Diaspora.
The quintessential, unifying experience of being part of a minority group is living through an incident you struggle to define then one day discovering that there is not only a pre-existing term for it, but a community of people who understand.
Thus, so was my journey with diaspora.
For the purposes of this article, we can take diaspora to mean the scattering of people from their ancestral or established homelands. This extrapolates slightly from its original meaning of the dispersion of Jews outside of Palestine or Israel (which deserves its own analysis).
It's important to note that people immigrate for a multitude of reasons: education, work etc. The movement of people is natural and, as the world grows ever more interconnected, inevitable. However here, the movement of large groups or communities is caused by an external factor and this movement is in many cases unwanted, for example those fleeing conflict or climate refugees.
In our post-colonial world discussing any African/black history without the mention of slavery is unimaginable and whilst the African American and Caribbean diasporas are very real and ongoing, they're not my story to tell. For those interested in further reading, might I suggest 'The souls of black folk' a collection of essays by the sociologist, socialist, historian and pan-Africanist civil rights activist William Edward Burghardt Du Bois.
There are those who would challenge my use of diaspora in the context I choose to apply it, and I welcome the criticism, as my aim is not to foster pity or guilt but to start a conversation I've never heard be explored in depth.
My experience with the African diaspora as a second-generation immigrant is one of exclusion. Born in England to Zimbabwean parents, who came to the UK as economic immigrants, I enjoy a certain amount of privilege. Simply holding a blue passport instead to a Zimbabwean one grants me access to three times as many countries, visa free. And whilst I have grown up eating beans on toast and I'll be the first to belt Sweet Caroline if given the opportunity, I've also been asked the question "but what are you really?" too often to pretend that I'm truly acknowledged as English. Not that it's an unfounded question, someone looking at me is right to assume I'm not of English ancestry and in most cases I'm sure the question is asked out of genuine curiosity. But there that feeling is again - exclusion - otherness.
Understanding diaspora is important when discussing identity because one's identity is shaped by your upbringing and background. For those raised in a land that is distinctly not your own, your cultural links become strained. My colonised tongue cannot correctly pronounce the clicks of Ndebele vernacular; westernised tastebuds that do not like the taste of traditional foods and hands that couldn't prepare them anyway. And this sentiment is one applicable to many poc: the intense isolation of being an outsider amongst your own people. Instead of occupying a dual citizenship we float in the realm between not quite enough for either. Because when I do visit Zimbabwe, it does not feel like going home; I stand out, and with my distinctly British accent and the financial implications that carries in a third world country, I'm not safe alone. I'm othered.
So here I am, mourning a connection I've never had.
And in an attempt to 'reconnect with my roots' I listen to Burna boy and Wizkid's music and I take every opportunity to talk to my grandmothers even if the only things I can confidently say back are "I'm good" and "school is fine".
The African diaspora for me is not an experience of loss but a gnawing longing and desire to be whole. But it most prominently manifests itself as fear. The fear that should I have children one day, I won't be able to provide the same upbringing my parents did for me.
Knowing that my traditions, my customs, my culture may very well die out with me well, it's something I try not to think about.
But outside of my own personal worries, understanding diaspora and people's connections to their background is useful as communities become increasingly multicultural. Education has far been proven to be the best way to counteract ignorance. This awareness can manifest as small as altering how we speak to others all the way to impacting policy makers, think protected characteristics.
And for those who see elements of their own experience in mine, let this be a reminder that no matter how far removed, you are still entitled to your culture.
For William Edward Burghardt Du Bois' work, The Souls of Black Folks:
This piece was written by student writer, Halle
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