I have lucid recollections of the day it all came to a head. I doubt I’ll ever forget some of the stubbornly persistent, yet irrelevant details of it. Anas Hamidi writes about being a third culture kid and the discrimination he faced and the eventual acceptance of his identity.
[Editor’s Note: the work “paki” is a term typically directed towards people of Pakistani descent mainly in British slang. It is an offensive slur that is often used indiscriminately towards people of perceived South Asian descent in general]
Picture this; three skinny Indian kids sitting, scared and confused, in a crappy Mazda 323 in the parking lot of just another unremarkable block of flats in Brickfield road, Overport. Now, add about ten other kids outside the car, banging on the doors, demanding that The Skinny Three leave the car and face them. The word, ‘Paki’ is casually tossed around to help create the right ambiance. One of the kids outside is Tariq, a former class-mate of two of the kids inside.
They’re probably thinking about how this could all have been avoided if they hadn’t been so keen to catch up with an old mate. Eventually, The Skinny Three accept a gracious invitation and leave the car. The two sides then decide to have an impromptu Dragon-ball z-style fighting tournament. (You’re welcome to disbelieve this. I would too). A fighter from each side squares off against one from the opposing sides. The rest of the kids huddle around them and chant encouragement. After two and a half fights, they hear a car approaching and the crowd disperses. The Skinny Three return to the car, where they continue to wait for one of their number’s parents to come pick him up. You get the picture.
Now, let me chuck a bombshell at you. I have the same revelation as your favourite inspirational Ted Talk: one of those kids was me. The Skinny Three is completed by my brother Hammaad and my best mate at the time, Zaheer. The other kids, like us, were of Indian descent but the key difference was that my family were immigrants and theirs had been in South Africa for generations.
I suppose we should have seen it coming. The situation had been festering for some time by then, but I guess we were too optimistic and too eager to be liked to even dream about it. Each day after school, we would climb up four flights of stairs, dreading hearing the word ‘paki’ or some jibe about DVDs, cell phones and cheap haircuts. One of them would almost always oblige. It seemed like they were working in shifts. We usually played them off jokes, but they cut deep each time.
I once became so agitated that I subjected myself to the indignity of showing one of them my birth certificate to prove my South African-ness. The document was promptly dismissed as a fake. Too easy.
I was obsessed with being South African, abandoning my language and my Kurta Salwar to be more like everyone else. I defiantly and very loudly abandoned my mom’s Indian team and my dad’s beloved Pakistani team to declare my eternal affection for the Proteas. Enquiries about ‘Where you from, bhayya?’ were becoming less and less frequent. I was proud of having purged any remnants of the slight accent I had as a kid. I was within touching distance of the dream but every now and then, some discerning jerk would sniff out the “Pakiness” and I’d be furiously lurched back into my desi abyss.
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The Sweet Taste Of Pakistan In Fordsburg
It took me an age to realise what a complete idiot I was. It will probably take even longer for me to be comfortable with my weird, fragmented identity. By the time I had reached this realisation, it had become too late. I had pushed so hard, attempting to fall off the fence into the South African side that I had strayed too far away from the Indian and Pakistani sides. I am no longer fluent in my own language and am completely unable to integrate because I’ve missed out on the culture. Na idhar ke rahe, na udhar ke (Neither here nor there) and it is very much my own fault.
The first time I went to Fordsburg after moving to Joburg, my mind was completely blown. Fordsburg is what your favourite hipster spot thinks it is: a glorious explosion of authentic culture in dilapidated surroundings where the flea market is the heart and soul of the area. It’s that but without the gentrification, exorbitant prices, carefully cultivated ‘distressed look’ and most importantly; dreadlocked white dudes.
Fordsburg is a humming, bustling location, dominated by foreigners, mainly from India and Pakistan. Fordsburg is where you’ll hear a hapless maulana on a bad recording, trying to tell you why you’re going to hell as he struggles for some room in your ear because Mariah Carey and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan are already competing for the same space. It’s where you can buy a quarter chicken tikka with naan, salad and chips for twenty rand. It’s where you can treat yourself to a shawarma at a Syrian take-out after haggling with a Somali lady for some religious gear that has an Adidas logo on it.
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How Fordsburg Has Evolved From The Gold Rush To Now
It was beautiful. Here were a group of people who embraced what I had run away from all those years ago. They were living their own lives without wasting time on such petty matters as assimilation and they created a vibrant community while they were at it. My smiling little heart grins a little brighter each time someone initiates a conversation with me in Urdu. I am very much down for that kind of profiling. The last time I went there, I experienced true happiness as I was sitting in the balcony of an Egyption Hookah lounge, hearing little fellow first-gens jabbering away in Punjabi as Kisore Kumar crooned about paper boats from a neighbouring flat. I understand that I will always be on the outside looking in but even those little slices of second hand experiences are good enough for me.
Anas Hamidi is a 28-year-old aspiring writer who still dreams of captaining Manchester United. He hopes to achieve both those dreams by the end of the year.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policies of The Daily Vox.
