On Identity

 

When I first settled in Rwanda in 2008, one of the first questions people of my parents’ generation would often ask upon meeting you at social gatherings (mostly weddings) was, “Iso ninde?” (who is your father?) or “Uri uwande?” (“whose are you?”).

Rwanda is a relatively small country, and within the same social circles people will often know each other, or at least know of each other. If you mentioned your parents’ names, chances were that the person asking would recognise them and would therefore be able to identify you through them. Effectively, you were your parents’ son, for better or worse. If your family had a good name, then you enjoyed the social capital that came with it — and if not, that too followed you.

Conversely, when you become a parent, people start calling you Papa so-and-so or Mama so-and-so, using the name of your child. So these days, I am my sons’ father ( I have two sons).

As I have grown older, I have realised that identity does not stop shifting. Depending on the stage of life and the setting, people may know you through your parents, the school you attended, your profession, your children, or any number of other markers of identity.

Recently, I was with a group of friends and someone asked how we would introduce ourselves if we were not allowed to mention our jobs. Many of us were stumped. Once you leave school and begin to build a career, your identity quietly becomes tied to what you do. Some professions even come with titles before your name — Doctor, Professor, Pastor — which only reinforces this. Even those without formal titles, like lawyers, sometimes insist on being called Counsel so-and-so.

But there is a fragility to that kind of identity.

It can be quite unsettling once you lose the job to which your sense of self was anchored. The phone stops ringing. No one is seeking your expertise. The invitations to conferences and workshops, where you were one of the panelists, begin to dry up. Who are you then?

Society does not always make this easier. People can be made to feel lesser for saying they are a stay-at-home mother or father. Our identity and even our sense of success are now so closely tied to what we do, and to the value the world attaches to it.

Beyond professional identity, there are also parts of identity that come into sharper focus when we change our environment.

Now that I live and work in Nairobi, when meeting new people I will often introduce myself as Rwandan, and they will usually share what they know or love about Rwanda or Rwandans. Yet while living in Rwanda, my identity was more likely to be tied to my family or my profession.

Similarly, if you were to move to a European or Asian country, you would probably become much more aware of your Africanness — because you would be part of a minority, and that is how many people would primarily see you.

I am also reminded of a T-shirt I often see in tourist shops in African countries I have visited, with the words: “My name is not Mzungu.”

The phrase alludes to how white people are commonly referred to in many African countries. The term itself is usually not pejorative, but I imagine the T-shirt came from the frustration of someone who wanted to be known by their actual name, rather than by a broad label attached to their race.

So who are you?

Are you your age, your job, your family, your tribe, your nationality, your religion?

I suspect you are probably all these things and more. But depending on the season and setting, one part of your identity may become more visible than the others.

Perhaps the challenge is remembering who you are when those labels change.