nano encounters

One day as I returned from lunch through our lobby, a spacious area bathed in Silicon Valley sunlight, three men wearing the blue lab smocks of engineers jumped up from their seats and tackled me with a chorus of questions.

Erfan, a Syrian with a trimmed, graying beard, said, “Mariam, we were just arguing about you. Khalid thinks you are a Bangladeshi, but I say you are Iranian because I have heard you speak Farsi.”

Rahman, a short Bengali with the full beard of a practicing Muslim, objected. “No, Mansoor told me you are from Pakistan and you speak Urdu with him.” Mansoor is another engineer who works with them.

Erfan, Khalid, and Rahman had discovered a conflict in their work schedules and were waiting for me to help straighten it out. Now, however, they were more concerned about me — my identity — who, or rather what, I am. My brain cells were rattled. Three people I work with had caught me telling different stories. How was I to answer them now?

I blurted out, “I am from everywhere!”

The silence was long and awkward. Then Erfan said, “How can that be?”

Where am I from? I have no one-size-fits-all answer. Usually when asked, I take a guess about where the questioner is from and tailor my answer accordingly. When I am with Bangladeshis, I am from Bangladesh. With Indians, I am from India. With Pakistanis, I am Pakistani. With Iranians, I am Iranian. When I hear the word Minnesota, where I attended college and graduate school, I am suddenly from the Land of 10,000 Lakes and I begin speaking in my Minnesotan accent.

I use my multicultural, multilingual skills to my advantage. Customers feel a connection; I speak their language, know their homeland, can pinpoint their neighborhood. I have lived their childhood experiences, and that creates a bonding that personalizes our business relationship.

It is not easy to tell who I am by looking at me or listening to my speech. I have brown eyes and the light skin of an Iranian; my hair is not the black hair of most people from South Asia. In Bangladesh, where my family lives, Bengalis are astonished when I open my mouth and speak their language.

But back to my dilemma with the three engineers. I had no choice but to pull out my standard mini-speech, which I give when I absolutely must: In the nineteenth century, my Persian ancestors left Iran in search of business opportunities. They originally migrated to Mumbai (Bombay), Bangalore, Chennai (Madras), and Burma; from there, some moved on to Calcutta, Dhaka, and Chittagong. Most settled in Karachi after the war in 1970–71 that separated Bangladesh from Pakistan, but my family stayed in Bangladesh. Eventually, some of my relatives landed in Egypt, Australia, Singapore, England, Germany, Holland, Sweden, Canada, and around the USA. Most who are in America, like me, came to study and stayed to pursue professional careers. I am of the generation that moved to America, and so here I am.

My life has profited from my relatives’ “city switching” over the past 200 years. I have lived in different countries, learned different languages. Thanks to my multicultural upbringing, I appreciate all the cultures of South Asia — and now, for the past 16 years, America. My loyalty extends across political borders, and I am proud to be part of one and all at the same time.

But on that afternoon when the engineers confronted me, I unintentionally broke some bonds and portrayed myself as disloyal. We resolved the scheduling conflict — the original purpose of our conversation — but those three men would never see me in the same light again.

There are those who go through life being loyal to one basketball team, one fast food chain, and one nation. In Silicon Valley, my current home, South Asians commonly work together under one roof, but their fierce loyalties to their various homelands are right on the surface. I question that attitude. What is one, and why should one be loyal to only one team, chain, and nation? Why not two, or ten, or the whole planet? Shouldn’t we be captivated by the variety in life and want to expand our consciousness? It seems I have been molded into a multi-loyal patriot. My feelings for South Asia and Iran — and now the USA — flow as many rivers through a delta into the sea, making them one.

I do, however, have to avoid appearing disloyal when interacting with those who are devoted to one nation. I cannot feel what they feel, but it is my duty to be respectful.

For example, if I have a Bangladeshi customer, I do my best to be “in sync” with his or her patriotism and refrain from mentioning that I also love Pakistan, a country that fought a war with Bangladesh. Some of my Bangladeshi friends are bitter to this day because they were taught that the Pakistani army tortured their people. If I am reluctantly dragged into patriotically charged discussions, I do not run Pakistan down; instead, I focus on the positive outcomes for Bangladesh.

My complicated philosophy does put me in a difficult position. It makes me shy away from discussing politics and, of course, the past. I would much rather talk about culture — and the present, here in America. After all, we have no control over the past.

(Written in June 2005)