By Fiel Sahir
W
hen I was five years old, a supermarket saved my life. At least, that’s what my dad tells me when we talk about that dark time twenty-five years ago. He never knew if he was going to see me, my sister, or my mom again but a branch of the grocery chain called “Hero” lived up to its name.
We were in Indonesia at the height of national uncertainty. Corruption was rampant and the people were suffering. As a result, riots broke out throughout the country. One of the rioters’ goals was to release their economic and political frustrations similarly to how history had played out before them, by finding and attacking those of Chinese descent as scapegoats. Eventually, our family was swept up into the violence. A mob of two hundred men entered our town bringing panic and chaos, causing many to flee. All the white foreigners were evacuated by their embassies while locals were left to fend for themselves.
Despite there being only a handful of men defending the area where we lived, they defended valiantly. One day the mob approached the town defenders and at the last second turned around and ran in the opposite direction towards the supermarket called Hero. It seemed getting free things to take to their families was a better choice. It was at that moment the supermarket lived up to its name.
The riots abruptly ended after only three days, but the damage was done. Armed government personnel appeared and asked for protection money; suddenly there were no more issues. No one knew where they had been the past few days. But there was nothing you could do. This wasn’t new behavior and it continues to happen even today. We don’t know the real extent of the damage; but an estimated 168 women were raped, potentially one thousand people were murdered, and millions of dollars of damage was done throughout the country. The victims were mainly of Chinese descent, and anything they owned, from homes, businesses, to cars, were targeted.
When I asked my dad, “Why?” regarding the riots, the answer was simple: Because we’re Chinese. Which left me with the only possible remaining conclusion: I might as well be a punching bag. It didn’t feel like there was much left to reclaim.
Throughout the history of Indonesia, there has been a growing system of laws to control my ancestors. Under the Dutch colonizers, laws dictated where we could live and what we could do. In 1945, an independence movement was declared, and many Chinese descendants participated in it. Despite their contributions, in the 1960s the Indonesian government introduced more oppressive laws banning Chinese names, handwriting, dancing, and culture. Can you imagine going to jail for writing your name?
They decided to ban basically everything, except food, of course. As a result, there are generations of Indonesians who lost their connection to their ancestral homelands, language, and much of the culture. Eventually, these laws were repealed in 2002, but by then the damage had been done.
One day, there was a knock at the family residence. It was a city official who was there to enforce new orders from the government. People of Chinese descent were being “encouraged” to change their names permanently to Indonesian-sounding names. Overnight the Tan family was dubbed Sahir.
Our time in Indonesia came to an end as God called my dad to become a pastor in the United States, first in Oregon and later in New York City. Even though we were now on another continent, racism did not lessen. Try growing up in a New York City middle school, explaining why your face is “Asian” but your last name is Arabic with kids calling you Chino every day. Even ten thousand miles away, I was still a punching bag.
No matter how hard I tried to explain my Indonesian origins to those around me, my face erased my story. On the way home from school, a group of five boys came out of nowhere screaming “Chino” and started attacking a friend and me right in front of the Great Wall Supermarket next to school. This one did not come to my rescue.
It was through this hostile environment and the painful experiences my dad shared from his childhood that I rejected my being descended from the Middle Kingdom. At this point we were victims of racism across three generations in three different countries. I would sometimes go out in the sun to get tanner so that people would finally realize I wasn’t as Chinese as they thought. No matter how dark I became even if there was another Asian with me, I was the one who was singled out. “I’m not Chinese, I’m Indonesian!” I would argue. What I didn’t realize is that we were all right.
Various ethnic Chinese groups have spread throughout Southeast Asia over the centuries and some, including my mother’s ancestors, created a new fusion culture called Peranakan or Baba Nyonya. You might have actually come across the culture. The location of the Crazy Rich Asians mahjong duel where Rachel shows up her future mother-in-law is an example of Peranakan aesthetics. These ancestors constructed elaborate architecture with mother-of-pearl walls and made ethnic clothing that rival Joseph’s coat. There was tangible beauty in those who came before me that showed me that I don’t come from punching bags, but from those who made their mark wherever they went.
The good news is if your heritage isn't something you're completely proud of, you’re not alone. It is a process. As people of various groups living as minorities, such as Latinos, Indigenous Americans, and African Americans, we all must wrestle with our ancestry to some extent. Some of us may have been led to believe that we must mute our own culture in order to become sanctified and have an “objective” view of God and Christianity.
Through sitting at the feet of elders from various First Nations groups, I learned to see our unique cultures as a gift, not a pollutant. H.E. Leon Siu, the Minister of Foreign Affairs for the Kingdom of Hawai’i, reminds me that God is always at work first! He creates every ethnic group and language with a purpose and he is not far from us! (Acts 17:26-27). Cherokee theologian Randy Woodley reminds us in his book Living in Color that our culture and our identity is God-given. The color of our skin, the faces we have, and the countries we come from are far from accidents! When people tell us there is nothing good in non-Western or non-European traditions, “it keeps people from coming to Christ because it asks them to believe a lie about themselves,” Woodley writes.
Sometimes we’re told we don’t have a history, or that it doesn’t matter. Who you are matters to God. He chose your generational gifts and blessings that are unique to you so you may be a sweet fragrance for those that you encounter. Walking with God down the path of heritage reclamation has made me a deeper and truer Indonesian and believer in the gospel and Creator’s redemption for my people. Maybe the Holy Spirit is inviting you to do that through a visit to your local Asian supermarket. Who knows? Wherever this reclamation journey goes, you just might find a bit of God’s kingdom or a “Hero.”
Photo by Lachlan Rennie on Unsplash
Fiel Sahir is an Indonesian-American hailing from New York City where he lives with his wife, a Dominican-Nicaraguan and fellow New Yorker. After studying Classical Guitar and attending seminary, the Lord brought him to pursue a Masters of Social Work at Hunter College. He is passionate about helping youth find their emotional health and purpose in Christ ultimately leading to family restoration. He seeks to make the world a smaller place by sharing cross-culturally and learning from everyone. As a result he has fried his brain multiple times by learning foreign languages to talk with strangers and to reclaim his heritage.
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