Romanticizing Home
Interview by Nikki Celis
As diaspora kids, we’ve all probably heard the same noise about going home: “It’s where you can find yourself” and “Get in touch with your roots.”
Having recently visited the Philippines, I’d be lying if I said I felt some profound awakening or unlocked a missing part of myself. Rather, it felt like I simply resumed a life I once lived, and that’s that.
Sounds blasé, sure. But the idea of “homecoming”—whether you’re born in Canada or migrated at a young age—plays a big role in how we build our identities. We use memories, nostalgia, and curated, often essentialized aspects of our roots to define who we are. This often leads us to idealize and romanticize what we imagine home to be.
Annum Shah, whose short stories appear in ISSAY! issues 02 and 03, is an award-winning author who also recently returned to Pakistan last year.
Over an evening call, Shah and I dive into the realities of going back to our ancestral homelands, what “home” really is, and what it means to connect with our roots. Is building our identity one that’s shaped by nationalism? Or is it something more personal?
This conversation challenges the often-essentialized idea of homecoming as a cure-all for third-space identity crises. We explore our nuanced experiences of navigating our hybrid identities, the cultural dissonance we face, and finding our roots in personal connections rather than geographical ones.
✚ ✚ ✚
The following conversation has been edited and condensed for clarity.
Nikki: So when it comes to talking about home, I’ve mentioned to people that I’ve been meaning to go back to the Philippines for a long time. I haven’t been back for 18 or 20 years. People come to me and say things like, "Oh, I’m so excited for you to go back. I'm so excited for you to discover part of yourself." To be frank, it really annoys me because I don't really operate that way.
So when people ask me how my experience was, [all I can say] is that I pressed pause when I left 18 years ago and pressed play again when I got back.
Annum: I think the idea of going somewhere to discover yourself has always kind of been like a bit... I don't think that actually happens when you travel.
Nikki: When I flew back to Cebu and went back to my little subdivision out of the mountains, everybody acted like I’ve always been there. They’d say, “Nikki is Nikki,” and that’s it. I’ve never really tried to idealize going home—maybe that’s part of my trauma or something. I find that romanticizing or idealizing something too much sets a weird expectation that doesn’t really feel fulfilling.
Annum: I think people have this really romantic notion that you're gonna go back to your ancestral homeland and have some sort of epiphany about who you are. I don't know if that happens. You just go, and like you said, you press pause and then you come back and press play again.
Nikki: It’s very “live laugh love.”
Annum: Yeah.
Nikki: It's a very white person thing.
Annum: I'm gonna say—and I don't know if this happened to you—but when I graduated, a bunch of the rich white kids went to Thailand to go discover themselves and it just felt like such a...
First of all, it's such an exoticization of another culture to go somewhere and expect that you're gonna have some sort of breakthrough about yourself or who you are. But I think more than anything, what happens is that you learn a bit more starkly about how you interact with the world around you, especially when you're by yourself.
Nikki: I think the biggest difference between how we go home and when white people go abroad is the concept of home. For them, the American or Canadian identity is central to their experience. They find themselves by feeling alienated, whereas we’re constantly feeling alienated all the time, navigating majority spaces.
Annum: Do you consider it home though? Is it home to you?
Nikki: I have a hard time grasping home. When it comes to home, I don’t find it as a fixed place. The collective idea of home within the Filipino diaspora is very fixed. It focuses on one area of the Philippines that doesn’t necessarily apply to my identity. When I went to Manila, I didn’t connect with it as much as I did going back to Cebu or Mandaue, which is where we ran off to after getting chased out in Bicol.
Annum: Yeah.
Nikki: More of my lived experiences are there. The language and culture are entirely different. It reinforced the idea for me that Filipino-ness or the idea of home in the Philippines is very [diverse, but also] unstable and fragile. You can’t just define it by a single place or experience.
Annum: I don’t think of it as home either. I never actually lived there. I’ve gone a handful of times throughout my life, so it’s more of an ancestral connection rather than somewhere I’d consider home.
There's a disconnect there because culturally, I am Pakistani and there are aspects of it that I really do identify with. But it doesn't feel like home for me. It's definitely not home. It's like I go back and I feel a connection to my family and to, very specifically, my family's history there, especially on my mom's side–but I don't feel a connection to the culture of Pakistan as it's experienced by people who live there.
Nikki: How many times have you been back to Pakistan?
Annum: About five or six, with pretty big gaps in between. I went for the first time this time after 12 years.
Nikki: How was it?
Annum: This time was weird because every other time I’ve gone, I had cousins around. Now, nobody from that part of my family lives there anymore. And so everyone was actually visiting from somewhere else. My grandma had come from Australia, an aunt from Canada, and an uncle from Japan. Everyone was from somewhere else and we were kind of just meeting in this house that my grandparents bought and that they lived in.
So it was different being there with the adults… grounded in one physical space which felt different. [From] connecting with my grandma who has dementia and trying to connect with her in different ways, hearing her story and what she remembers… I think I felt much more of an affection for that house itself. Whereas in the past, I'd kind of wondered why we were still hanging on to it when nobody lives there and it's just being rented out.
Nikki: Right.
Annum: Now I feel like I kind of understand why they're keeping it. My mom's side of the family has experienced a lot of displacement within Pakistan because of religious persecution and moving around and that sort of thing. And so I think when you have to forcibly move around, a physical home becomes very important.
Nikki: So rather than connecting with a national identity, it was more about understanding your family more?
Annum: Yeah, because I don’t connect to a national identity. I don’t know much about Pakistani culture outside of what’s specific to my family. When I meet cousins who grew up in the West, there’s that shared sense of alienation. It’s like we’re all navigating this third space together.
Nikki: In your community, is there a common desire to go back home?
Annum: No, I think living abroad gives you an elite status. Pakistan is falling apart economically and socially, so many people want to get out. It’s almost a status symbol to have grown up in the West. But it creates a complicated relationship with the idea of home.
Nikki: It’s part of making it. Because back at home, unless you’re already born into a middle-class family, it’s hard to escape your lived reality.
Annum: Yeah.
Nikki: When I told my parents I was going back to the Philippines, my dad tried really hard to come with me because his family was worried I’d get robbed or murdered. I went back solo, and nothing happened. It shows how much fear first-generation communities have about home. They carry those fears even if the realities have changed.
Annum: Right. For me, there’s less of a desire to go back because I don’t have close family there anymore. It’s like the connection to the place fades over time.
“ it’s such an exoticization of another culture to go somewhere and expect that you’re gonna have some sort of breakthrough about yourself or who you are.”
Annum: Do you think it’s necessary to go back home to build your identity?
Nikki: I don't think so. The diasporic experience is excluded from Filipino discourse. When you go back, you're taking in a culture that's foreign to you, influenced by public figures on TV, songs your mom sings, and things you read in the library. Most people don't engage in traditional practices, like tattooing baybayin or wearing traditional garb, unless they're part of niche communities. I talked to a prominent figure in Manila who said most Filipinos don't fuck with Filipino Americans. They come back thinking they'll save the community without understanding what's really going on. Locals feel patronized and look down on them.
I get it though. In most cases, Filipino Canadians/Americans construct their identity to fit into culturally white supremacist institutions, removing themselves from raciality. I think the idea of going home and romanticizing it is a way for us to try to build our identities after breaking away from mainstream consciousness.
But we end up grasping at culturally indigenous values without doing the work and research, which can often lead to appropriation. There's over 180 ethnic groups in the Philippines, who's to say that what you're appropriating is really part of your culture?
Annum: I guess it depends on what you want from your culture or what you're looking to connect to. I don't know if going back made me feel more connected to Pakistani culture. It made me feel more connected to my family. There's superficial things that I enjoyed like buying traditional jewelry and stuff like that, but I don't know if it made me feel more Pakistani.
Annum: Do you feel the desire to go back?
Nikki: I want to go back in October, but it’s so expensive. How about you?
Annum: No. Like yeah I would, but…
Nikki: Really?
Annum: It's just not safe. Actually, it probably is fine.
Nikki: For sure.
Annum: But yeah, part of it is also just that I don't have close family there anymore. There's nobody to visit, and I don't feel strongly about seeing the cities or towns enough to go on my own. Even this time, I went because my grandma was there. I'd thought maybe it would be nice to go to Pakistan at some point, but I would have never made an immediate plan to go if it weren't for my grandmother being there.
Nikki: Yeah.
Annum: Certainly not by myself. There are certain places I've traveled to that I would genuinely plan to visit again. But if it wasn't for the family getting together or something like that, I don't see myself going back anytime soon.
Nikki: That's fair.
Annum: I think I just don't feel a strong connection to the land.
Nikki: Do you feel any sort of sense of shame or guilt by saying that?
Annum: No, I don't because I think I've always been somewhat detached from it. If it's not in front of you, it doesn't exist.
Nikki: I think that's perfectly okay. People really kind of guilt trip you into wanting to feel a certain way, right?
Annum: Yeah, and then it's just like, we both grew up in Calgary. [When you’re] surrounded by a bunch of white kids calling you a “dirty Paki” and telling you that you smell like curry, you reject that part of you. For the longest time, I didn't even want to tell people I was Pakistani. I used to just cringe...
Nikki: Yeah.
Annum: I was fine speaking Urdu with my parents, but wearing traditional clothes or anything like that? I didn’t want any part in that and I didn’t want to wear it in public. I guess I felt like I was two different people—dressing up in traditional clothes to go to the mosque or somebody’s house.
But if we had to stop by the grocery store on the way, I would not want to leave the car. It takes a really long time to move away from that and stop hating yourself for being brown.
Nikki: Right.
Annum: I'm much more okay with it now, but it was a big disconnect during my formative years. I developed a detachment. I cherry-pick things I like—the outfits, the jewelry, the music—but do I want anything else to do with it? Not really. I'll eat the food, but there's definitely a detachment there for me as well.
Nikki: Would you say that's like an aspect of internalized racism or is that just something else?
Annum: I think it used to be, for sure. I don't see it as that anymore. Maybe in certain instances, it's a remnant of that shame, but now it's less so. I'm much more okay with being Pakistani, and I can admit that publicly.
Nikki: Yeah, for sure.
“the idea of home in the Philippines is very [diverse, but also] unstable and fragile. You can’t just define it by a single place or experience.”
Annum: I think it's more just... I identify with being [a] third-culture [kid] more than anything. You cherry-pick aspects of both identities.
Nikki: Do you feel like you have a generalized South Asian diaspora identity?
Annum: Yeah, maybe. But I feel like I’m not thinking about my identity as much anymore. It’s more natural now. I’ve come to terms with it in a way that feels more authentic.
Nikki: How would you define your identity then?
Annum: I don’t know these days. Do you feel like you hit 30 and had a crisis?
Nikki: Yeah, going home feels like maybe I should build something there. But it’s more about finding belonging rather than wanting to be more Filipino. I just want to build something for my mom.
Annum: Right, it’s personal rather than cultural. Maybe I’m just compartmentalizing different aspects of my identity now.
Nikki: Is that how you approach your writing, compartmentalizing your roots?
Annum: I don’t know if I compartmentalize it. [When I wrote about] going back to Pakistan again after 12 years, it was like being in my childhood memories. [It] all feels like a dream, like something I did at one point in my life. I think you said it perfectly at the beginning about pressing pause on your life.
I feel like those two months, I pressed pause and I got to know this very physical space of my grandparents’ house and with my grandmother who’s losing her memory.
Nikki: Interesting.
Annum: So, in the past year, I spent a lot of time thinking about memory and the way that memory works and what we’re carrying forward.
Nikki: Speaking of memory, I think one of the biggest ways people define homecoming is through nostalgia. They use it to recreate a place or a sense of being. Do you think that plays a big role for you in terms of creating or further defining your identity?
Annum: I don’t know if [it shapes] my identity, but I do feel that I’m a deeply sensitive person and nostalgia is part of that sensitivity.
“I identify with being [a] third-culture [kid] more than anything. You cherry-pick aspects of both identities.”
I think people maybe don't expect that from me, but I do feel sentimental about certain things. For instance, random objects I brought back with me from the house where I grew up. I'm nostalgic about the last time I was in Pakistan and what was going on in my life at that time—the cousins who were there and such. So yes, going back home was very nostalgic.
Nikki: But do you think it has shaped your identity?
Annum: I don't know if it has shaped my identity necessarily.
Nikki: Doesn't nostalgia play a role in building your identity? You know, the things you cherry-pick to define yourself?
Annum: Sure, that's a good question. I feel nostalgic more about people and the memory of being there. When I say I cherry-pick aspects of culture, it’s more about material things—like wearing traditional clothes, traditional jewelry, or eating the food. And when I say I feel nostalgic about my grandparents' house or something like that, it's more about the memory of it and the memory of the people there.
Nikki: So, with your latest piece, what story did you want to communicate?
Annum: I was thinking about mirrored experiences between generations and intergenerational trauma. Immigration is a form of trauma, and as children of immigrants, we bear the responsibility of that sacrifice. It’s about understanding and processing that legacy.
Nikki: From his POV, it’s not romanticizing, but baggage he has to carry.
Annum: Exactly. It’s a sacrifice and a freedom. Being separated from cultural expectations gives you more leeway to explore different things. It’s a double-edged sword.
Nikki: Does your mom ever talk about going home?
Annum: Yeah, she had a magical childhood in the mountains of Northern Pakistan, close to the Himalayas. They called themselves “pahari vale” which means "mountain folk," but they were displaced because of religious persecution—their house burned down, and they were never able to go back home again. They moved around Pakistan, and pretty soon after, she got married and immigrated to Canada.
Maybe my notion of home is also informed by my mom's experience. I've talked to her about it, and she has said that home is not a fixed place for her. She has moved around a lot, and for her, home is more about her people than a physical space. It's an intangible feeling rather than a specific country or city.
Nikki: Right.
Annum: Do you feel similarly? Because your mom has a similar story really, where she’s been displaced.
Nikki: Yeah, I'd say so. I mean, I think my mom's life got interrupted a lot when she was young and I guess that informs a lot of how I perceive my identity and how I approach Filipino culture, too. My experiences, and the ones shared with me, are rooted in trauma, displacement, and even a rural identity. That's why I really embrace that sense of "ruralness" or "probinsyano-ness."
Annum: Yeah, it’s interesting that both of us feel strongly tied to our mother’s experiences. It’s similar for both of us.
Nikki: I feel lucky because I want to explore this more, but it makes me sad that my extended family or my cousins aren’t as interested in exploring this. It’s perfectly okay to feel scared of being too assimilated, but it shows that building a shared identity really comes from building your own identity and finding community with those who share similar values.
Annum: Yeah, having that connection to even one person makes such a difference. If my mom hadn’t made the effort to teach me about my culture, I probably wouldn’t have pursued it on my own. That connection was important.
Nikki: Shout out to moms.
Annum: For sure.
