Of places No one Knows Exit
by Annabel benjamin
It was the most exciting day of Kindergarten, the day each group of six-year-olds presented about the country they had chosen. I insisted that we present on the country from which part of my family originated, Assyria. My six-year-old-self bubbled with excitement, licking my lips eager to share the heritage that filled me with pride. But, as we walked up to present the poster my groupmate had made at home, I was shocked, suddenly realizing that she had created a poster on an entirely different country, Syria. An honest mistake some would say. But, this ‘honest mistake’ was one made almost every time I explained my ancestry.
“So, where are you from?” is a common question I am asked, in response to my ethnic ambiguity. This question elicits my programed response, “You are not going to know where either of these places is.” Confused faces filled with slight intrigue always follow this claim. “I am Assyrian and Sri Lankan” I go on to say, followed by cocked heads and smiles of defeat once my conversational partner has realized my previous claim reigns true. They do not know where these places are. Being a human, programmed to learn from experience, after so many perplexed stares I assume the average person will not understand. This leaves me in a sort of cultural limbo, unable to claim my ethnic identity.
The beginning of my cultural understanding began with my grandmothers, who essentially raised my brother Christian and me, having two parents who are working professionals. We spent after school hours devouring dolma (stuffed grape leaves) and observing our grandpa play backgammon, while chewing sugar cubes and sipping chai. Christian and I came of age in kitchens permeating with the smell of curry and kabobs, Algebra worksheets splayed across the kitchen table and the clanging of pots the accompanying soundtrack. Each day meant a new dish, dal curry, ruza (rice) tie-dyed with melted saffron and shirwah or stew. The dish of the day dependent on which grandma was given the challenge of rearing us. Grandma Angel, or Angie as we called her, attempted the spicy curries her Sri Lankan husband loved. Her tight golden ringlets bouncing about the kitchen as she grabbed for an array of spices. A linguistic mosaic of Farsi, English and Assyrian characterized most conversations, our grandmothers weaving in and out of multiple languages every few words. Qé dem tukh bshéna, good morning, Grandma Donna would say, her red hair tied in a tight low bun, buzzing around the kitchen filling plates with lavash and feta, the samovar bubbling over. Our daily lives were an eclectic chaos filled with endless food and unconditional love.
The next question I get is, “Assyria? Is that like Syria?” and I go on to explain that the two are different, a distinction unknown by most people. Assyria is not a physical country any longer. “But, then where is it?” The confusion continues. Assyria is known for its ancient empire which was eventually lost in battle but is present-day Northern Iraq and Iran, where my family immigrated from. Iran in the 1970s was characterized by religious persecution by the new Islamic state, instituted by the Iranian Revolution, forcing my Assyrian-Catholic family to flee. This story rings true for many other Assyrians, most of which have been displaced from the Middle East, leaving them without a country to claim as their home. A Christian minority in an Islamic state, they were forced to abide by Islamic law, a sacrifice that many, like my family, refused to make.
I too was raised Catholic, but in a nation built on “Christian values”, a faith that is almost praised in the United States. Going to Catholic school meant knee-length green and blue plaid skirts, daily prayer and the inevitable, “Oh, you’re Catholic? I totally thought you were Muslim because you are Persian, right?” This was said to me while I waited in line for the obligatory confession Catholic schools make seem mandatory. I am not either of those things. And although I processed the ignorant comment and let it dissipate into thin air, a priest a few years later asked a similar question, “Assyrian? I did not know they were Christians?” Being Middle Eastern comes with the automatic assumption that I also practice Islam, a misconception that undermines the individuality of the multiple nationalities that make up the region. Not all those who practice Islam are from the Middle East and not all those who are Middle Eastern practice Islam.
It was a mild December day in 1996 when my parents got married in Los Angeles, the Beverly Hills Hotel adorned with Christmas decorations for the upcoming season. My mother was reminiscing over this day with a glossy, six-inch thick photo album plopped in her lap. A crisp peal sound came with the separation of each page, the spine cracking as the album awoke from its shelved slumber. With the flip of each page, I recognized both familiar and unfamiliar faces, my relatives twenty years younger, some who had passed away, and my dad with hair, which is easily the most shocking one. The diversity of my heritage leaped off the pages. There were my Sri Lankan cousins in colorful saris adorned with beads, an Assyrian priest in traditional dress, and a man in a kilt, although I am not sure who that is. My Assyrian culture dominated my childhood, yet I clung to my Sri Lankan ancestry because if any confusion arose, the least I could do is point it out on a map.
“Churches in Sri Lanka Bombed on Easter Sunday.” It was not until these headlines made global news that many became aware that this small island nation exists. Targeted by ISIS for its vulnerability and lack of resources, Sri Lanka has borne the brunt of tragedy from terrorist attacks to catastrophic tsunamis. But despite these headlines and my ability to prove that Sri Lanka exists as a physical nation, adding that my family is partially Sri Lankan does not reduce any confusion. When claiming this one-quarter of my heritage I get the occasional, “Oh, I think I’ve heard of that” which sounds promising until the person is unable to state which continent the country is located on. For those who fall into this category, Sri Lanka is a teardrop-shaped island off the coast of India and had been under British colonial rule until the late 1940s. And like Assyria, no one knows that it exists.
On a good day, the person I am speaking to knows about Sri Lanka and this is often because they know someone who is Sri Lankan. But unfortunately, this means they are shocked that I share a common heritage with their friend who is “like so dark.” With wide eyes and dropped jaws, they ask “You are Sri Lankan? I would have never guessed. You don’t look it at all.” But the greatest part of this dilemma is that I do not really “look” like any particular race because I am not just one.
For a short while, when people asked the dreaded question, “Where are you from?” I would answer Sri Lanka because that felt like the only valid answer. Yet, this one identity that I grasped so tightly, barely defined me. It was an identity so far removed from who I was and a culture that I did not partake in, despite the heaps of curry I gobbled growing up.
A great source of this attachment was because unlike most people, I cannot hop on a flight to visit my homeland. There is no country called Assyria and the few leftover pieces of heritage have either been blown to unrecognizable dust by ISIS or are tucked away in museums around the world, one of which I recently found myself in while studying abroad in London. The day was foggy, as most London days are, the sky filled with mist, cold droplets resting on my hair. I decided to take refuge in the British Museum, one of the largest history museums in the world. Far from home and having spent two frustrating hours attempting to navigate the London Underground, anxiety and loneliness accompanied me as I entered the museum. My eyes quickly grazed the extensive map, fixating on the Assyrians, second floor. I quickly ascended the wide marble steps, finally reaching the exhibit. Seeing the names and places my grandparents had spoken about on little plaques, made me feel at home when I had never been further away from it. I walked through the exhibit as if I had a secret, feeling as if I was more connected to those shiny glass display cases more than anyone in that room. This is the closest thing to a homeland that I would be able to visit.
So even still, every time I am asked about my ethnicity, I think to myself, “Here we go again.” But, although misunderstood, I have learned to accept where I come from and that having an obscure heritage not only makes me unique but is also a great conversation starter.
“So, where are you from?” is a common question I am asked, in response to my ethnic ambiguity. This question elicits my programed response, “You are not going to know where either of these places is.” Confused faces filled with slight intrigue always follow this claim. “I am Assyrian and Sri Lankan” I go on to say, followed by cocked heads and smiles of defeat once my conversational partner has realized my previous claim reigns true. They do not know where these places are. Being a human, programmed to learn from experience, after so many perplexed stares I assume the average person will not understand. This leaves me in a sort of cultural limbo, unable to claim my ethnic identity.
The beginning of my cultural understanding began with my grandmothers, who essentially raised my brother Christian and me, having two parents who are working professionals. We spent after school hours devouring dolma (stuffed grape leaves) and observing our grandpa play backgammon, while chewing sugar cubes and sipping chai. Christian and I came of age in kitchens permeating with the smell of curry and kabobs, Algebra worksheets splayed across the kitchen table and the clanging of pots the accompanying soundtrack. Each day meant a new dish, dal curry, ruza (rice) tie-dyed with melted saffron and shirwah or stew. The dish of the day dependent on which grandma was given the challenge of rearing us. Grandma Angel, or Angie as we called her, attempted the spicy curries her Sri Lankan husband loved. Her tight golden ringlets bouncing about the kitchen as she grabbed for an array of spices. A linguistic mosaic of Farsi, English and Assyrian characterized most conversations, our grandmothers weaving in and out of multiple languages every few words. Qé dem tukh bshéna, good morning, Grandma Donna would say, her red hair tied in a tight low bun, buzzing around the kitchen filling plates with lavash and feta, the samovar bubbling over. Our daily lives were an eclectic chaos filled with endless food and unconditional love.
The next question I get is, “Assyria? Is that like Syria?” and I go on to explain that the two are different, a distinction unknown by most people. Assyria is not a physical country any longer. “But, then where is it?” The confusion continues. Assyria is known for its ancient empire which was eventually lost in battle but is present-day Northern Iraq and Iran, where my family immigrated from. Iran in the 1970s was characterized by religious persecution by the new Islamic state, instituted by the Iranian Revolution, forcing my Assyrian-Catholic family to flee. This story rings true for many other Assyrians, most of which have been displaced from the Middle East, leaving them without a country to claim as their home. A Christian minority in an Islamic state, they were forced to abide by Islamic law, a sacrifice that many, like my family, refused to make.
I too was raised Catholic, but in a nation built on “Christian values”, a faith that is almost praised in the United States. Going to Catholic school meant knee-length green and blue plaid skirts, daily prayer and the inevitable, “Oh, you’re Catholic? I totally thought you were Muslim because you are Persian, right?” This was said to me while I waited in line for the obligatory confession Catholic schools make seem mandatory. I am not either of those things. And although I processed the ignorant comment and let it dissipate into thin air, a priest a few years later asked a similar question, “Assyrian? I did not know they were Christians?” Being Middle Eastern comes with the automatic assumption that I also practice Islam, a misconception that undermines the individuality of the multiple nationalities that make up the region. Not all those who practice Islam are from the Middle East and not all those who are Middle Eastern practice Islam.
It was a mild December day in 1996 when my parents got married in Los Angeles, the Beverly Hills Hotel adorned with Christmas decorations for the upcoming season. My mother was reminiscing over this day with a glossy, six-inch thick photo album plopped in her lap. A crisp peal sound came with the separation of each page, the spine cracking as the album awoke from its shelved slumber. With the flip of each page, I recognized both familiar and unfamiliar faces, my relatives twenty years younger, some who had passed away, and my dad with hair, which is easily the most shocking one. The diversity of my heritage leaped off the pages. There were my Sri Lankan cousins in colorful saris adorned with beads, an Assyrian priest in traditional dress, and a man in a kilt, although I am not sure who that is. My Assyrian culture dominated my childhood, yet I clung to my Sri Lankan ancestry because if any confusion arose, the least I could do is point it out on a map.
“Churches in Sri Lanka Bombed on Easter Sunday.” It was not until these headlines made global news that many became aware that this small island nation exists. Targeted by ISIS for its vulnerability and lack of resources, Sri Lanka has borne the brunt of tragedy from terrorist attacks to catastrophic tsunamis. But despite these headlines and my ability to prove that Sri Lanka exists as a physical nation, adding that my family is partially Sri Lankan does not reduce any confusion. When claiming this one-quarter of my heritage I get the occasional, “Oh, I think I’ve heard of that” which sounds promising until the person is unable to state which continent the country is located on. For those who fall into this category, Sri Lanka is a teardrop-shaped island off the coast of India and had been under British colonial rule until the late 1940s. And like Assyria, no one knows that it exists.
On a good day, the person I am speaking to knows about Sri Lanka and this is often because they know someone who is Sri Lankan. But unfortunately, this means they are shocked that I share a common heritage with their friend who is “like so dark.” With wide eyes and dropped jaws, they ask “You are Sri Lankan? I would have never guessed. You don’t look it at all.” But the greatest part of this dilemma is that I do not really “look” like any particular race because I am not just one.
For a short while, when people asked the dreaded question, “Where are you from?” I would answer Sri Lanka because that felt like the only valid answer. Yet, this one identity that I grasped so tightly, barely defined me. It was an identity so far removed from who I was and a culture that I did not partake in, despite the heaps of curry I gobbled growing up.
A great source of this attachment was because unlike most people, I cannot hop on a flight to visit my homeland. There is no country called Assyria and the few leftover pieces of heritage have either been blown to unrecognizable dust by ISIS or are tucked away in museums around the world, one of which I recently found myself in while studying abroad in London. The day was foggy, as most London days are, the sky filled with mist, cold droplets resting on my hair. I decided to take refuge in the British Museum, one of the largest history museums in the world. Far from home and having spent two frustrating hours attempting to navigate the London Underground, anxiety and loneliness accompanied me as I entered the museum. My eyes quickly grazed the extensive map, fixating on the Assyrians, second floor. I quickly ascended the wide marble steps, finally reaching the exhibit. Seeing the names and places my grandparents had spoken about on little plaques, made me feel at home when I had never been further away from it. I walked through the exhibit as if I had a secret, feeling as if I was more connected to those shiny glass display cases more than anyone in that room. This is the closest thing to a homeland that I would be able to visit.
So even still, every time I am asked about my ethnicity, I think to myself, “Here we go again.” But, although misunderstood, I have learned to accept where I come from and that having an obscure heritage not only makes me unique but is also a great conversation starter.