September 10: Identities

Warning: these are ramblings. . . very little coherent thought here.

Nothing like the Melton Foundation to get you thinking about identity. What you consider yourself, does it matter, how can you be that thing and yet not be placed in some specific category, how can you learn about others' identities but not place THEM in some specific category, yada yada yada.

India, it turns out, is a good place for such thoughts too. Especially in the south of the country where every state has its own language, in addition to a whole host of other regional identities that I haven't quite been able to identify. The first thing anyone asks me is where I am from. This from anyone anywhere -- a rickshaw driver, a child on the street, a waiter, a well-to-do tourist. (They also then ask me "my good name" and whether I'm married.) Since I have regularly been the only Caucasian in sight -- much less the only young, female Caucasian -- in the last week, this kind of makes one self conscious about one's identity as well. I'm not used to being so obviously classified so quickly.

There are other themes here though.

The Cochin synagogue.

The usual big brush strokes not being enough, of course. Goa is known for being its own hodgepodge of cultures. With a strong Portuguese influence over the centuries, there is a strong Catholic culture, and also serious Jewish influences. Jews have been in India since the time of the second Temple as traders from Jerusalem, and several centuries thereafter as permanent residents. In the 16th and 17th centuries, more came from Portugal. What happened to Jews here mirrored what happened on the Iberian peninsula -- inquisitors came, many were killed, synagogues were destroyed. The Jewish town in Goa was so gorgeous, and the destruction so complete, that the Jews here liken it to the destruction of the temple.

I went and saw the synagogue in Cochin when I was there and was so moved, partially because it was familiar-- the sh'ma was written in Hebrew next to the ark, the gravestones looked like they could have come from Prague -- and partially because it was so different, so Indian, with colorful decorations, blue and white tiles on the floor. I loved the mix of the two. Love the glorious identity crosses that India presents.

The conquering Portuguese over the Indian native.

And so I was also affected by the fact that what happened here was the same in terms of anti-semitism too. And I can make that be broader. Today I went to Old Goa, the heart of what was Portuguese India. There is an archway into town showing a Portuguese man with his foot ontop of a native. It seems an odd thing to still have up. But Goans are simultaneously proud of their Indian identities and their Portuguese heritage, without seeing much contradiction. More than one Goan emphasized to me that he had a Portuguese passport. Most are Christian, and they show off the huge churches scattered throughout town.

I went to the cathedral of St. Francis Xavier. The Saint still lies there in a glass case, in a state of suspended animation. His bones don't disintegrate despite having been interred 400 years ago from a lime-filled grave. St. Francis Xavier is considered one of the greatest missionaries of all time. But he's also the one who called the Inquisitors to Portugal, leading to the torturous deaths of numerous Jews, Muslims, and Hindus. I'm just not sure how I feel about the man.

On the flip side, my identity comes packaged with the all girls' National Cathedral School high school I went to. I am well-versed in my cathedral architecture. I can't help but walk around such a place and think: "Wow, what fantastic curclicues on those flying buttresses" or "look at the colors on the tiles in that groin vaulting" or "you'd never see a semi-naked woman carved into the rood screen anywhere in the West."

And so I am back where I was with the Cochin temple. It's so wonderful that there is a mix here. Christianity suffused with an Indian sensibility.

I have been picked out of the crowd a lot in Goa. Swarmed by people who want to sell me things, to take me somewhere in their taxi, get me to eat in their restaurant. It is off-season and so I am fought over as one of the few tourists who might give them some business. I want so much to be able to understand these nuances, the religious mix, the cultural mix, but it seems impossible when I have to spend so much time being what they assume I am: a rich American who is snubbing them. Even though I am snubbing solely out of self-defense.

My last stop in Old Goa was at what's left of the cathedral of St. Francis of Assisi. It was built in the 16th century, and torn down by mobs after the Portuguese left about 50 years ago. You'd never know it had been standing complete so recently. Dark stone ruins are covered in moss. A lonely tower juts up in the East. The occasional bay still stands. It is a beautiful, beautiful spot. It is also, weirdly, schema-altering. I have never seen a church in that kind of state of ruin. When it comes to ruins, I am used to Greek columns and Roman marketplaces. It was a good Indian identity mix, this. A stunning spot, shown off by people who are proud of their Christianity and Portuguese heritage, who also tore it down when the Portuguese left.

I thought of the archway as I came into town. And I thought of the Jews of Goa. I felt strangely gratified that the place was in ruins.

Posted by karenceliafox at September 10, 2004 05:59 PM