. I get to interview powerful people. I’m invited to speak at black-tie events.
For a young Kiwi from a migrant family, this is what it looks like to have ‘‘made it’’. I gained the influence I wanted. But it came at a cost.
Afew years ago, a friend asked me, ‘‘Does your Sri Lankan culture play any part in your life?’’ I was startled. ‘‘What do you mean? Of course it does,’’ I replied. There was silence. He said, ‘‘OK, but how? We don’t see it. You seem just like us.’’
He had a point. Apart from my skin colour, there were no clues that my cultural heritage
had any meaningful impact on my life.
We often reduce ‘‘culture’’ to food, music and holiday traditions. Those are the most superficial elements. What really matters is how I see myself – and the world – in the context of my Sri Lankan identity.
Colonisation is part of my story. When the British ruled Sri Lanka for more than a century, they plundered its resources and imposed a new way of life. At birth, my grandparents were named Noble, Primrose, Samuel and Miriam – in keeping with the tradition of the time. As Ma¯ ori understand all too well, colonial rule leaves scars that are carried by future generations.
Conflict is part of my story. My parents migrated to New Zealand in the 1980s after fleeing Sri Lanka’s civil war. They came here with very little money and started a new life. Although I was born here, I experienced the dislocation that comes with a family’s decision to leave their homeland.
Fear is part of my story. When we travelled to Sri Lanka on occasional family trips, the civil war was still under way. As minority Tamils, we were under suspicion. We were stopped at
checkpoints. On one occasion, soldiers knocked on the door in the middle of the night. As a kid, those experiences stuck with me.
These are just some of the events that have profoundly influenced my worldview and values. I can’t point to specific parts of my life and say ‘‘there’s a Sri Lankan bit’’. My culture is woven into the fabric of my life.
The problem is, many ethnic Kiwis are so desperate to be accepted by mainstream New Zealand – and to avoid seeming weird, foreign or different – that we erase our cultural history.
In part, that’s because New Zealand glorifies those who have successfully blended into Kiwi culture and conformed to a Western set of values.
Kiwis love stories about ethnic people who achieve highly: winning university scholarships, trying to cure diseases, inventing new technology or entering the political arena. These people are lauded for generating economic and social value for the country.
We are less interested in ethnic people who bear the scars of trauma, whose needs are not met by our health system, and who face discrimination and exploitation in the workplace.
We do not hear stories about
ethnic people who work in thankless, low-skilled jobs – the refugees and migrants who stock our supermarket shelves, drive our taxis, pick our fruit, milk our cows, fill our petrol tanks, staff our hospitals and care for our elderly in rest homes.
Why are these people invisible? In many cases, it’s because they have been unable or unwilling to assimilate. They are not white enough to be accepted by mainstream New Zealand.
As a brown person wanting influence in this country, you’re expected to enter a Faustian pact: erase your cultural identity in order to gain a seat at the table. People like me are willing to accept this deal because we want to make a difference for our communities.
I have a voice – not because I have earned it, but because I have played the game. I have been strategic. I have followed by the rules. I have rarely played the ‘‘race card’’. And I have kept smiling in uncomfortable situations, often through gritted teeth.
Do I regret these choices? I don’t think so. Without them, I would not have a career in the
As an ethnic person, you can only enter (and stay in) a predominantly white space – like the media, politics or corporate leadership – if you play by the rules. And really, there’s only one rule: blend in.
media. And I guarantee you would not be reading my opinion in a national newspaper.
But I worry that too many young Kiwis from minority backgrounds are whitewashing themselves in order to succeed. There’s a risk we will end up with a country full of people who look ‘‘diverse’’ and ‘‘multicultural’’ but have no real understanding of who they are or where they came from.
Just because you tick an ethnic group on the census form, that doesn’t mean you are connected to your culture.
How do we change this? We can ask good questions. We can allow ethnic Kiwis to express themselves. We can try to understand their history. We can take a genuine interest in their aspirations.
We need to amplify the voices of people who don’t necessarily give tidy soundbites – people whose stories are tangled and perhaps even unrelatable.
There are thousands of ethnic Kiwis who could make an even greater contribution to this country, if only we allow them to be themselves.
In recent years, I have become much prouder of my identity as a Sri Lankan New Zealander. Now, I intentionally bring my culture into the many interesting places I get to visit, rather than leaving it at the front door.
I want New Zealand to be a country in which people are given respect – not because of their ability to assimilate, but simply because Aotearoa is their home.
The most powerful way to break down barriers is to say: ‘‘Come as you are.’’