I am a Tamil woman. My ancestors hail from Tamil Nadu. My parents were born in what was known as Malaya during the British colonization of Southeast Asia. I was born in what became known as Singapore post-independence.

Growing up in Singapore, I was told that I was Indian. I was taught that being Tamil was the equivalent of being Indian.

After moving to Canada, I still thought of myself as Indian. However, over time I realized that I was not taken seriously as a diasporic Indian because I did not speak Hindi or Punjabi. I was regarded by the Indian diaspora as being specifically South Indian or Tamil, but never holistically a member of a greater, pan-Indian community.

I recall two incidents in particular. In the first, a self-identified South Indian woman’s response, upon learning that I do not understand Sanskrit, was, “Oh! I keep forgetting that you are from Singapore and you are not really Indian!” 

The other incident occurred in my early 20s while backpacking in India to unearth my roots. I was asked by an educated, retired Punjabi Sikh army officer, “You’re Tamil? Then why are you in the Punjab – you should be travelling in South India.” Through these experiences, I gradually learned to identify as Tamil before identifying as anything else, be it Canadian or South Asian or South Indian.

Then came the nuances of being a Tamil woman of South Indian descent born in Singapore, as opposed to a Tamil woman of Sri Lankan descent born in Canada. I’d memorized this detailed response to the simple question of, “Where are you from?”, usually followed by other Tamil people’s surprise at my Tamil speaking proficiency. I was always prepared to explain to Tamils of Sri Lankan descent and to Tamils from South India that, yes, I am also one of you – just not from Sri Lanka or India.

This identity politics has been a part of my life since I left Singapore at the age of 8. Growing up in Vancouver, the Tamil community was tiny. I questioned its ability to survive into the future. We were the same 6-10 families who met for special occasions every year. And while we had grown to love each other more as family than as community, we were too small to sustain our unique identities as Tamils of South Indian descent.

I’ve seen my family and family friends try to belong to a greater, pan-Tamil community. I’ve wanted this very much for myself as well. Even so, attempting to belong has not been a simple task. 

I recall a story my father shared with me about having to earn his place among the Sri Lankan Tamil men with whom he worked in Canada. They saw him as an Indian Tamil who could not be trusted because he wasn’t really one of them. Eventually, they grew to be good friends. But how sad it was that he was regarded as an outsider at all until he could prove himself worthy of that community.

While I want to build and belong to a greater Tamil community with other diaspora Tamils, I have also experienced what it is to be an outsider. This is because my family’s reasons for immigrating to Canada were nowhere near as horrific as the experience of war and of having our homeland taken from us. 

As much as our hearts ache and bleed, most Tamils outside of Sri Lanka can never truly know this experience. Consequently, a part of me wonders if not being able to relate to this experience makes me less of a Tamil in the eyes of a Tamil sister or brother who has lived through this, or whose family has lived through it. 

Similarly, am I less of a Tamil because I was born in Singapore instead of being born in Tamil Nadu, to parents who were also born in Singapore instead of Tamil Nadu?

Another illustration of how difficult it can be to belong is this: I recently learned of a publication called Tamil Guardian. It is an excellent source of information on things that are happening in Sri Lanka and in Tamil communities around the world – I highly recommend subscribing.

According to their description on Instagram, Tamil Guardian provides “Updates from the Tamil homeland and around the world.” From what I gathered through the articles, the homeland was regarded as Sri Lanka. As a Tamil woman who is not of Sri Lankan descent, where do I belong in this narrative of a Tamil homeland? 

If I define myself as a Tamil when other diaspora Tamils see me as being almost Tamil, or not Tamil enough, what does this mean for my continued cultural survival as a Tamil? What do I pass on to my children about who is or isn’t a diaspora Tamil, and who can or cannot belong to this community? What do I tell them when they ask me why this is so?

When I navigate the reality of identity politics through these questions, I sometimes feel as though I am walking on thinning ice. I am straddling a crack that divides:

a) The reality of defining and identifying myself as a Tamil woman, and

b) The reality of my citizenship within a greater Tamil community with the power to validate my identity, by deciding whether or not I belong.

At this juncture, my hope is that I never fall through that crack and drown in an empty chasm of never belonging anywhere.