<TABLE id=msgUN border=0 cellSpacing=3 cellPadding=0 width="100%"><TBODY><TR><TD id=msgUNsubj vAlign=top>Then why siam citizenship?
Coffeeshop Chit Chat - Indian FT: I'm proud to be a SG PR woh
</TD><TD id=msgunetc noWrap align=right>
Subscribe </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE><TABLE class=msgtable cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 width="96%"><TBODY><TR><TD class=msg vAlign=top><TABLE border=0 cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 width="100%"><TBODY><TR class=msghead><TD class=msgbfr1 width="1%"> </TD><TD><TABLE border=0 cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0><TBODY><TR class=msghead><TD class=msgF width="1%" noWrap align=right>From: </TD><TD class=msgFname width="68%" noWrap>CPL (kojakbt22) <NOBR>
</NOBR> </TD><TD class=msgDate width="30%" noWrap align=right>9:01 am </TD></TR><TR class=msghead><TD class=msgT height=20 width="1%" noWrap align=right>To: </TD><TD class=msgTname width="68%" noWrap>ALL <NOBR></NOBR></TD><TD class=msgNum noWrap align=right> (1 of 5) </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></TD></TR><TR><TD class=msgleft rowSpan=4 width="1%"> </TD><TD class=wintiny noWrap align=right>23274.1 </TD></TR><TR><TD height=8></TD></TR><TR><TD class=msgtxt><TABLE border=0 cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 width="100%"><TBODY><TR><TD>Oct 25, 2009
THE EX-PAT FILES
</TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- headline one : start --></TD></TR><TR><TD>Label pains
</TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- headline one : end --></TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- Author --></TD></TR><TR><TD class="padlrt8 georgia11 darkgrey bold" colSpan=2>By Rohit Brijnath
</TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- show image if available --></TD></TR><TR vAlign=bottom><TD width=330>
</TD><TD width=10>
</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
<!-- START OF : div id="storytext"--><!-- more than 4 paragraphs -->Today is my birthday. I am 47. Every day I discover new things. Three weeks ago I was told a landlord wouldn't rent a flat to me because I was Indian. She hadn't even met me. Really, I'm not a bad guy.
This hasn't happened to me before. But I know about discrimination. All Indians do. In Delhi, a friend found it hard at times to get accommodation. Everything would go fine, then he would say his name. Javed. His identity as a Muslim revealed, the landlord would find an excuse to back out of the deal.
It is appalling, then and now, but it's passing. Because kindness eventually blunts anger. In my hunt for a flat, so many strangers befriended me, went out of their way, put up with my questions.
The people I met were Chinese, Indian, Christian, Muslim. I am only identifying them by race, by religion, so you know it was a wide variety. Fact is, that's not how I see them or how they saw me. They saw me as a human being. A person. A tall, chin-less man with ugly sandals.
I like that. The best teacher I ever had, a man with a grey beard and a heart as big as Africa, told me this all the time. He happens to be my father. Early on he taught me the ugliness of prejudice and the beauty of acceptance. Not tolerance, but acceptance. There is a difference.
But it's a struggle. Prejudice is not in our DNA, it is acquired, it creeps up on us, infects us, gets slipped too casually into conversation. To say I'm above it is to imply a false perfection, but it is to be abhorred and to be fought.
It is not enough for me to say, I don't care who you are, what religion, colour, sexual orientation, but it must be lived every day. That is my challenge. To remember what the theologian Denise Ackerman once said: 'We dare not forget that inclusion, not exclusion, is the way of grace.'
Borders have been hurdled by the Internet, cheap travel and cable TV, but difference is a harder obstacle. We know more, but knowledge doesn't always bring understanding.
Separateness still runs strong. Educated people still ask me if I mind that my daughter is to marry a white Australian. I still haven't understood the question.
There are always people who want to define you, label you, put you on a shelf with the rest of your kind. But what if you are not just one kind, but many?
I fit into Singapore, which is why I became a PR. I have fitted in most places because I want to. I obey laws and drink every local beer. It's a start. I don't feel too awkward, but all through my life it has made some people awkward.
I lived in Kolkata, in West Bengal state, for 30 years, but because of stints in schools far away I didn't speak the local language. So people said I wasn't a real Bengali, just a North Indian living in Kolkata. When I went to Delhi, in North India, I was considered to be from from Bengal and not a real Punjabi.
When I went to Australia, I was viewed as an Indian. I became an Australian citizen in 2007, but to many Australians I still look like an Indian, which these days is reason enough for some to want to beat me up in Melbourne.
When I tell some Indians I am now an Australian, they say all Australians are racists. Then they tell me what I think about India doesn't count because I'm not In-dian.
I tell you, people have a lot of problems with me. But my identity is secure, I have few conflicts, I am at peace. I am a foreigner to many but learning to be at home in many lands.
My Indianness is in my bones, my colour, my DNA, my food, my swearing, my jokes, my music, my history, my cricket-watching. It's not a disease, it doesn't go away, it can't, I don't want it to.
But I am proud, too, of being Australian, of its 'G'day mate' civility, its ability to not discriminate between plumber and chairman, its political incorrectness, its openness of land that warms the soul, its sporting insanity.
I am proud, too, of being a PR in Singapore, of this land's food courts, its inventiveness, its kindness to outsiders, its following of the law, its can-do spirit, its cleanliness.
I know this can be confusing, but just look at me the way I see myself in the mirror. Tall, chin-less man with ugly sandals.
The writer, a senior correspondent with The Straits Times' Sports Desk, has been in Singapore for two years.
[email protected]
</TD></TR><TR><TD> </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE><TABLE border=0 cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 width="100%"><TBODY><TR><TD class=msgleft width="1%"> </TD><TD class=msgopt width="24%" noWrap>
Options</TD><TD class=msgrde width="50%" noWrap align=middle>
Reply</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
</TD><TD id=msgunetc noWrap align=right>
THE EX-PAT FILES
</TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- headline one : start --></TD></TR><TR><TD>Label pains
</TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- headline one : end --></TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- Author --></TD></TR><TR><TD class="padlrt8 georgia11 darkgrey bold" colSpan=2>By Rohit Brijnath
</TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- show image if available --></TD></TR><TR vAlign=bottom><TD width=330>
</TD><TD width=10>
<!-- START OF : div id="storytext"--><!-- more than 4 paragraphs -->Today is my birthday. I am 47. Every day I discover new things. Three weeks ago I was told a landlord wouldn't rent a flat to me because I was Indian. She hadn't even met me. Really, I'm not a bad guy.
This hasn't happened to me before. But I know about discrimination. All Indians do. In Delhi, a friend found it hard at times to get accommodation. Everything would go fine, then he would say his name. Javed. His identity as a Muslim revealed, the landlord would find an excuse to back out of the deal.
It is appalling, then and now, but it's passing. Because kindness eventually blunts anger. In my hunt for a flat, so many strangers befriended me, went out of their way, put up with my questions.
The people I met were Chinese, Indian, Christian, Muslim. I am only identifying them by race, by religion, so you know it was a wide variety. Fact is, that's not how I see them or how they saw me. They saw me as a human being. A person. A tall, chin-less man with ugly sandals.
I like that. The best teacher I ever had, a man with a grey beard and a heart as big as Africa, told me this all the time. He happens to be my father. Early on he taught me the ugliness of prejudice and the beauty of acceptance. Not tolerance, but acceptance. There is a difference.
But it's a struggle. Prejudice is not in our DNA, it is acquired, it creeps up on us, infects us, gets slipped too casually into conversation. To say I'm above it is to imply a false perfection, but it is to be abhorred and to be fought.
It is not enough for me to say, I don't care who you are, what religion, colour, sexual orientation, but it must be lived every day. That is my challenge. To remember what the theologian Denise Ackerman once said: 'We dare not forget that inclusion, not exclusion, is the way of grace.'
Borders have been hurdled by the Internet, cheap travel and cable TV, but difference is a harder obstacle. We know more, but knowledge doesn't always bring understanding.
Separateness still runs strong. Educated people still ask me if I mind that my daughter is to marry a white Australian. I still haven't understood the question.
There are always people who want to define you, label you, put you on a shelf with the rest of your kind. But what if you are not just one kind, but many?
I fit into Singapore, which is why I became a PR. I have fitted in most places because I want to. I obey laws and drink every local beer. It's a start. I don't feel too awkward, but all through my life it has made some people awkward.
I lived in Kolkata, in West Bengal state, for 30 years, but because of stints in schools far away I didn't speak the local language. So people said I wasn't a real Bengali, just a North Indian living in Kolkata. When I went to Delhi, in North India, I was considered to be from from Bengal and not a real Punjabi.
When I went to Australia, I was viewed as an Indian. I became an Australian citizen in 2007, but to many Australians I still look like an Indian, which these days is reason enough for some to want to beat me up in Melbourne.
When I tell some Indians I am now an Australian, they say all Australians are racists. Then they tell me what I think about India doesn't count because I'm not In-dian.
I tell you, people have a lot of problems with me. But my identity is secure, I have few conflicts, I am at peace. I am a foreigner to many but learning to be at home in many lands.
My Indianness is in my bones, my colour, my DNA, my food, my swearing, my jokes, my music, my history, my cricket-watching. It's not a disease, it doesn't go away, it can't, I don't want it to.
But I am proud, too, of being Australian, of its 'G'day mate' civility, its ability to not discriminate between plumber and chairman, its political incorrectness, its openness of land that warms the soul, its sporting insanity.
I am proud, too, of being a PR in Singapore, of this land's food courts, its inventiveness, its kindness to outsiders, its following of the law, its can-do spirit, its cleanliness.
I know this can be confusing, but just look at me the way I see myself in the mirror. Tall, chin-less man with ugly sandals.
The writer, a senior correspondent with The Straits Times' Sports Desk, has been in Singapore for two years.
[email protected]
</TD></TR><TR><TD> </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE><TABLE border=0 cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 width="100%"><TBODY><TR><TD class=msgleft width="1%"> </TD><TD class=msgopt width="24%" noWrap>
