My upbringing in Canada was a living paradox; vividly remembered but felt only as a distant, dreamlike haze. Over time, it feels deeply surreal, knowing that the entire milieu of my youth was birthed from the chaos of the May 1998 civil unrest in Indonesia.

Unbeknownst to me, I was thrown into survival mode at 11 years old. Before permanently moving to a completely polarized culture with nothing but my rudimentary English, I subconsciously relied on my Indonesian collectivist mindset. I thought conformity and total assimilation were the ways to go. And so, I was mentally set on fitting into Western society, however oblivious I was to the challenge. In hindsight, the adjustment period seems overwhelming, but I don’t remember being visibly troubled. I just don’t think I ever realized the weight of it all. I was unbothered, and I stubbornly carried on. 

Things that were alien to me were slowly becoming second nature; peers with names I could barely pronounce then, nationalities I’d never even heard of until I came to Canada, and TV shows and commercials that I still connect with to this day. In the process of integrating into this new culture, I was consciously drifting away from my roots. I felt at the time that my own country couldn’t provide what I needed the most: a safe haven. And with a naïve perception that everyone must love their homeland, I fought with the guilt of not feeling that way about mine. In depriving myself of my own identity, something in me died. Yet, luckily, I kept my native tongue intact despite moving at such a young age.

Through my teenage years and twenties, the question of my identity would come up here and there. It’s a harmless question, but unpacking the history and nuance of it all felt slightly complex. My nationality and mother tongue are Indonesian, I am of Chinese descent (though none of my grandparents spoke Chinese), and my thought process is almost entirely Western. This internal disconnect made a simple question feel heavy, leaving me struggling to say out loud, with full pride, that I am Indonesian. 
I felt caught in the middle: the girl who looked Chinese but spoke no Chinese, and the Indonesian who didn’t look Indonesian. Without being 'pure blood,' I believed I didn't have the standing to claim that identity as my own. There were times I wished I had just one identity, if only to make things easier. Belonging to a collective seemed like a way to feel anchored, I thought. 

This internal friction gradually faded upon my return to Indonesia. I slowly began to cross paths with people who celebrated my culture and colourful history. Their genuine interest was a beautiful gift, mirroring the gentle pride that was already taking root as I fully embraced my identities. And somewhere along the way, a quiet revelation unfolded: I learned that my father’s DNA consisted of half Chinese and half Indonesian. It comforted me in ways I can’t explain. This validation dissolved the persistent feeling that I was somehow a fraud. I am part Indonesian, by blood. 

Through the years it took for my quiet confidence to blossom, I realized I could no longer deny myself the very history that gave me life. I love that my precious heritage is one that prioritizes family, leaves traces in this world through vibrant linens and embroideries, and carries a deep, unspoken reverence for our ancestors. I finally found a sense of home, and the resulting reconciliation is overwhelmingly beautiful.