It was way before she diagnose me as a fellow introvert when I delightfully concluded we had something in common: Pride in our background.
She is not Hungarian, like I am. She is Georgian. Not exactly similar to my region of Hungary. But that didn't matter. As she brought out platter after bowl of Georgian dishes, as she told anecdotes from her immediate family, as she reverted to her native tongue to clarify a point, I was drawn to her in kinship.
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| Khinkali , Georgian dumplings |
"But you weren't born in Hungary," is a snarky comment I often receive. So what? I was raised by those who were, who bear their backgrounds with pride, who abide by its values, who revert to their mother tongues to evoke perspectives that cannot be described in English. And use a lot of paprika in the kitchen.
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| Nokedli paprikas |
I have met others, Hungarians and non-Hungarians alike, who wish to flee from their heritages. I have a happy connection to mine, true, and cannot speak for those who do not. But "If you don't know where you come from, you don't know where you're going." The past and its mark cannot be denied. We are all products not only of our DNA, but our ancestors' experiences.
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| Charkhlis Pkhali, Georgian beet salad |
After all, we were Jews first. We have stuck to that identity fiercely in the Diaspora. Why not give recognition to the stops along the way?
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