Where are you from?

The politics of home.

Where are you from? I have been asked this more times than I can remember. And having lived in several places, the idea of home is sometimes elusive.

I barely lived in my Tamil hometown. It’s of some sadness to my family that having lived so far away from there, my Tamil is rather a modern metropolitanasque rendering. It’s a version of what I picked up from my parents and also borrowed from the movies I grew up watching, peppered with English and Hindi. But most times, my word mixup and jumbled pronunciation just makes for an easy laugh and gives my family more reasons to remark fondly on my silliness.

Time in Singapore was a brief stint from which I only have baby memory. In other words, I remember nothing except for memories I have created in retrospect watching videos my parents took on a rather bulky handycam.

The place I spent most of my life in, Allahabad, no longer holds the home I grew up in. The structure remains, but now is a modified, rented space. It no longer resembles the home I knew.

The place I spent most of my life in, Allahabad, no longer holds the home I grew up in. The structure remains, but now is a modified, rented space. It no longer resembles the home I knew.

My parents currently live in a different city I only visit when I go to see them. I have no roots there. The home they’ve built makes for a strange experience. The house has the persons and objects that serve as reminders of familiarity stemming from childhood yet the setup is as strange as a stranger’s house.

My hostel room in Mumbai, where I lived as an undergraduate, is an in-between space. Without the people who housed it with me then, it’s lost its hold on me. And my little room in the university halls at Leeds, where I spent much time earning my Master’s during lockdown, has changed residents twice. No longer mine to call home.

I now live in London, in a place I’m building up to be home, but far away from the home country that shaped me. Home remains accessible, and yet elusive. And so, when people ask me, where are you from, what do I tell them?

~

‘Where are you from’ is really two questions. One comes from innocent curiosity, asked by someone who wants to know you and your history. One who sees the beauty in colour, but does not compare shade. And then there is one of otherisation; that attempts to place you anywhere but here. At worst, it is a racial profiling to remind you of your place. At best, it is to tell you how much space you are allowed to occupy.

Some months ago, I was at a friend’s birthday party. We had all gathered in a park on a sunny day to enjoy some picnicking. Someone asked me where I was from. Since moving to the UK, for the sake of brevity, and to avoid the painful task of explaining where in India, I simply say ‘India’. While India is huge and various, and I have many homes there, if I venture into the complexities, the answer would run pages. So unless I feel we can afford a long conversation, I start simple.

So yes, I was asked where I was from. In this context, it was the coming together of various social groups where a lot of us were strangers [the only person I knew there was my friend whose birthday it was], so this question was thrown around to everyone from a place of simple knowing.

But then this person specifically picked out the only other brown person in the group and said, ‘you are also Indian right!’, motioning us to talk to each other. I did not know this other brown person, but having heard her converse so far, I could see she had a proper British accent. Not the I-came-here-yesterday-and-picked-up-an-accent kind, but the I-have-lived-here-all-my-life-and-so-I-speak-this-way kind. It was pretty obvious to me she would consider herself British having probably grown up here. I was right. She clarified that her parents were of Indian origin, but she was born and raised here. She explained this with a half smile, half smirk that I am quite familiar with. It’s the yes I look different but why do I have to keep confirming my Britishness look. And I could only sympathise.

Reading about this episode, some would ask - what is so wrong about a person being recognised as Indian if they look Indian? The answer lies very much in the motivation and intent behind this act of identification. What was the point of singling her out for me to talk to? The person could have thought, same culture so same interests. But that would also be a dilution of our metropolitan selves that don’t fit into one culture.

Whenever in the UK I am asked about my origins, I say with much ease and without hesitation that I am Indian. But for my friend’s British-born Indian-origin friend, identity is a more complicated subject. She is expected to be a certain way because she looks a certain way. But she acts like a person from around here, because she is from around here. She is stuck between a camp that wants her to exude Indian-ness (but just enough, not too much) and another camp that is seeing her as betraying her origins due to her Britishness. Yet if she were one to put out her Indianness on colourful display, she would be blamed by some for not trying to assimilate. She could easily be criticised for being not Indian enough, not British enough, too Indian, too British, all at the same time.

Whenever in the UK I am asked about my origins, I say with much ease and without hesitation that I am Indian. But for my friend’s British-born Indian-origin friend, identity is a more complicated subject.

After the awkward introduction, the both of us did converse a fair bit that evening. And the interesting common ground we found was not our Indian roots, but rather our love for Leeds! Turns out we both went to Leeds for university. That is what broke the ice, not our brownness.

Later on in a pub, she opened up about living in a really white town growing up. She talked about how she would be given looks, and had things yelled at her. I told her I have had the looks, but luckily not the crude comments. Even between the two of us, two seemingly similar looking brown skinned people, where do you come from holds different connotations. And therein lies the complexity of identity that many fail to grasp in their blanket opinions on how to feel about race.

~

The last time I was asked where I was from, the question came from a few homeless people I was interviewing. I was asking them how it was for them this winter. They looked at me a bit bewildered to begin with - why is this odd girl going around in the darkness of the evening, prodding us with questions? I wasn’t sure at first if they meant where I was from, as in where I lived currently and set out from that day, or where I was from, as my ethnic/national origin. I replied, “You mean where I come from originally?” Yes, he said. “India”, I responded.

While this exchange was happening, a fellow homeless person gave out a snort and laughed. He said, “You cannot ask these questions anymore!” He was snarkily referring to this controversy involving a British black charity worker Ngozi Fulani who recently was pestered with questions about her origins by a member of the royal household. Despite being born in Britain and clarifying that, the late queen’s lady in waiting (also Prince William’s godmother) kept pressing her to disclose where her people came from.

And I think the incident is really useful in bringing out the subtleties of racial profiling. While where do you come from can indeed be an innocent question posed to anyone, people of colour have scores to say about their unique experiences with that question. A lot of the time it’s used to make you feel like ‘the other’. And yet when challenged, people can hide behind a claim of innocence behind that question. Therein lies the reality of today’s racial politics. In an environment where overt racial slurs and comments are socially unacceptable in many places, people resort to masked commentary. Maybe some do it without conscious understanding. But pointing it out is important for the process of unlearning.

In an environment where overt racial slurs and comments are socially unacceptable in many places, people resort to masked commentary.

My own recent encounter with this question left me confused. On that same day, I was asked that question by three different homeless people. Two of them, who were Polish, reacted positively. They were happy I had come from somewhere else and possibly made it. Despite their own situation, they made this known and made me feel comfortable. And then there were a few British people who took this as an opportunity to react defensively against the incident involving Ngozi Fulani.

But, either way, I came out thinking there is something truly poetic about being asked about home by people who unfortunately are struggling with the concept of home themselves. Their home is transient. And it forced me to think of home without a sense of attachment to a physical space. It made me think of home in the form of all the warmth and love I have had, whichever place I have lived in, whatever place I come from. So the next time someone asks me where I come from, I will be tempted to just say everywhere.

Chronicles of an Elder: Zimbabwe

Zimbabwe, August, 2022

Zimbabwe is a beautiful, distressed, struggling country of 15 million. Its government is corrupt, its social services practically non-existent, its unemployment rate at 80 percent, its currency worthless. Goods are priced in US dollars, and one US dollar is 750 Zimbabwean dollars. Our dear friend Sophie, a university professor, makes $130/month. Electricity is erratic in many places, including the house where I stayed. There's no hot water, infrequent wifi, lots of flies. But the warmth I feel towards the Chirongoma family, and their reciprocal affection, makes it alright. On the other hand, it's a hard life in terms of the daily slog for 98 percent of the population. As ever, there's a layer of rich Zimbabweans whose housing and other amenities are on a different planet from most.

A huge Chinese influence operates, and they are purchasing all manner of valuable resources. It's the new colonialism. Very, very few white people in evidence anywhere. Many, many people selling vegetables, soft drinks, baskets, trinkets, oranges, etc. by the side of the road. One of the most distressing things for me is knowing that giving someone two dollars can make the difference between their eating for a couple of days or going without. I feel a continual need to buy stuff I don't need or want, and to tip anyone who does me a service. I experience how hugely privileged I am compared to almost everyone I meet, and it's discomfiting. It's not charming to see seven year old children driving a donkey cart or an old woman hawking apples.

I experience how hugely privileged I am compared to almost everyone I meet, and it's discomfiting. It's not charming to see seven year old children driving a donkey cart or an old woman hawking apples.

On the positive side, the skies and the sunsets and the wildlife are magnificent. Today I stood two feet from a giraffe, and fed a four ton elephant at Antelope Park, an animal sanctuary/resort. The Zimbabwean culture I've encountered is warm and intensely welcoming. I'm conscious of my western liberal values and my colour. I'm concerned about being insensitive and matronizing, but my outsider feelings are minimal. The acceptance level I experience is huge. I don't understand how people can endure such privation and be both accepting and often cheerful. Being an elder, I feel fairly comfortable not understanding lots of things, but I wish things were better here and were on the upswing. They're not.

I was in the Peace Corps in Kenya over fifty years ago, and this brings me back to considering how the world has changed and how I, now an elder, am different. I despair at the way things are moving in alarming and unhappy directions. Today at the animal park I realized with horror what climate catastrophe will keep doing to this gorgeous land--and to ours. This concern was nothing but a whisper when I was young.

Today at the animal park I realized with horror what climate catastrophe will keep doing to this gorgeous land--and to ours. This concern was nothing but a whisper when I was young.

November, 2022.

The following update comes from Dr. Sophie Chirongoma, currently living in Zimbabwe. Sophie is a professor at Midlands State University.

Living conditions remain difficult in all arenas with socio-economic circumstances continually deteriorating. Zimbabwe's forthcoming parliamentary and presidential elections in 2023 do not offer much optimism. There's ongoing polarization and animosity between the ruling party, Zimbabwe African National Union, Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF) and the main opposition party, the Citizens Coalition for Change (CCC). The ruling party continues to use government resources such as food aid and farm inputs as campaign tools to influence voting patterns.

We Zimbabweans persevere, but there is little light on the horizon just now.

……………………………………

Rose Levinson, Ph.D.

Founder and Managing Editor

Emerging Voices: A Webzine for Shifting Times

Q&A: Musician Shane Cullinan

Gülce Tulçalı, Arts Editor for Emerging Voices, talks with Shane Cullinan, musician and composer, about his experience of making an album during the pandemic.

When the pandemic started, what questions came up for you as an artist?

It was kind of a shock at first. It took a week or so to even register because everything stopped. People started to think: “This is really serious. We don’t know where our money is going to come from.” Performers went into survival mode, both personal and institutional survival.

I know this because I’m in the performing industry. You often get paid a lot later from the time you do the work- a month to six weeks. Everyone who was owed money wanted to collect their fees, and that led to uncomfortable conversations with the institutions. People needed the money they were owed; at the same time, institutions and venues didn’t know how they were going to pay their regular staff. Until rescue packages were introduced, it was very cut throat. It was unpleasant for everyone.

Some people are still processing how that all played out. Whichever side of the table you were on, everyone panicked. It was a chain effect. Things are generally back to pre-pandemic ways. But creative institutions have had to remodel their businesses to work in a post-pandemic world. These changes mean that many creatives don’t have the same volume of opportunities as before. Production companies used to employ composers for original scores for plays or short films. But now, as they are still in financial recovery mode, commissioning is a bit of a luxury. It’s great performances are back, but the commissioning side in the creative industry is not even close to what it was before the pandemic.

"Production companies used to employ composers for original scores for plays or short films. But now, as they are still in financial recovery mode, commissioning is a bit of a luxury."

Recently, I was commissioned to compose for a play due to open next year. Now it’s uncertain whether it’s going to happen because they’ve not secured the funding. Prior to the pandemic, I’d never been brought into projects before finances were secured. This is the kind of shift I mentioned, a change in how business is done.

How did you come to make the album Everlights?

First half of the pandemic, some people were excited to have an opportunity to be creative. I had no interest in writing at all during lockdown. I just could not get myself to do stuff. I had no inspiration. Creativity is often nurtured by connecting to other people, and I was not seeing people. Even if it’s just passively being around others, you’re receiving inspiration whether you’re aware of it or not. Being isolated for months, I had no interest in being creative.

And then I guess there was a breaking point. I often need targets to work. I forced myself to create these targets without knowing where they would lead. There had been talks with my agent in which it was suggested now would be a good time to strengthen the instrumental part of my portfolio. It was also a time when people who work outside the art world wanted to contribute, but didn’t know how. So it was a good opportunity to be innovative and show patrons, “this is where your money would go.” Only after we secured the funding and knew we could employ about thirty musicians, did I gain my motivation back. Once I knew the target was set, I created 6-8 months worth of work, and produced the album in about a month. The creativity that had been blocked, it just flew through. But I really had to force myself to reach that state again.

How was the album funded? How was the process different?

90% of the album was financed by crowdfunding. So many people were incredibly generous. I have a pool of musicians I worked with over the years. Because we managed to raise more money than expected, I was able to work with new musicians too. Both from a performance and production perspective, it was quite different because we had not fully come out of the pandemic when we started recording the album. I travelled to Palma to record with my drummer whereas my guitarist recorded all of his bits remotely. If the album were to be produced now, it would have been recorded very differently. It would be a lot more hands-on as it was for my other studio albums. This was a new way of working. And everybody was psyched to be working on something again because they had had so much time not working.

I had to travel to Palma to record with my drummer whereas my guitarist had to record all of his bits remotely.

What specific things affected musicians, in comparison to visual arts or other creative work?

Ultimately we were all impacted in similar ways. Creative people in art and music are still bleeding from the disruption. For some it worked, for many it did not. The rescue packages from the government saved some people which was great. I just had to ride it out in other ways. We’re survivors, kind of like cockroaches. I know for many in the sets industry they will have had time to reflect on how the pandemic changed them as an artist and what that now means for their career.

For a long time, people were just focused on how to survive without being able to process how stressful it was. I think we’re all realizing how that affected our mental and general health now that we’re able to reflect. It’s true there is a grieving aspect to it all, where people inevitably think about how their lives and careers could have been different and of course whilst acknowledging we are lucky to be on the other side of it and can look towards a brighter future.

A huge thank you to Shane who shed light to his personal and collective experience of creatives during and after the pandemic. Shane Cullinan Music Page can be found here.