Before we begin, let's remind ourselves of an incident that took place a few weeks ago. It was the second week of Wimbledon, and Maria Sharapova, in response to a journalist's question, was on record saying she had no idea who Sachin Tendulkar was.
Cue outrage.
Within hours, #whoismariasharapova was trending (allegedly) worldwide, while her Facebook wall was splattered with abuse from Indians who saw her statement as an inexcusable affront to a national icon and therefore, by extension, an insult to all of India.
It is difficult to try and deconstruct what was going on, but given that Sharapova is a Russian tennis star who grew up in Florida, she may not have watched cricket matches growing up or – dare I say it – even at all. Expecting her to know who Sachin is is like asking an Indian whether they know who Wayne Gretzky is. I'm happy to be proven wrong, but I'd say about 9 in 10, assuming they've never lived in Canada, wouldn't have a clue. (The only reason I've heard of the ice-hockey legend is because I had a Canadian friend at university who basically thought Gretzky was a re-incarnation of Jesus. True story.)
In berating Sharapova for her lack of knowledge about Sachin, we were in fact displaying our own ignorance of her and the global market for tennis as a sport (as compared to cricket). I believe this is called Irony. However, this was conveniently set aside in the orgy of nationalistic sentiment that played out for days after the event.
A few days prior to this, in the middle of another major sporting event, the FIFA World Cup, I remember having a discussion with a friend about how one particular team resolutely refrained from singing their national anthem before the game. Not a single one of them sang it, pretty much without exception. On the other hand, their opponents appeared to be loudly singing theirs; the tears flowed as they meekly surrendered to the emotion of the moment.
There seemed to be two (and only two) explanations for this:
1. The first lot did not know the words.
2. They knew the words but were choosing not to sing.
As someone who grew up singing the Indian national anthem (in school, college, even the occasional movie theatre) I found myself thinking this was a bit strange. How do you not know your own national anthem? And even more inexplicably, how could you know it and choose NOT to proudly sing it, on a global stage, at what was surely the pinnacle of your professional career?
Upon reflection, I realised I was making a somewhat simplistic connection between singing the anthem and possessing a sense of patriotism/affection for your country. There were, in fact, many other possible reasons why those footballers were choosing not to sing – perhaps they were singing loudly in their heads (it's been known to happen), perhaps they were trying to keep their focus on the game, or perhaps they just couldn't sing (which is why they decided to be footballers instead). Whatever the reason, it was their choice, and I was wrong to judge them.
It struck me that both these incidents (and the discussions that followed) really both boil down to the same thing – that complex, ineffable beast – Identity.
In the first case, some of my fellow Indians appeared to think their ‘Indian-ness’ was being trampled on by an apparently clueless tennis player. In the second, I was questioning a football team's patriotism for not singing their anthem aloud.
Both reactions are, of course, absurd. I might know the national anthem, but to claim it makes me more Indian than someone who doesn't is inane. If knowing facts or 'things' about your country is the criteria, what's the minimum number of answers required to pass, and who decides what questions to ask? How many princely states did India have? Who are the Chief Ministers? Governors? How about all the past Prime Ministers? (extra points for the right sequence). Anyone?
As someone who was born in one part of India, grew up in another, went to college in a third part, and has now a spent a third of his life entirely outside it, identity is something I have always grappled with, in some form or another. When I was younger, I felt like the constant movement had left me rootless; adrift in international waters, with no sense of home to clutch onto and no familiar shore to swim towards. Today, I know I am all the places I have ever been in, and all the people I have had the privilege to meet and know. And for the most part, I am incredibly grateful.
I also know that I am by no means alone in feeling this way. Modern travel and technology have enabled people to move without limits, constantly evolving and re-inventing themselves in a manner that would have been considered witchcraft just two generations ago. More people are living and working outside of their home country than at any other point in history. 'Global village' and 'Citizen of the world' are the new mantras, and most people tend not to think of identity merely through the prisms of nationality, language, or even race.
This doesn't mean the search within each individual does not continue, and that feelings don't manifest every once in a while in myriad, unexpected ways. The 'Who Am I?' question is probably as old as humanity itself. All I can hope for is that the next time I have a conversation about it, I can have it with a bit more understanding, and a great deal more grace. Without those, I'm as bad as the #whoismariasharapova brigade.
Cue outrage.
Within hours, #whoismariasharapova was trending (allegedly) worldwide, while her Facebook wall was splattered with abuse from Indians who saw her statement as an inexcusable affront to a national icon and therefore, by extension, an insult to all of India.
It is difficult to try and deconstruct what was going on, but given that Sharapova is a Russian tennis star who grew up in Florida, she may not have watched cricket matches growing up or – dare I say it – even at all. Expecting her to know who Sachin is is like asking an Indian whether they know who Wayne Gretzky is. I'm happy to be proven wrong, but I'd say about 9 in 10, assuming they've never lived in Canada, wouldn't have a clue. (The only reason I've heard of the ice-hockey legend is because I had a Canadian friend at university who basically thought Gretzky was a re-incarnation of Jesus. True story.)
In berating Sharapova for her lack of knowledge about Sachin, we were in fact displaying our own ignorance of her and the global market for tennis as a sport (as compared to cricket). I believe this is called Irony. However, this was conveniently set aside in the orgy of nationalistic sentiment that played out for days after the event.
A few days prior to this, in the middle of another major sporting event, the FIFA World Cup, I remember having a discussion with a friend about how one particular team resolutely refrained from singing their national anthem before the game. Not a single one of them sang it, pretty much without exception. On the other hand, their opponents appeared to be loudly singing theirs; the tears flowed as they meekly surrendered to the emotion of the moment.
There seemed to be two (and only two) explanations for this:
1. The first lot did not know the words.
2. They knew the words but were choosing not to sing.
As someone who grew up singing the Indian national anthem (in school, college, even the occasional movie theatre) I found myself thinking this was a bit strange. How do you not know your own national anthem? And even more inexplicably, how could you know it and choose NOT to proudly sing it, on a global stage, at what was surely the pinnacle of your professional career?
Upon reflection, I realised I was making a somewhat simplistic connection between singing the anthem and possessing a sense of patriotism/affection for your country. There were, in fact, many other possible reasons why those footballers were choosing not to sing – perhaps they were singing loudly in their heads (it's been known to happen), perhaps they were trying to keep their focus on the game, or perhaps they just couldn't sing (which is why they decided to be footballers instead). Whatever the reason, it was their choice, and I was wrong to judge them.
It struck me that both these incidents (and the discussions that followed) really both boil down to the same thing – that complex, ineffable beast – Identity.
In the first case, some of my fellow Indians appeared to think their ‘Indian-ness’ was being trampled on by an apparently clueless tennis player. In the second, I was questioning a football team's patriotism for not singing their anthem aloud.
Both reactions are, of course, absurd. I might know the national anthem, but to claim it makes me more Indian than someone who doesn't is inane. If knowing facts or 'things' about your country is the criteria, what's the minimum number of answers required to pass, and who decides what questions to ask? How many princely states did India have? Who are the Chief Ministers? Governors? How about all the past Prime Ministers? (extra points for the right sequence). Anyone?
As someone who was born in one part of India, grew up in another, went to college in a third part, and has now a spent a third of his life entirely outside it, identity is something I have always grappled with, in some form or another. When I was younger, I felt like the constant movement had left me rootless; adrift in international waters, with no sense of home to clutch onto and no familiar shore to swim towards. Today, I know I am all the places I have ever been in, and all the people I have had the privilege to meet and know. And for the most part, I am incredibly grateful.
I also know that I am by no means alone in feeling this way. Modern travel and technology have enabled people to move without limits, constantly evolving and re-inventing themselves in a manner that would have been considered witchcraft just two generations ago. More people are living and working outside of their home country than at any other point in history. 'Global village' and 'Citizen of the world' are the new mantras, and most people tend not to think of identity merely through the prisms of nationality, language, or even race.
This doesn't mean the search within each individual does not continue, and that feelings don't manifest every once in a while in myriad, unexpected ways. The 'Who Am I?' question is probably as old as humanity itself. All I can hope for is that the next time I have a conversation about it, I can have it with a bit more understanding, and a great deal more grace. Without those, I'm as bad as the #whoismariasharapova brigade.
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