Life between two worlds
Home » Blog » Ali Shariat » Life between two worldsLike many migrant youth, Iranian-Kiwi Ali Shariat asks "Who am I?"
Outside the UN offices here in Tehran is a little guard box staffed by members of the diplomatic police. The men who stand guard are not professional soldiers or police; they are conscripts who are doing their 18 months' compulsory military service.
Iran is no exception in having a rule that all males must complete a course of khedmat, or national duty. In fact, many liberal countries have this, from Norway and Sweden in Europe to the island nation of Singapore, not far from New Zealand. Even Iran’s good friend Israel has this law, only they extend it to women as well (Iran use to do this before the revolution too).
In Iran, it is not until a man has completed his military service that he will be given a passport, a magical document that provides the opportunity to escape the frustration that has become Iran (if any country will open its doors to them). Once completed, they are able to hold an official job and conduct life in an ordinary manner.
The thing is, the fact that I have grown up in New Zealand and have a New Zealand passport has meant that I am able to avoid these complications. Because of this, I was able to avoid having to spend 18 months of my life cramped up in a guard box somewhere in a city backstreet, or waking up at 5am to do military drills.
This luxury did come at a cost—I had to pay US$10,000 for it—but I was only able to this because of the fact that I lived in New Zealand and hold a New Zealand passport.
Often I feel a sense of guilt as I walk pass the guard box on my way in and out of work. I feel even worse when I see a tired, uniformed youth in the street. He is about the same age as me. His hair is shaved, his skin darkened and course from the sun and the scuffmarks on his leather boots show the signs of the days labour. I feel I have cheated. Why should I be special? I wonder, “Am I a fake Iranian?”
This is a question that has for many years perplexed me. It is not so much a question of my affection for the country but a sense of identity in general. I know that I am not alone in wondering this; it is a question that most expatriated youth face when they grow up in a land not of their heritage.
Military service aside, being able to claim that I am a New Zealander brings so many basic niceties I often take for granted. It was the fact that I have a New Zealand passport that allowed me to travel to Cairo recently, something my fellow Iranian compatriots cannot do without having to overcome almost insurmountable obstacles, because Iran and Egypt have very frosty political relations.
Even in a humorous sense, my friend Birsha and I remember with amusement how while on a trip around Europe a couple years ago I was quick to claim that I was Iranian. However, as soon as I was about to be searched outside a synagogue in Budapest by an angry looking security guard, I was quick to revert back to being a Kiwi.
I guess that I also often ask myself the same question in reverse: am I a fake Kiwi? I mean, I’m proud to be from a place that regularly punches above its weight (especially with the recent All Whites crusade) and is world-renowned for its innovation and natural beauty. But there is the unavoidable fact of my Iranian ancestry, Islamic faith, and the strange comfort I feel when speaking Farsi even though I am so unfamiliar with it.
Recently I attended a social gathering at the house of an employee of one of the foreign embassies in Tehran. There were people from most of the Western embassies there. I guess in their eyes, my connection to the event was that I was working at the UN and, in a sense, am a Kiwi expat. It was good to be surrounded by these people and I felt at home and relaxed in this 'Western world'. But at the same time, I had a sense of being untrue to myself. I live in a relatively raw suburb of western Tehran, but the house the gathering was at was in one of the most expensive suburbs in Iran and seemed a world away from what the rest of the Iranians my age experienced. Was I faking it? And if so, was I faking the Iranian or the Kiwi?
Thinking cynically, I know many Iranians would act just the same had they been given the same opportunities, and I doubt many would have given up so much to come back, given all the risk. I also know that many New Zealanders who have dual citizenship are just as quick to utilise the advantages provided by their British, EU or US passports. But this cynicism does not answer the underlying question.
Perhaps there is no real answer to my questions. My sense of identity is something that will evolve and develop with time, and is something I must make my own. But I guess what makes it hard is the lack of continuity: I have to be like some sort of actor, constantly switching between characters, and unable to settle on just one. This feeling is exacerbated by living in this time where people are trying to create a wedge between my two worlds, and it is proving more and more difficult to serve as some sort of bridge and point of understanding.
Like I say, I know I’m not alone in having this feeling, especially as New Zealand itself is arguably currently in a search to define its own national identity. Without wanting to sound disingenuine, I’d like to know what other people reading this blog think of questions like these, and how you make sense of things through the fog.
Sun February 13, 2011 @ 08:12 PM
