My Identity Crisis

By Z. Sadiq

Instagram: @Zsadiq7

The process of understanding who I am has been an ongoing process. There has been a huge change from the 5-year-old kid who only spoke fluent Urdu to the 25-year-old who is too self-conscious to speak in her mother tongue. With hindsight, I can say that there have been many different versions of me. I went through phases in trying to figure out who I am, and I don’t think I can honestly say I’m done with that, but I think I definitely have a better perspective about it all. I think it’s been a process of seeing myself as someone who fits into my culture, religion, or with my group of friends. While I have felt periods of identifying with various groups around me, and the various ideas I have been presented with, the only constant I have ever felt in my own sense of belonging has been in the art I consume, specifically, the books I read.

Reading was always the place that I could escape into by finding people and places I fit in with. There was one trilogy I read where the main character had the same birthday, to the year that I did. Her family lived in a home with her grandfather, and he died when she was 9- another parallel. She saw a lot of her interests reflected in her grandfather, and if the books I have of his are any indication, so do I. She also travelled through time. Which I will admit isn’t a skill of mine, but for those 3 books, I was her, I went back and met my granddad. I got to explore the past and go on an adventure. I have always been able to suspend my disbelief to fall into stories where the main characters don’t look like me, aren’t from the same place as I am, but we can share that experience of self-discovery. Books have always been the way that I have done that.

Growing up in an environment where I didn’t share the same cultural background as my friends, and where I preferred to stay in and read than go outside and play during recess, books were a place I was able to find myself. I went to a small, relatively homogenous Shia Islamic school. And while I didn’t really have to face an issue of whether or not to pray or wear the hijab (since that was all mandatory anyway), I did struggle to figure out how I fit in with the groups of people around me. I didn’t like sports like the athletic kids, I liked learning, but I didn’t really care about my grades as much as the smart kids. This is perhaps why I guess I fell into a level of religious fanaticism that was in no way enforced by the adults in my life. I was taught very binary definitions of right and wrong and 25-year-old me would argue that I internalized that to an unhealthy degree. 9-year-old me would argue that music was haram (forbidden), and it was my job to inform all the adults around me of the mortal sin it was to play the radio. Sometimes I do think if the child-me met the adult-me, she would be scandalized by the fact that I, ironically, religiously listen to music. She would probably also be deeply disappointed that I no longer cared about physical contact with the opposite sex. I don’t think all the values I held at that age were bad, but in the absence of a lot of other activities to cling onto, I found my identity stemming from a religious, moral binary and fiction.

"The nature of the community that I was in also meant that while I was not allowed to go out alone with other Shia, Muslim, hijab-wearing friends, they were off exploring themselves, going to parties, having secret boyfriends, and trying cigarettes."

This ‘Otherness’ that I identified with as a kid and still struggle with was reinforced by the conversation I would hear around the ‘culture vs. religion’ debate. My parents were both born in Hyderabad, India, and all aspects of my culture were relegated to things that held me back, boxed me in, and enforced gender normativity on me. Accordingly, cultural expressions of religion all became a symbol of these things that were (in my mind) holding me back. I was always deeply suspicious of things like kundey (honestly, I still struggle to explain it, but basically it is making food as a part of devotional prayer) I never understood the rationale, and also realized it was very culturally specific. Lectures in Urdu were automatically not progressive, Indian clothing was unnecessary, music was haraam (forbidden), the customs not in line with religious values, you get the idea. While I no longer hold these views, for over 20 years, I did. I was in circles where the only experience I had of my culture was when I was told boys could stay out later than girls, or girls needed to have ‘sharam’ (shame) and dress in certain ways. The idea of a partition was pushed in the centres that I went to and the youth events I attended, and that was always, in my mind, a by-product of cultural norms. I was a 15-year-old in an Indian outfit, and a hijab at a cousin’s wedding and an aunty decided to “fix” my dupatta (scarf) to go over my chest. I was not a particularly curvy 15-year-old, and this was not some skin-tight body-con outfit for any of that to be necessary even from a conservative religious standpoint.

Getting into high school only deepened my disdain for those cultural norms. For someone as relatively sheltered as I was, high school was more of a culture shock than an immersive experience. I stayed in my own little enclave of people I knew before, and I was too shy to reach out and make friends with anyone I may have actually had anything in common with. The nature of the community that I was in also meant that while I was not allowed to go out alone with other Shia, Muslim, hijab-wearing friends, they were off exploring themselves, going to parties, having secret boyfriends, and trying cigarettes. All while I was blissfully unaware. When I would express a desire to travel, explore, or do anything out of the norm, I was always told that I could when I got married- which was another cultural norm I have pushed against. While I would get into arguments…and in trouble, my friends decided it was smarter not to push the issue, be quiet, and do whatever they were getting up to without me. This distance between my friends and I only grew wider as I got into university excited to finally learn things I wanted to know more about, instead of going there to get a degree and tick another box off a checklist.

However, it was while at university that I was met with another form of “Otherness”. Suddenly, I had to frequently justify wearing a hijab, breaking my fast later than the Sunni Muslim majority, or explaining the historical differences between the sects. With my argumentative nature, the prospect of having debates and discussions called to me. Sitting down with a friend and discussing why Shia’s don’t have the best opinion of the first three Caliphs was something I prided myself in being able to tactfully manage. Identifying deeply with my Shia religious identity proved helpful when I was confronted with the questions of why we broke our fast 10 minutes later because I had already consumed enough religious content to explain those theological reasons. Thinking back on it, there was an adult family friend who used to ask me those kinds of questions when I was only 12 years old. In hindsight, I feel it was unfair of an ill-educated 20-something-year-old to confront a 12-year-old about theology, but I was always ready for an argument and never really thought twice about it. As if justifying the underlying idea of who I was to other Muslims wasn’t enough, I also decided to study the philosophy of religion, just so that I was confronted with some atheism too. Now, if I was to play my own armchair psychologist, maybe not really feeling like I fully fit in, became something I wanted to seek out to some degree.

"When I moved out and lived on my own for the first time, I was able to really understand who I was independent of all the expectations of who I should be."

Nonetheless, it was also while at university that I studied Islamic history- being introduced to the Mughal empire as the South Asian arm of that. I pushed back against learning Urdu, citing to my family that the language was created by immigrants in a new environment, I said that as a Canadian, I was forming my own cultural ideals. Studying philosophy was another place I was able to erase the Otherness I felt as someone who thought differently. I wanted to discuss Socratic dialogues, talk about moral reasoning, but I always felt as though societal norms and litigious religious discussions always sidelined it. The identity within my religious background was beginning to shift.

At the age of 25, I am still working through my identity, trying to find spaces where I don’t feel that Otherness that can be so alienating. Something I have learned, however, is that Otherness will always exist in some form or the other. I grew up around people that shared (mostly) my ethnic and religious backgrounds. Yet, it was only when I drastically changed my environment that I was able to not feel that Otherness as extremely. When I moved out and lived on my own for the first time, I was able to really understand who I was independent of all the expectations of who I should be. I went ahead and lived on my own, travelled and did all the things I had long been told I needed a husband for.

I wasn’t around people that I fit in with perfectly, we didn’t have everything in common, and there were definitely times where I explained my views, beliefs, and actions. I feel like the main difference was really trying to see who I was and who I wanted to be without the pressure of family and community. My year abroad living on my own wasn’t some utopia, but it allowed me to explore the aspects of my identity that I was struggling with. I was able to experience my culture independent from my religion for the first time. My religious identity was led entirely by myself, and I got to choose how I presented myself to the outside world.

Overall, I would say that understanding myself has always been somewhat of an academic endeavour for me. I have identified myself in compartments of identity. I will acknowledge the privileges I have had of socio-economic comfort, my passport being Canadian, and my parents being supportive of my onslaught of questions and divergent behaviour. In a community where all my peers are married and having children, they have supported me pushing the boundaries of what is acceptable from a South Asian girl. I’m able to think about who I am in this context because of those privileges afforded to me, and I am incredibly grateful for that.

Looking at the cultural, religious, and personal aspects of me begs the question of how I see myself. Who I am and what I am interested in has always been the strongest of the 3, and when the other 2 are questioned and pushed, I find myself falling back towards stories, history, and philosophy to understand what I think, who I am, and where I see myself fitting into the world. I’m getting closer to 26 years struggling with these questions, and while I don’t have it all figured out, I definitely have a better handle on it now than I did before.

This disclaimer informs readers that the views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in the text belong solely to the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Identity International.

Black women in research? Do they exist? Yes, we do.

By: Nana Henewaah Osei-Tutu

IG: nanaa_from_ghana

Twitter: @nana_henewaah

As a daughter to two Ghanaian immigrants, my fate had already been decided for me. Growing up, I knew both of my parents wanted me to become one thing: a doctor. Luckily for them, I had actually wanted to be a doctor and was really passionate about helping people through medicine. My mother was [and still is] a nurse, and with my strong math and science skills, I thought becoming a doctor would be an absolute piece of cake. It wasn’t until college quickly ran up behind me that I realized otherwise.

I knew most people on the pre-med track started off as biology, chemistry, or even physics majors, but I was completely unaware of how competitive the medical field actually was. I was not able to get into any of these courses freshman year and quickly realized that dream was over. Unwilling to stay an extra year at Rutgers University to finish these requirements, I frantically thought about my mathematical abilities and followed that path instead. And boy was I thrilled [and terrified] anticipating what these next four years would look like. Something I will always remember was a conversation I had with a chemist at a Women in S.T.E.M. seminar during my sophomore year. I had mentioned to her that I wanted to go into medicine but not down the traditional “biology-major-medical-school-doctor” route, and what she said next has stuck with me until this day. “Doctors are great, but they can only really help one person at a time in their practice. Researchers are great because they can help larger populations of people through theirs.” And it was then that I had decided.

“…I had become desensitized to the underrepresentation of Black women in many fields.”

Fast-forward to the end of my undergraduate career, and thankfully, I had made it out alive. With my statistics degree and a heart full of hope, I knew exactly what this brain of mine was set out to do. Research. I wanted to use my quantitative skills for research. And it was then that my dream of helping people in medicine was resurrected. In the year after graduating, I was blessed with the opportunities to do both research and patient care, and ultimately, felt that research was more my speed. With that, I went on to pursue a Master of Science in Epidemiology at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine (L.S.H.T.M.). Now, I know with everything that has been going on with the COVID-19 pandemic, you’ve definitely become accustomed to the word ‘epidemiology.’ You see the people on the frontlines conducting research and trying to understand the dynamics of COVID-19? Those are my people.

As a Black woman going into research, I was already hyper-aware that my demographic was not well represented in the field. However, this didn’t really hit me until my first few months at L.S.H.T.M. when I began asking myself, “Where are the Black women in research?” and “Where are the women that look like me?”. While I was hyper-aware, I had thought nothing of it because, in a way, I had become desensitized to the underrepresentation of Black women in many fields. For me and probably many other Black women scientists, it had become normal to not see many Black women in the general field of S.T.E.M. And now in rethinking how I felt, I realize how incredibly problematic this issue is. At the intersections of Black and woman as parts of my identity, I became nervous and even intimidated by my classmates. Combine that with my minimal prior experience before starting my Master’s, it almost felt as if it was a mistake for me to even be in the program that I was [rightfully] accepted in to. This is a common phenomenon known as “Imposter Syndrome,” and this affected my academics [and mental health] quite a bit throughout the postgraduate course.

Going to class every day and having mainly White male lecturers didn’t really help to ease my doubts at all. Funnily enough, the only Black female instructor I had in any one of my Epi courses that year ended up being my Master’s thesis supervisor. Working in the genomics unit with my supervisor was quite alienating because I was one of the few Master’s students working amongst Postdocs and PhD students. Additionally, I was the only Black American female student amongst a wholly White European cohort of researchers. It was the shared characteristics with my supervisor, of being Black African women, that helped to ease that “out-of-place” feeling, and what helped us grow close. Not only did we learn from one another that summer, but we bonded over something that we both loved to do. Research.

Something that did give me hope was the many women, and especially Black women students that I met in my year at the school. In every course I took, I would look around the classroom or lecture hall and see women from all backgrounds. Additionally, almost every MSc program had at least one woman of color and/or Black woman. I met many incredible women, all here with a purpose: to improve health practice, care, research, and policy in many areas of the world. And that was really amazing to me. As women and as ethnic minorities in research, we should not be competing with one another. It’s clear that we are heavily underrepresented in this field. Instead, we should collectively acknowledge this disparity and use it as motivation to collaborate with and support one another in the field. Together, we can drive great change in our own health. In the 2018-2019 cohort of MSc students, I got to know and befriend some of the most amazing women. It made me extremely happy and proud to be a part of a community of such brilliance and excellence. And many of these women have gone on to do incredible work in the field of public health, including myself.

“To be a Black woman working closely with Black men and women on the understudied issues that primarily affect us, makes me feel incredibly optimistic and fortunate.”

Being from one of the most unequal of countries of the developed world, I quickly recognized two things: one, how damaged, discriminatory, and quite frankly, sh*t the United States (U.S.) healthcare system is and two, how essential the field of social epidemiology (a cross between sociology and epidemiology) would be in understanding how to mitigate the inimical effects of the rigid social structures in this country, and how they influence the health of our populations. With that, a fire had been lit under me, and I was ready to take off into the world of social epidemiology. Coincidentally, a good friend of mine (Hi Cristeen!) had encouraged me to apply to a fellowship program that was being funded by the National Institutes of Health (N.I.H.). After being accepted into a lab at the National Institutes of Diabetes, Digestive, and Kidney Diseases (N.I.D.D.K.), I felt everything falling into place. The excitement that I got knowing I was about to return home to conduct research at one of the biggest biomedical institutes in the U.S. and in the world had me thinking this was not real life. Like, ain’t no way!

Since starting at the N.I.H. up until now, I have grown much within myself and within my role as a Black woman in research. In our study, we work closely with African-born Black people and African immigrants living in the U.S. to identify improved screening methods for diabetes and heart disease. To be a Black woman working closely with Black men and women on the understudied issues that primarily affect us, makes me feel incredibly optimistic and fortunate. To go from nervous and intimidated in my Master’s program at L.S.H.T.M., to fortunate and optimistic in my current work at the N.I.H., is HUGE. This change of heart has encouraged me to work even harder to achieve my future goals.

My current fellowship has highlighted to me how salient my role as a Black woman researcher is, and how proximal the public health issue(s) I am researching affect me. My older brother, parents, and grandmother are African immigrants living in the U.S., with both my father and grandmother suffering from hypertension. In the US, Black people disproportionately suffer more from non-communicable diseases such as diabetes, heart disease, and other cardiovascular complications, as well as increased mortality from these conditions, as compared to White people and non-Black people of color. The disparities that exist in our (Black people) health are a direct translation of the disparities that exist in the people that are conducting the research and providing clinical care through practice to our populations. It’s disparities like these that have driven me to become a catalyst for change in our healthcare system(s). More Black women are needed in research. And even though I’m just one person, my contributions to the field as a Black woman will be recognized as such. I am already making plans to continue my education and earn my PhD, and with this, I want to become an influential, Black female researcher in epidemiology.

For the time being, I have found a research topic that I am genuinely interested in and a field that I am contributing to while being able to tie in my own life and personal experience. With everything I’ve accomplished until now, I feel grateful and thankful to have been in good health all this time, so I can continue to play my part in the field of public health. I am also thankful for all of the support I’ve received from my friends and family in my journey in conducting epidemiological research. My current dilemma and next major life decision will be on how I want to apply my knowledge in social epidemiology and how I am going to help to mitigate health disparities in my community. In the meantime, I am going to continue to proactively learn, apply myself, and share my experience(s) with others as a Black woman researcher.

This disclaimer informs readers that the views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in the text belong solely to the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Identity International.

The Sahib from Surrey

By N. Diamond

Courtesy of the author.

The picture here is of my aunt Christina’s wedding in 1944. It took place in Bellary, central India, shortly before the end of WW2 and three years before Partition. Her husband, Philip, had fought against Japanese forces in Burma and was now a captain in the Sikh Light Infantry, who were tasked with defending the railways from attack by Nationalist activists. Christina knew none of the congregation and was a little surprised: “The church was full of bearded Sikhs… I felt quite terrified by it all,” she wrote, I think out of bridal nerves as much as bewilderment. At this wedding, regimental loyalty trumped racial and religious affinities.

The couple returned to England before Partition and settled to raise their family in a semi in the Home Counties. A wealthier relative installed Philip as manager of a small factory in Shoreditch that manufactured upholstery buttons. He died several years ago, and I would love to be able to revive both him and his wedding congregation to hear their stories and map out the contours of the membrane separating them. The shared experience of inflicting death and witnessing it amongst comrades must have forged extraordinary links between white and brown men. Looking at this picture, I wonder whether Philip was an honorary Sikh or the Sikhs honorary Brits. Philip spoke little of his time in India other than to defend the benefits of British civilisation. ‘We brought the Railways and we outlawed suttee (Google it).’ I wouldn’t argue with him on that one, though we disagreed on many things. Still, he was a modest man, courteous and solicitous, and I think he would have winced at the jingoistic tone of today’s politicians. I liked him. He played cricket and croquet for a good many years and was an agent for his local Conservative MP. By his request, the (white, English) congregation at his funeral, held in a small, ancient church on the Sussex Downs, sang the hymn Onward Christian Soldiers.

"In my white monoculture we were cheerfully, ignorantly racist and Jesus was white-skinned and blue-eyed."

It’s often puzzled me, the symbiotic relationship between the Anglican church and the military; it’s hard to tell which co-opted the other. By providing a kind of latter-day chivalric code, the church sanctified and eased consciences for those engaged in the businesses of killing and colonial enforcement. Visit any parish church and you’ll see walls lined with plaques commemorating soldiers (invariably officers) who’d died defending Empire – sons of wealthy locals and dutiful church patrons. Philip himself was not a regular churchgoer, but I‘m pretty certain he felt justified, as a man who had upheld what he understood to be Christian values, in the eyes of God.

I grew up assuming all this to be the natural order of things, and that I lived in the best place in the world (I took the ‘Great’ in Great Britain to mean fantastic, rather than geographically enlarged.). We’d won the war with Spitfires, and Christianity was the true faith. Nobody drilled this into me; it was in the air I breathed. In my white mono-culture we were cheerfully, ignorantly racist and Jesus was white-skinned and blue-eyed.

Still, it didn’t seem quite right. As for Christianity, I could never get my head round the significance or plausibility of the Resurrection, and the threat of Hell seemed unjustly harsh, especially in the light of Christ’s teaching that we should love our enemies. So I stopped going to church. It was easy for my generation to rebel. We took drugs as much to piss our parents off as out of hedonistic pursuit. Our music and fashions were all designed to cause maximum offense. Yes, most of it was self-obsessed, teenage narcissism, but all part of the process of developing an adult identity. Many of us recognised something rotten in the order of things and sympathised with causes such as the struggle against apartheid. Music became politicised – the Rock against Racism movement saw punk and reggae bands gigging together to resist the far right (who responded with skinhead bands such as the 4skins – get it?). So our musical choices became a kind of shibboleth that indicated our political affiliations. Music from Asia and sub-Saharan Africa appeared in record shops. Indian gurus found willing devotees and I was suckered into becoming one. I had quite a lot of fun – lived in a squat in central London and met some very interesting and crazy people. Maybe some of the devotees really did transform themselves inwardly, but I wasn’t one of them. I moved on.

"We all need to share and listen, and as we do so we should recognise in one another our universal soul..."

Religion, nationality, language, identification with this or that – Brexiteer or anti-Brexiteer, considering ourselves woke – all give us the ontological security that comes with a sense of belonging and purpose. Religious belief is the most powerful, because with it comes certainty of one’s purpose on Earth and the promise of continuity after death. How wonderful to have the freedom from anxiety that comes with absolute faith in God. I don’t have it because wherever it is presented it tends to require vows, utterances and, to the unwary, the suspension of one’s own critical faculties. (I’m aware that that makes me sound like Richard Dawkins. Please, no. His militant atheism puts him on a similar level to those he rails against). I know there are universal values at the heart of all faiths and that many religionists as well as some non-religionists such as myself recognise this.

The differences between us, be they in colour, nationality, language, religion or culture, are miniscule in the long history and shared background of humankind. That’s not to belittle the very justifiable historical and ongoing grievances that most minorities have and which us white and yes, privileged, folk, have a duty to listen to with respect and humility. We all need to share and listen, and as we do so we should recognise in one another our universal soul, collective consciousness, common humanity – call it what you will.

I don’t have any political ambitions and I’m not expecting this to bring about world peace. But I do worry about the tendency towards nationalism in this country; political opportunists and dog whistlers who pander to regressive definitions of Britishness with which I can’t identify. Strength and resistance begin with our local communities. If we’re not doing it already, let’s start looking our neighbours in the eye and talking with them.

I now work as a teaching assistant in an inner London school. It’s a great community and I feel very comfortable there. Most of our pupils are from minority backgrounds, as are just under half of the teaching staff; the head teacher is a black woman. I’d now find it very difficult to resettle in a homogenous culture, much as I ache for clean air, the landscapes I love and the quiet awareness of nature’s rhythms. I don’t want to say rude things about the society there: there are many fine people. But the greater part of my heart is here in London. I know that many people reading this will have come, or have parents who have come, from very far away. It’s taken me the best part of a lifetime to travel less than 20 miles. It’s still been quite a journey.

This disclaimer informs readers that the views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in the text belong solely to the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Identity International.