By Aster Ren Kivy
I’m sitting in the food court of Garden City with two scoops of Movenpick’s Boysenberry ice cream when I find out my entire life has been a lie. And I do not use the phrase lightly.
It’s Father’s Day, and my family has just had dinner. I’m still in my work uniform, and my sister has driven an hour down with her partner to join us. We sit across the table from my parents, jumping across topics, until one tiny thing I say sends us down a spiral.
“People say I look more Chinese than Indonesian,” I say.
To which my mother replies, in Indonesian (because her English isn’t very good): “But you are actually Chinese.”
Have you ever had your entire life crumble before you, with a spoonful of ice cream still in your mouth?
Dramatic, I know. But appropriate. I believed I was full-blooded Indonesian, because nothing in my life has led me to believe otherwise. My family speaks Bahasa Indonesia. I was born in Kelapa Gading, Jakarta. I moved to Australia when I was two, and my entire childhood has consisted of celebrating Indonesian culture. And now I’m 20, learning that there isn’t a single drop of Indonesian blood in me. You’ll forgive my dramatics.
When I was younger, I recall my parents telling me our family was “Indonesian, with Chinese ancestors”. Which, to me, meant my great-great-great-great grandparents came from China, then assimilated into Indonesia.
The truth is, as I learned while my ice cream melted, my great grandparents moved from China. So yes, my ancestors, but not the generations-ago-Mulan-ancestors type I’d assumed. They found each other—other Chinese people in Indonesia—and married. Then my grandparents, all Chinese, also found each other and married. Then my parents…do you see the pattern?
As my mother phrased it (and I unfortunately have to quote her), our family “did not mix with the black, Muslim Indonesians.” I learned that the hostility between the two during my great grandparents’ time was severe—under the legislation on Chinese Indonesians in the 1950s, Chinese people were forced to change their names to Indonesian ones, amongst other things. And so, my family lost their Chinese names. And my parents never thought to tell their children until their youngest was already 20.
“The racism there is very intense,” my mother tells me, finishing her raspberry sorbet.
“Evidently,” I reply. “You just referred to actual Indonesians as ‘black, Muslim Indonesians’ with a scowl on your face. The racism is still rampant, Ma.”
The conversation then shifts elsewhere—but I spend the night circling back to the fact that we’re Chinese, and have been this entire time.
I’ve spoken about being Indonesian all my life. If you’ve ever had a class with me, you’ve probably heard me mention it. It’s a huge part of my identity—but now, not only has it been erased, but it’s been replaced with something I’ve been denying for just as long.
Do you know how many times someone has asked me if I’m Chinese, and I’ve replied, “No, I’m Indonesian”? The answer is, far too many times for someone who is, in fact, Chinese.
A large portion of my creative pieces are centred on the fact that I’m Indonesian. I’ve been flaunting a lie, and I’ve been blind to the animosity between my blood and actual Indonesians. Ignorance may be bliss, but realising your own ignorance is torture.
There’s a gnawing shame in my gut that grows each day since I’ve learned all this, and I’m at a loss of what to do. Yes, I’m Chinese by blood. But I don’t feel Chinese. Yes, I’m Indonesian by culture. But I don’t feel Indonesian anymore. And yes, I could say I’m Australian. But Australian doesn’t feel right either.
I’m an amalgamation of all three, but not in the “I’m all three at once” way. More so in the “I feel I’m none of them” way. And where does that leave my identity?
The day after my parents drop this bomb on me, I’m sitting in a 10am tutorial.
I’ve just barely gotten over this complete shift in my reality when my mother sends me a rough drawing of her family tree—complete with their Chinese last names. ‘The’ and ‘She’ on my grandfather’s side; ‘Lim’ and ‘Yo’ on my grandmother’s.
Suffice to say, I was not over it.
I spend the next half an hour ranting to my table because of how not over it I am. At first, I felt my reaction was overdramatic; I thought that gnawing feeling in my gut was just melodrama. But as I recount the previous day’s revelations to them, my friends tell me how “crazy” it is. I feel validated for my reaction, but at the same time, mortified at the reality of how much this affects me.
I always found it somewhat strange that my family was so different from other Indonesians. We were Catholic-Christian, not Muslim. We celebrated the Lunar New Year, and handed out red pocket money. We followed the Chinese zodiacs, and I called my older sister “Cece” instead of “Kakak”. I chalked it up to our Chinese ancestors, and marvelled at how strong our Chinese heritage was, to last through so many generations.
As I ramble to my table, one of my friends remarks on just that: “Yeah, I found it a little weird when you first told me, but I just didn’t question it.” Nor did I. I probably should have.
Now, every time I introduce myself, I squawk. I hesitate. I used to simply say, “I’m Kiv, an Indonesian who grew up in Australia.” But now I’m not sure what to say.
I’m Kiv, a Chinese but Indonesian-cultured person who grew up in Australia, so technically Australian-cultured but also not really, and only Chinese by blood, not by culture, but also very heavily Chinese in some cultural aspects, and not at all Indonesian, but still Indonesian in other aspects—nice to meet you.
What a mouthful.
ARK is a Chinese but Indonesian-cultured person who grew up in Australia, so technically Australian-cultured but also not really, and only Chinese by blood, not by culture, but also very heavily Chinese in some cultural aspects and not at all Indonesian, but still Indonesian in other aspects. Check out their fantasy audio drama podcast @worthyourweightinemeralds on Instagram!
