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Earthquake Unifies Indian Americans

By Raj Jayadev/PNS

The work we do and the money we collect for the earthquake victims in Gujarat may appear futile and horribly inadequate. But in trying to help out in a time of despair, desis (Indian Americans) have bridged internal differences once thought irreconcilable.

The taxicab driver has finally connected with the dot-com CEO, who sat in the back of his cab without saying a word for months. The families who attend the Hindu temple in Fremont, Calif., now share a bond with the Sikhs going to the Gurudwara, 30 miles away in San Jose — both are sending prayers back home.

Most inspiring are the relationships growing between the generations of the desi community. I am what some Indian elders call an ABCD — American Born Confused Desi. I am unsure how much of me is Indian, and how much is American. I have typically Dravidian dark skin and sunken eyes, I speak some Kannada (Southern Indian language), and I love spicy food. But I was born in Milwaukee, Wis. (the Cheese State), I eat meat, and I suck at math.

That’s an ABCD — constantly in a state of cultural schizophrenia. Uncertainty, a question-mark identity, is typical among younger desis. In our zeal to fit in, we run fast and far from the restrictions of the old Indian customs. The older generation, unable to understand our withdrawal from traditional culture, casts us off as lost in our Western ways.

This has left Indian America in a vulnerable state. Despite our much-lauded success in business, technology and education, we are so entrenched in our generational positions we cannot communicate with the intimacy of other communities.

Attempts to unite the old and new worlds have been painfully forced and ineffective, but the Gujarat earthquake has united us as family. Part of the reason is that almost all desis, young and old, are either immigrants or first-generation American. This means we all have relatives — even if known only through pictures, letters and poor phone connections — in India.

Any conceptual distance younger desis might have had from India quickly vanished when the news struck. “Did you call Aggie (grandmother)?” I asked my father, when I heard of the quake. We rarely talk about India — the one he knows from memory, the one I know only from imagination. He told me that everyone was safe, and not to worry.

We exchange reports from our very different Indian circles. He tells me his Kannada-speaking group is considering canceling their annual meeting and sending the money they would have raised to the relief efforts. I show him e-mail from the young desi listserv I follow. They give notice of reliable organizations my father’s group could contribute to.

We compare ways of getting aid across the Pacific to Gujarat. Below the surface of our conversation, hidden, was my attempt to find insight into how to deal with the disaster. My privileged American life gives me no way to understand what “natural catastrophe” really means.

Other young desis are obviously having similar intergenerational conversations. When we talk over coffee about the earthquake, we use the proverb-filled language of our mothers and fathers, casually translated to English. “Only God knows why.” “The most important thing we can do now is pray.”

In turn, people in the older generation, less structured and organized in their networks, look to young desis for direction in aid delivery. The professional associations formed by their sons and daughters have become community support groups. American Physicians of Indian Origin, South Asian Public Health Association, Alliance of South Asians Taking Action, and other desi organizations have become trustworthy vehicles to send relief to Gujarat.

As desis have searched for comfort and guidance from one another, we have proven that we are more than just parts of a whole. We are generations who can come together as a community.