Often, in our determination to understand what a particular culture constitutes of, we forget that the very nature of a culture is paradoxical. I can say, for instance, that I am a Sri Lankan, I speak Tamil and that I have faith in Hinduism. At the same time, I would not be contradicting myself when I say also that I am a Canadian, I speak English and French and I am an atheist. As a child of the Diaspora generation (i.e. uprooted from our native lands in order to relocate), I have been acutely aware of this increasingly glaring aspect of culture for the most part of my life.
Let me explain. Perhaps I can show you what I mean.
As a Tamil-Sri Lankan, my claim to this culture has united me with my fellow Tamil-Sri Lankans. Through common language, values such as modesty in dress, respect towards elders and teachers, childhood memories of communal upbringing, playing cricket, big families, loud dinners, high tempers, etc. etc. There is also something less easy to define that unites us: an instinctive kinship.
On the other hand, this same culture has divided us: socially from Sinhalese-Sri Lankans, to the point of a bloody civil war, physically from our native land and remaining families and politically from each other as we form factions according to our beliefs.
My culture is something I share with those interested in knowing more about it. I have helped my Chinese friends pick out sarees and take pleasure in inviting them to eat Tamil food. But it is also something I guard and protect from those I consider outsiders: I do not like the idea, for instance, of taking someone of a different ethnicity to my favorite Temple. It is a place too personal, too my own to be shared.
My culture inspires pride. I am proud to say that my maternal language is Tamil or that I can eat a bowl of raw chili without flinching, while others would probably spontaneously combust. Unfortunately, it also sometimes inspires shame. Especially when I read in the newspaper or see on television the recent behavior of Tamil youth, who seem to think that gang-violence is a justified outlet to express the frustration they feel towards the situation in Sri Lanka.
My culture defines me, I know it’s inside me, and I feel it clinging to the outside of me. But it is also something I sometimes feel the need to escape from, to shed or grow into.
What then is the result of all these contradicting forces of culture that has shaped me?
I have no clue.
Perhaps I’ll find out one day.
Or maybe, if you ever meet me and get to know me, you’ll be good enough to tell me.
Let me explain. Perhaps I can show you what I mean.
As a Tamil-Sri Lankan, my claim to this culture has united me with my fellow Tamil-Sri Lankans. Through common language, values such as modesty in dress, respect towards elders and teachers, childhood memories of communal upbringing, playing cricket, big families, loud dinners, high tempers, etc. etc. There is also something less easy to define that unites us: an instinctive kinship.
On the other hand, this same culture has divided us: socially from Sinhalese-Sri Lankans, to the point of a bloody civil war, physically from our native land and remaining families and politically from each other as we form factions according to our beliefs.
My culture is something I share with those interested in knowing more about it. I have helped my Chinese friends pick out sarees and take pleasure in inviting them to eat Tamil food. But it is also something I guard and protect from those I consider outsiders: I do not like the idea, for instance, of taking someone of a different ethnicity to my favorite Temple. It is a place too personal, too my own to be shared.
My culture inspires pride. I am proud to say that my maternal language is Tamil or that I can eat a bowl of raw chili without flinching, while others would probably spontaneously combust. Unfortunately, it also sometimes inspires shame. Especially when I read in the newspaper or see on television the recent behavior of Tamil youth, who seem to think that gang-violence is a justified outlet to express the frustration they feel towards the situation in Sri Lanka.
My culture defines me, I know it’s inside me, and I feel it clinging to the outside of me. But it is also something I sometimes feel the need to escape from, to shed or grow into.
What then is the result of all these contradicting forces of culture that has shaped me?
I have no clue.
Perhaps I’ll find out one day.
Or maybe, if you ever meet me and get to know me, you’ll be good enough to tell me.
