(THIS ARTICLE IS MACHINE TRANSLATED by Google from Norwegian)
It was a great experience to hear Swedish-Kurdish author Mustafa Can lecture at the Literature House in Oslo during the Wergeland days last week. His lecture on how Jews in our history were once referred to as airmen because they did not have a homeland made my tears flow.
We who have become involuntary cosmopolitans can recognize the frustration and alienation the prevailing rhetoric of homeland and affiliation and nations bring about. The Jews were often viewed with skepticism because they did not have their own homeland. And not least because, although they were never so Norwegian, so English or so French, they had some peculiar traditions that they carried out in their homes and which others did not fully understand. In other words, they weren't quite at home. A feeling many immigrants carry with them today.
Mustafa Can pointed out that the exile had produced many of the world's foremost writers and that the world of literature would have been unbelievably poor without their contributions – and the contributions, they keep coming. In recent years, we have seen a small explosion in literature in, among other places, my second home country, the United Kingdom. This only had to happen, considering what a melting pot Britain is and what experiences we as children of the colonial era have.
Among the books that has piqued my curiosity is The Making of Mr. Hai's daughter, a story by Pakistani journalist Yasmin Hai, which tells the story of how her father, a professor with a communist conviction, adored all English and forced her to become British. . She was not allowed to wear the traditional "shalwar kameez" suit or long braids. She was not allowed to be religious or speak Urdu. Or watch Bollywood movies or have Asian girlfriends. These things would prevent her integration into British society, she was told, and everything connected with Pakistan was considered inferior. In the book, she tells of a strong experience where her British aunt Hilda reprimands her for eating rice and curry by hand: "This is what only the pack ice cream does, and you are not a pack ice cream, are you?"
But the consequences were that during her upbringing she did not understand who she was and had to rediscover her cultural and religious heritage, a quest that gained momentum after her father passed away. She began to frequent mosques and made many new friends with a British-Asian background. But when her friends received a religious awakening after September 11, 2001, she steered away. Today, Yasmin Hai is married to a Jewish man and has two children. She is worried about her children's identity. Should she, or should she not, emphasize their identity, or should she allow it to develop naturally?
What strikes me, while listening to Mustafa Can or reading Yasmin Hai's views on what it is like to be British-Asian, is that we immigrant children are involuntarily hijacked by our own life story, where our experiences as immigrants dominate. Will we ever cease to be immigrants? It does not seem so. But it may not be so bad, even if at times one can get really exhausted from being reduced to a religion, an ethnicity or a skin color.
After all, it is precisely through literature that we can learn from each other, gain strength and become proud. Thanks to Can, I can process many complicated thoughts, and thanks to Hai, I feel a little less lonely as a colony child. The global community needs these voices.
