“What are you?”
In reality, this is a really strange question, but in our melting pot of
America we ask this of each other fairly often. One might respond, “Well, I’m German, British, Norwegian,
Irish, and I’m even 1/32 Native American!” But what does that really mean?! This is a question I’ve been struggling with recently. As people, it seems like we have this
innate need to categorize ourselves.
There’s something comfortable and convenient about sorting everyone into
a box. In terms of our DNA, the
very core of our being, every human on this planet is 99.9% similar to the next
(according to Wikipedia), but for some reason we always feel the need to go
back to the safety of our boxes. Now you’re
probably wondering what has brought me to this philosophical question,
especially on a Monday, and there are a few reasons, one of which I’ve been
thinking about practically since I arrived, while the other reared its ugly
head last week.
As a “Diasporan Armenian” living in Armenia, I’ve often
asked myself what it really means to be Armenian. When I get the “What are you?” question, one of my responses
is “Armenian”. I wouldn’t be here
if I weren’t “Armenian”. Someone
decided that after examining both of my great-grandparents’ death certificates
and finding the words, “Place of Birth: Armenia”, it was therefore my
“Birthright” to visit this country on someone else’s dime. But what does being Armenian really
mean? And is it really all that
different from being anything else?
Is it about eating dolma?
Is it about speaking the language?
Is it about going to the Armenian Church? Is it about living here? On occasion I’ve been asked, “Well, how Armenian are you?”
or “What part of you is Armenian?” as if the answer could be my big toe. In these rare situations I feel judged
for identifying in some way with my Armenian identity, despite the fact that I
don’t look as Armenian as the next (however it is that an Armenian is supposed
to look), I didn’t grow up in an Armenian community, or even go to Armenian
summer camp. I don’t think I’ll
ever land on an answer to what it means to be Armenian, but maybe that’s
okay. I don’t want to have to stay
in the box.
The second thing that’s got me thinking about cultural
identity was last weeks' Genocide Remembrance Day. On April 24, 1915, notable members of the Armenian community
in Istanbul were banished from the city.
Many mark this day on which Armenian scholars and community leaders were
deported to the deserts of Syria as the beginning of the systematic killing of
approximately 1.5 million Armenians by the Ottoman Turks. So, every April 24th hundreds of thousands of Armenians visit the Genocide memorial and lay flowers
around the eternal flame in memory of their ancestors and loved ones, the
victims of the Genocide. It is a
somber day of remembrance and reflection, but for me, there was an ugly side to
this tradition.
On the eve of Remembrance Day, we joined a candlelit march
to the memorial. Prior to the
event, a few people asked me with enthusiasm, “Are you ready to burn the
flag?!” To this I asked, “What
flag?” Silly me… We gathered with
the huge crowd in the center of Yerevan in front of the Opera. After a few speeches, the flag took
center stage. I opened my mouth
practically to the floor in awe as I witnessed the Turkish colors go up in
flame to the cheers of the crowd.
I’ve learned from the Navy man and the Boy Scouts of the family that a
flag is sacred. I have fond
memories of retiring the colors before sunset with my grandfather at our
family’s cottage in the summer. He
taught me the right way to fold the flag, and he insisted that it never stay up
overnight. So for me, watching the
Turkish flag disintegrate to ashes while an enthusiastic, cheering crowd looked
on, this was the ultimate act of hatred towards a country and everything it
stands for – its government, its politics, and most importantly its
people. I have gathered during my
time in Armenia that many Armenians have strong feelings against Turks. I’ve heard people say they would never
speak to a Turkish person in their life, and worse. This stems from the Turkish government’s continual denial of
the Genocide, but at a certain point 99 years later it begs the question,
why? Although the massacre of
Armenians was motivated by religious differences, I’m under the impression that
Armenians and Turks have much more in common than they acknowledge. But again, we force ourselves to dwell
on the differences, sorting each other into our little boxes. Watching this flag burning was probably
one of the most shocking things I’ve ever witnessed. But what’s more distressing is to think that every day
around our world, people are expressing their hatred towards others and
fighting battles over differences.
To close this extensive rant, I want to share a story from
my semester abroad in Kenya. I
think it’s part of the answer of what we can do to help get ourselves out of
our boxes. During the semester I
had the opportunity to visit the home of Pete O’Neal, member of the Black
Panther Party. During the 1960s he
was arrested for transporting a gun across state lines. He sought exile in Algeria, and later
settled near Arusha, Tanzania where he and his wife run an amazing community
and education center. He hasn’t
stepped foot on American soil since.
If he returns, he’ll immediately be sent to jail. He has no American passport, nor is he
a registered citizen of Tanzania.
One of my classmates asked him which country he considered he belonged
to, and Pete’s answer stuck with me.
He said, “I don’t consider myself a citizen of the US or Tanzania. I’m a citizen of the world.”
