When you grow up as the child of immigrants, you’re usually encouraged to seek out a partner with the same cultural background. It’s an impulse many first-generation migrants have, to preserve their culture and safeguard their children by keeping them connected to the same values and traditions that they themselves grew up with.
As the child of Fijian-Indian Muslim immigrants, this was definitely the case for me. While raising their four children in Australia in the early 1990s, my parents were determined to retain our culture and religion. We were made to speak Hindi at home, observed strict Islamic rules, and socialised with other Fijian-Indian families as much as possible.
But no matter how hard they tried, my parents were unable to counterbalance the strong desire I had to fit in with my Aussie peers, and early experiences of bullying and racism meant that I wanted to diminish my cultural difference. I hated being Indian, and I didn’t identify as Muslim by the time I was a teenager. Instead, I desperately wanted to be part of the mainstream Australian culture I was surrounded by.
That impulse ended up defining a lot of my major decisions, including my long-term relationship with a white Australian man.
What I didn’t anticipate before having a child earlier this year, though, was the impossibility of giving my son full access to my culture and the opportunity to embrace his Indian heritage. Despite my closeness with my family, and the time my son spends with his grandparents, aunts and uncles, without Hindi being spoken at home by both parents, and cultural traditions being woven into his day-to-day, he will never have the immersion in Indian culture that I had.
No matter how hard I try, his connection will be tangential, secondary to his “real life”, which is inherently defined by mainstream Australian society. Now that I can see how this will play out in his life, I feel a great sense of loss on his behalf.
