IDENTITy

“The Country of My Birth”

My grandfather seen here in the black suit with the garland. My grandmother stands next to him, carrying my youngest aunt who was about a year old then. My mother, all of six, is standing in front of her in the teeny tiny frock beside my other aunt, who was around three-years-old.

Many years ago, my maternal grandfather moved to Waterloo, Canada, to complete his PhD. My mother was about six- or seven-years-old then. She and her two sisters were made to leave the country of their birth – India; hot, rainy, warm – to Canada; cold, grey, snowy.

Something about that time made them all choose not to go back there. What’s more, if my mother had taken to that country and they had chosen to stay there all their lives, I might never have even been born, had my mother met anyone other than my father.

My very own country of birth might have been drastically different – and, thereby, my path in life.

“The country of my birth.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about this phrase recently. The country of my birth is in the passive voice. The birth happened to you in said country. You just happened to be in the country when you were birthed.

On the other hand, in the active voice, “I was born in…” is much stronger, more straightforward. Like you had a choice in the matter, or perhaps you were privileged enough to have had an in-vitro discussion with your parents, who chose for you.

But did we have a choice, really?

“The country of my birth” seems to give the landmark a modicum of importance along with the incredible moment of our birth. It is, after all, a legal marker of our nationality, and beginning of our destiny, at least till we make the choice to leave.

The country of your birth just happens to be, quite like how our births just happen to be.

So much for our self-importance with “I was born in…”