Thoughts On Identity, Diaspora And Travel From A Non-Traveler (As Yet)

BY LYDIA NYACHIEO

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from here.”

*grins knowingly* “Ok, but where are you really from?”

*smiles* “I’m from here but my dad is Kenyan – he’s a pilot there.”

“Nice! When are you going home?”

Home?

I haven’t been outside of Wisconsin since I was four years old. If I were to go back to Kenya now, I would not think of it as home. Even though my dad is Kenyan, even though I look African, even though I revel in learning about the continent, even though I love African music, and even though nimeanza kujifunza Kiswahili¹, if I arrived in Nairobi tomorrow morning, I’d feel just as an outsider as a foreign-born mzungu².

To clarify, the conversation above – which shouldn’t be confused with one that would otherwise be deeply offensive – is one I remember having with a coworker who himself is West African. It’s a variation of one that often occurs between Africans in the diaspora who recognize another black person to be African or American African rather than African American³. I’ve had to navigate it many times.

When thinking about travel, in this case that of Africans in the diaspora traveling back to their country of heritage, I can’t help but think of how the strength of the connection to that country – perhaps a continuum of rootedness – shapes the travel experience and how much one perceives it as ‘traveling’ versus ‘going home’. This kind of connection was something I admired in several of my high school classmates – those who could speak their parents’ language, who told of summers spent in Africa with family, who had a different dimension of culture to their lives.

I’ve imagined how it will be like traveling to Kenya given this more distant connection. On one hand, because of my ‘Africaness’, I don’t expect that I’d be treated like a complete outsider; they would expect certain behaviors of me and recognize me with a familiarity that they wouldn’t a tourist. Yet, I can’t imagine I’d slip seamlessly into the culture; there’d still be a dissonance, due to how I talk, my American mannerisms, and my incomplete understanding of that society’s unspoken norms, customs, and ways of being. I’d still be an outsider.

Qali Id, a Danish-born Somali freelance writer, precisely captured this sentiment in saying, “many first-generation kids struggle with identity—you’re never enough of your original home and not enough of your adopted one.” For me, the United States is where I was born and grew up for most my life – yet I’ve always danced (or maybe stumbled) around the line between identifying and being identified as African American versus American African – and have often settled in the unique shade of blackness in-between.

But back to travel. Since I haven’t been to Africa since I was a toddler, I can only imagine how my experience traveling back will be. There are some in the diaspora who, when going back to their country of heritage, finally settle a piece of their identity. Qali Id described such experience going to Somalia for the first time in her article, “Moving to My Parents’ Homeland Helped Me Find Belonging”, saying,

“An elderly lady at the market called after me one day, seeing from the way I carried myself that I wasn’t indigenous to Somalia, and welcomed me back, reassuring me that I belonged, that this was home. […] This acceptance provided an anchor I never knew I needed. There is an affirmation in belonging that provides some inner peace. It empowers.”

Others are yet different. Danai Nesta Kupemba, a Zimbabwean writer who grew up in Britain, staunchly latched onto her British identity even after her family had moved back to Zimbabwe. As she explained in her article entitled “From Zimbabwe to England: A story of war, home and identity,” it was only after she began understanding her parents’ feelings toward Zimbabwe that she began to embrace it, saying:

“I realized then that who I was was not rooted in where I had grown up but in the people who loved me. I may never love Zimbabwe as fiercely as they do, but I know now that I love them more than I could ever love England.”

There’s yet more variety of sentiments for others in the diaspora, such as expatriates who’ve lived a number of years abroad. For many, no matter how accustomed they’ve become to their adoptive country, there’s still a feeling of never quite being settled until they’re back in their native country. Yet this varies widely even among expatriates. My mom, who immigrated from West Africa in her late teens, doesn’t feel that same connection to her country of origin due to several factors of the way she grew up. If she were to go back now, she feels she wouldn’t quite fit in – she’d feel more like a visitor.

Thus, this continuum of rootedness seems to be multidimensional, wherein the connection between one’s identity and one’s country of heritage dances on the intersection of the places one’s been, one’s family set-up, the cultures one’s exposed to, the people one loves, and those who love them back and make them feel like they belong. All of these inform the travel experience.

These are simply passing thoughts on the themes of identity and diaspora as they relate to travel. I’m sure there is a whole literature on these themes – both in academia and in the unique stories of countless others in the diaspora. As the title also implies, I have yet to travel. It’s something I yearn for and look forward to – not just to Africa, but all over the world; and not merely as a tourist, but as a professional in the field of international affairs.

¹ I’ve started learning Swahili ² Caucasian person ³ A distinction I’ve contemplated before but have only ever heard articulated in Adichie’s Americanah, pg 171-173.