When Florentino in Garcia Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera defines himself as the “man who dresses in the dark”, he thinks of his uniqueness, of how fifty years of unconsummated love was the theme of his life. In Les Misérables, when Jean Valjean bares his chest with the imprint of his prison ID number and shouts, “I am 24601!”, he is declaring himself a convict: the identity he shares with other convicts—the dregs of society. When Theresa May, the prime minister of Britain, asserts that if you are a citizen of the world, you are a citizen of nowhere, she is thinking of her political identity, and presumes that we all share with her the same political ideals.
Our sense of identity is never singular nor uni-dimensional but instead is complex and plural, just as we inhabit multiple roles as citizens of our country, members of our gender, or products of our education. Similarly, our identity is not fixed but always mutating, just as our interactions and relationships with others change and mutate. Thirty years ago, I was a different person, and the Philippines was a different country.
This calls to mind an experience I had some twenty-five years back when I heard of a vacancy at the human resources department of an international development bank in Manila. I thought I was qualified for the job, but I was also aware that there were some informal guidelines in the recruitment procedure of the bank in order that a member country did not get over represented amongst its professional staff. Luckily, I was also holding a passport of a country that was under-represented—Germany. So, I impulsively decided to leave London and to re-try my luck in Manila. A German senior manager was very generous in granting me an appointment so I could discuss my potential application with him. Despite this, he dissuaded me from applying for the position, explaining that simply because I held a German passport did not make me a German. “Germans,” he said, “are born, not made.” It took me a long time to understand that statement.
Some basic facts about German nationality law includes citizenship granted by blood, not by birth, and not by acculturation. Apparently, as recently as a couple of decades ago, naturalised Germans were comparatively few and far between. Thus, for example, Turks who had been born and had lived in Germany for generations did not automatically become German citizens. (Significant reforms have been and are currently being enacted by the German Bundestag.) This created a largely homogenous society. The strong national identity of the German people is reflected in the supposed quote from the famous German painter Georg Baselitz, even after he had moved out of the country. “What I can never escape,” he said, “is Germany, and being a German.” I found this quote so remarkable that I copied it when I saw it emblazoned on the wall during the exhibition on Germany: Memories of a Nation, at the British Museum in 2014.
The exodus of over a million immigrants from troubled countries between 2015 and 2017 will feasibly lead to issues of enculturation. But I do believe in what German Chancellor Angela Merkel has promised, “We can do it,” although I am curious to see what Germany will be like a generation from now and how heterogeneous German society will have become. Will their national identity likewise mutate, to more easily allow Germans to be “made” and not necessarily be “born”?
Along with these national identities, we can assess our multiple “other identities” as we play different roles in our lives—as spouses, parents, children, women or men, doctors or teachers. We can now look at the complexities and malleabilities of these identities.
How Is Identity Formed?
Eric Ericson, a prominent American developmental psychologist, in his seminal book Eight Ages of Man, writes that our first categorisation of “Self” comes during our teenage years. As a matter of fact, our main task during our adolescent years is to develop our self-identity, or we risk role confusion and will not progress to the next formative stage. The development of this identity comes from the influences of our parents, siblings, peers, friends, media, school, books. What influences each of these parties exerts is open to debate, although Ericson emphasises the relationship with our peers in identity formation. Through them we develop and then recognise our orientations and value systems.
I remember when I was at that age, my classmates and I “discovered” a little hump in the backyard of our school. I was a member of a group of perhaps five girls and we called this hump “The Grade 7 Hill”. Each recess time, on a rotation basis, one of us would run out of the classroom to guard our hill, lest others occupy it before us. Initially, I wasn’t particularly keen on the idea because it was unshaded and hot, and I didn’t see the point of staying there eating our sandwiches when we could be more comfortable in one of the covered swings. But when it was my turn, I did my own guarding, and before long, felt equally strongly about our exclusive ownership of the hill. In fact it was I who suggested to the group that we put up a “No Trespassing” sign. Unfortunately, the Grade 7 Hill was given up when we five girls were punished by a nun for straying too far from the school, and for often coming in late after recess. What I am trying to point out here is that, through our peers, and in our desire for harmony and conformity, we are often willing to embrace irrationality— a part of what psychologists label “groupthink”. Through this mechanism, we imbibe the world view of our group.
Aside from the influences of our peers during the period of our identity formation, there is also the part played by our personal geography: the everyday familiarity of the place where we were born and raised. This gives us a sense of place—a solid ground on which to stand, so to speak—and these memories form an integral part of the person that we become. This phenomenon is expanded by environmental psychologists who study identity and place. Nonetheless, this sense of place—the home, the city, the region, the country—is starting to erode as geographical mobility becomes more widespread.
In order to preserve this feeling of rootedness, I have read of how some geographically mobile parents map out strong experiences tied to an identified place where they would like their children to form attachments. One American couple living in France, but wanting their five-year-old daughter to identify with America, took her back to visits in the US during the 4th of July military parades and air shows, to Macy’s to experience Christmas, or to Disneyworld in Orlando for a couple of days with Mickey Mouse.
Likewise, on a government level, increasingly multi-ethnic UK protects itself from too many incursions from foreigners by taking domicile issues as important considerations for such policies as taxation and inheritance. Whilst ordinarily resident in the UK, my tax adviser was careful to remind me to keep documents proving that I never lost ties with my home country—airplane ticket stubs to show I had made visits to my home country, subscriptions to Philippine newspapers or magazines, bank accounts in Manila, references to a second home or a grave plot there, etc. As non-domiciled, I am expected to retain my bonds with my homeland—my “foreign-ness” so to speak, eventually planning to go back home within a given time period. To encourage me to do just that, I received tax breaks. (Again, these tax advantages are gradually being phased out amidst the complaints of the UK-domiciled, mostly ethnic British citizens.)
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For some others, the desire to know their ancestors is a precondition to forming their own concept of self. Their loyalty goes to their ethnic group, their tribe, their clan, their family. Many people assert that it is the knowledge of our family history and our descent that provides for a better adjusted and higher self-esteem. Knowing our heritage and our traditions provides us with a connection to our past. We learn from the wisdom of those who have come before us.
Paul, who is now twenty-nine, is Klaus’s and my only child. We adopted him, raising him since he was ten months old and have loved him dearly. He knows that. However, anticipating identity problems when he reached puberty, I consulted clinical psychologists. Most clinicians will readily admit that, for adopted children, issues relating to their selfhood remain with them for a long time—sometimes for life. Along with feelings of rejection by
their biological parents comes a disconnect with their past, not knowing the traditions of their biological ancestors. These in turn result in a sense of being unmoored, an issue that could become dysfunctional if they fail to develop the necessary confidence to face life’s challenges.
Especially in the Philippine environment, adopted children often carry an additional burden of being treated as though they are not real members but only some sort of an appendage to the biological members of the family, and thus not deserving of equal treatment. It is for this reason that I encourage Paul not to hide the fact that he is adopted in order to show to others—as well as to himself—that it does not affect his sense of self-worth.
The tracing of the family tree for many of us is nothing more than a desire to know and to understand our personal histories. Some cultures have, in fact, ritualised this need through the worship of their ancestors whom they believe will protect their households. Many animistic peoples hold this belief to the present day.
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The new study of epigenetics does point to the probability that the history of our ancestors as far removed as several generations, whilst not altering our DNA, is inherited in some ways. The psychologist Anne Schützenberger formulates what she calls the ancestor syndrome. “Genes,” she says, “have memories and the lives of our grandparents—what they saw, what they ate—can directly affect us decades later. They pass on survival skills that stand the test of time, giving us an unconscious sense of identity.”
In summary, we have our innate tendencies, the unique personalities we have developed over time through past choices, influenced by a number of factors that interact with each other in varying degrees. Together, they form our sense of who we are, our personal identity. As if these were not enough, we have multiple identities as we play out our major roles in life. Still further, how we construct meaning in our lives, how we look at ourselves and our relationships with the world, are forever in a state of flux amidst changing circumstances, and indeed through changes within ourselves. Identity, we realise, is difficult to pin down.
When I think of what defines me, there are a number of factors, which I claim play a major role in the formation of my sense of identity. For the purposes of this book, I have chosen three major factors: (1) that I was born Filipino, (2) that I am a woman, and (3) that I was raised a Roman Catholic. I will discuss my religious identity in the next chapter. The first two factors are discussed below.
Nationality: Born Filipino
What is a nation? What is a nation-state? What is a country? Are one people a clan, a tribe, or a nation? What does sovereignty mean? How important is citizenship? What is the difference between patriotism and nationalism? What to do in a paradoxical age where our economy has been globalised, but our political systems have remained national?
These are common questions that have acquired new meanings in the 21st century. Now, we are not so certain anymore what each of these words mean. For example, I was recently completing a disembarkation card as our airplane was preparing to land. I pondered what to put under “Nationality”. I think what was meant by the question was “Citizenship” as these forms were for political purposes, to which I must answer “German”. If it is true that, traditionally, Germans have defined themselves by their language and common ancestry, I don’t belong to the German nation at all! All I can muster now is pidgin German, thus a pidgin understanding of the German world, whilst possessing not a single drop of Teutonic blood in my veins.
In this century, we come up with new definitions to words mostly coined in the 19th century or even earlier. Historically, for example, patriotism was defined simply as love of country. The writer George Orwell referred to it as a devotion to a particular place. Nationalism—patriotism writ large—was supposed to seek to preserve, strengthen, and unify the country’s culture. Thus were created myths and other symbols of loyalty that bind a people together such as flags and anthems, whilst becoming less inclusive than the more innocent patriotism. Still, the idea of a nation as a people with a common heritage has been with us for a long time.
However, the political unit called “nation-state” was popularised only in the 19th century. Prior to this, nations were subsumed under empires—from the empires of China to the Romans, from the Persians to the Ottomans, from the Austrians to the British. These empires were multi-ethnic and mostly multi-lingual. By the 18th century, however, the British had politicised the term, celebrating their country as it sought to colonise far-flung places. The 19th century culminated in nationalism becoming one of the most significant political and social forces in history. Newly formed nation-states such as Germany and Italy marched to the songs of nationalism against other equally nationalistic states. It was not only the Germans who sang Deutschland, Deutschland über alles (“Germany, Germany above all”).
Einstein once said nationalism is an infantile disease, mankind’s measles. President Macron of France has gone further, asserting, “Nationalism kills!” There is nothing natural about the idea of the nation. It was shaped as a result of political maneuverings, fed through the construction of elaborate myths, with boundaries of the nations drawn from the blood of wars.
It is generally agreed that blind nationalism caused countries to sleepwalk into two world wars.12 The result has been the worldwide cataclysms in the 20th century alone, when well over a hundred million people died!
To liberals such as myself, the contemporary idea of nationalism is inherently divisive, searching for differences amongst peoples instead of highlighting similarities. It maintains an attitude of us-against-them. If you are a nationalistic Filipino, you must be anti-American. When I first came back after graduating in the US, I was accused of being pro-American, as though being pro-American precluded me from being pro-Filipino at the same time. Yet, if the Philippines is a one nation state, the Muslims in Mindanao are not part of our nation at all!. They are another nation, another people, and we are against them. Likewise, if you are a nationalistic Briton, you must be a Brexiteer. A renewed spirit of nationalism is spreading the world over.
Nationalism espouses a doctrine of a separate state for every nation—an antithesis of the multi-ethnic empires that preceded nation-states. Hence, it tends to oppose multiculturalism, to marginalise minorities who live within the borders of the nation-state, and to keep these borders as impregnable as possible; in the case of the US, perhaps even building a physical wall in its border with Mexico. This has caused intractable problems leading to years of violent conflicts between the Palestinians and the Israelis; between Catholics and Protestants during the time of the “Troubles” in Ireland. It lies behind the oppression of the Muslim Rohingyas in Myanmar by the Buddhists; or of the Buddhists by the Chinese in Tibet. This is not to mention the current mayhem in the Middle East between the Shias and the Sunnis, state militarism against the Kurds in Turkey, and so on. Currently, there are reactionary and far-right forces dividing the European Union. Yet, I don’t know of any “nation” which is not home to at least two different but coexisting cultures.
National Identity
Growing up in the mid-20th century, children like me were completely sold on the idea promoted by 19th century writers and intellectuals. I remember when I was about eleven years old, my English teacher told us pupils to memorise a short poem and recite it in front of the class. I chose Sir Walter Scott’s:
Breathes there a man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well,
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
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-The wretch, concentrated all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.
No wonder I felt great pangs of guilt and shame. I justified myself: how could I feel for my homeland when, aside from my classmates with whom I socialised only in between classes, I didn’t have sufficient social interactions with my peers. How then was I to feel what it was like to be a Victoriahanon or a Negrense (resident of my home province)?
Additionally, in the late 1950s, the Philippines was a newly-independent country. We used school curricula still patterned after those used during the American occupation, and our history books were written from an American point of view. We were taught American history before Philippine history. Our American history teacher had a galvanising presence, recreating great battles by marching up and down the classroom exclaiming, “Don’t shoot until you see the white of the eyes of the British!” Our Philippine history teacher, on the other hand, was a drone, reading direct from our textbook—and during a graveyard hour of early afternoon to boot. I memorised all the capitals of the fifty American states, including the two new ones, before the capitals of the Philippine provinces. I could more readily name the thirteen American colonies that rebelled against Great Britain than the first eight Philippine provinces that revolted against Spain. We were taught that, in 1902, the American forces finally crushed the “Philippine Insurrection”. (History textbooks written later called this the bitterly fought “Philippine—American War”).
When Turtles Come Home Page 15
