Identity is a tricky thing
How does growing up second-generation in a colonised country affect your sense of identity? What does it mean to be 'from' a certain culture? Does the land of your ancestors even matter?
I was brought up in Aotearoa New Zealand, a small country at the bottom of the earth, best known for the two ‘Lords’: Lorde (the pop singer) and Lord of the Rings (the exceptional cinematic trilogy). Oh, and sheep. Lots of sheep.
An important thing to know about New Zealand is that it’s far away from everywhere and wasn’t really considered an identifiable nationality until after the First World War. Most of our houses are younger than your grandparents, and it takes about 30 hours of flying to get anywhere.
Video: Matapōuri Bay, North of Whangarei, New Zealand.
Another important fact is that New Zealand was a British colony until 26 September 1907, when it was officially declared a Dominion of the United Kingdom; a fancy way of proclaiming new-found self-governance, while largely maintaining colonial ties.
To establish New Zealand as a colony after the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi / Te Tiriti o Waitangi in 1840, hundreds of thousands of immigrants came across the oceans from all over the world, starting from the mid-19th century and continuing through today.
Now, we have a largely diverse population, with people of British, Scottish, Welsh, and Irish heritage, as well as Chinese, Japanese, Korean, South East Asian, Oceanic, and African descent. We’ve also had smaller communities of Dalmatians, Croatians, and Dutch migrating to New Zealand throughout the 20th century.
However, for a country to be established through the migration of foreigners, there had to be land and opportunity. Unfortunately, much of this land was ‘purchased’ from Indigenous Māori by unlawful means. Iwi (tribes) lost the majority of their ancestral homelands and, to this day, are fighting for reparations—and when that is (made) unavailable, for the right to access and care for the unique ecology that remains.
The land I grew up on, therefore, is not only stolen land, but land that supported a young colonial country composed of various imported cultures.
And this is where that weird thing about identity comes in.
Growing up in Aotearoa New Zealand, I was taught the concept of whakapapa, an aspect of te ao Māori (the Māori worldview) where individuals lay claim to their heritage and ancestry. This is expressed through one’s pepeha, a structured recitation of lineage that ties you to specific people and places within the motu (country).
For many Māori, their pepeha connects them to ancestral locations as well as to people: tīpuna (ancestors) include not only great-great-great-grandparents, but also mountains, rivers, and oceans. This unites their identity not just with the people who came before them, but with the lands they lived, loved, and lost.
This concept of identity has shaped my sense of self, and I feel like it may unknowingly do the same for many other first-, second-, or third-generation children of migrants. Though whakapapa is a uniquely Māori concept, the idea that your identity is tied to the land of your ancestors is not. It’s something many people feel, even if they don’t actively engage with their whakapapa.
Does the land of your ancestors really matter?
If you’re online at all, you’ll have encountered discussions about blood quantum (a colonial concept applied to Indigenous people for control and subjugation) or cultural appropriation; these are highly nuanced discussions. I won’t be diving into them here, as it’s not the intention of this post, and I don’t have enough expertise to do them justice.
However, one aspect of these identity debates that I do want to discuss is evidenced in the case of the ‘Irish-American’ claiming Irish identity, and getting lambasted for it.
Do I agree with someone who has the strongest Californian accent you’ve ever heard stepping foot in Ireland for the first time and loudly declaring, “I’m Irish too”? I definitely understand why that might irritate or even hurt some Irish onlookers. This person appears American; they sound it, probably look it, and may have no real understanding of what it means to be Irish. They might lack the accent, the upbringing, and perhaps even an understanding of the pressures and history that shape contemporary Irish life.
It’s this aspect of identity that I want to unpack in this post. Because it’s not as simple as waving aside that ‘Irish-American’ perspective. Identity, especially one informed by a post-colonial, second-generation experience, is actually really difficult.
I think there’s a deep, inherent desire to connect with the people and places of our ancestors. As clumsy as the "Irish-American" might be in claiming Irishness, those elements of identity are crucial for a sense of self, of belonging, and individuality—all of which contribute to confidence, community building, and better mental health.
As the world grows smaller, and our countries become further amalgamations of unique and ever-changing cultures and ethnicities, these issues will, in my opinion, only continue to manifest.
Now, why does this matter to me?
Well, as I said, identity is tricky.
Although I was born and raised in New Zealand, I’m only a second-generation New Zealander on both sides of my family tree. My dad’s family migrated to Australia from England in the late 19th century, with my grandma later arriving in Aotearoa in the early 20th century as a young girl with her family. Even though Australia and New Zealand share many similarities, this fact still means that my paternal ancestry only spans two generations of walking the same land I walk today; this is minor in the grand scheme of ancestry, with the majority born, bred, bled and dead (too macabre?) in England.*
*In highlighting this element of my ancestry I am not in any way absolving myself of the privileges I have gained nor harm I have contributed to via being a descendant of immigrants to a settler-colonised country.
My maternal family is similar but different in one key way. While my paternal grandmother grew up in New Zealand, she came from ‘British stock’ and fit within the established cultural standards of the time. My mum’s parents, on the other hand, were Dutch immigrants who left post-WWII Netherlands due to the hardships there. My Opa, additionally, had been conscripted into the Indonesian War of Independence, which left him with lifelong scars. My Oma, who sadly passed away whilst I was too young to get to know her well, also left everything behind in search of a better life in Aotearoa New Zealand.
My mum, being the eldest and the only one of her siblings to have children, raised me and my brother with a strong connection to our Dutch heritage. My Oma and Opa spoke with thick Dutch-English accents, we celebrated Christmas with gifts from Sinterklaas, and distant relatives in the Netherlands sent us traditional biscuits, chocolates, and sweets. My Opa was an avid gardener and made appelmoes from scratch, lining his shed with cans of it (which I devoured whenever I visited). For ‘Culture Day’ in primary school, I dressed up in clogs and a pointed white cap. I was a New Zealander, that much was clear (bare feet, torn jeans, fairy bread, and my accent gave me away), but I was also... sort of Dutch?
This sense of identity was further complicated by my maternal family’s experiences as Dutch migrants in New Zealand. I’ve been told that my Oma and Opa faced obstacles from their Pākeha (non-Māori living in New Zealand) counterparts, who distrusted the Dutch, thinking they were taking ‘their jobs.’ Their ‘otherness,’ though not obvious in their skin or features, was marked by their speech and customs, isolating them.
My grandparents’ experience is, of course, more nuanced than this, but this sense of ‘not-one-of-us’ continued into my mum’s experience; she remembers being laughed at at school for using a Dutch word for ‘singlet.’ Though she connected with the language later in life and can still understand most spoken Dutch, that childhood teasing had its effect: my mum stopped using Dutch around her peers—she assimilated, shedding her ‘otherness’ for the sake of social safety.
I know that ‘otherness’ is a heavy term, and I don’t mean to suggest my maternal line experienced anything comparable to the racial discrimination faced by others in a post-colonial society. But I use it because it best describes that feeling of ‘not-one-of-us’ that many migrants, especially non-British, felt upon arriving in New Zealand.
Why am I bringing this up?
Well, because in 2023 I gained Dutch citizenship and officially became a ‘Dutch-New Zealander.’ Up until that point, I was simply a New Zealander with ‘Dutch ancestry.’ But this didn’t really capture my identity, nor my family’s experience as Dutch migrants and first-generation New Zealanders.
I hadn’t been born with dual citizenship because of a sexist law that stated children could only claim Dutch citizenship if their father was Dutch at the time of their birth. While my Oma retained her Dutch citizenship until her death, my Opa, desperate to assimilate to his new homeland, gave his up when he became a New Zealand citizen, before my mum’s birth. However, when this law changed, my mum began the process to claim the citizenship that had shaped her upbringing, which later allowed my brother and me to do the same.
So, in 2023 (on my own birthday—which was purely coincidental but shockingly poetic), I officially became Dutch…
But I didn’t speak the language.
And though I had visited my extended family over the years, I had never lived in the Netherlands.
I had never received an education in the Netherlands.
I had no Dutch friends.
What's more, my understanding of Dutch culture was largely influenced by my grandparents, uncles, and aunties, who retained different versions of what was undoubtedly a dual or outdated version of it.
Furthermore, given that my life had, to date, been influenced by the educational and professional systems of New Zealand, my gaining Dutch citizenship while actively focusing on incorporating decolonial and bicultural practices into my everyday life further confounded matters. One of the significant aspects of this journey was learning my pepeha, as mentioned earlier in this essay. This forced me to contemplate my understanding of my heritage, connecting me to my roots in a deeper, more personal way. Now, faced with the formal recognition of my identity, reconciling these two aspects was difficult.
I was both Dutch and a New Zealander.
Yet somehow, I felt like neither.
I had the right to Dutch citizenship, and had been raised with ties to the culture—at least a version of it. But I didn’t truly feel Dutch. At the same time, my sense of being a New Zealander, especially in terms of whakapapa (genealogy), felt tenuous. My connection to New Zealand is second-generation at best, layered on a still-evolving sense of national identity that remains, in many ways, unresolved as a country. Additionally, it’s a national identity born of stolen land and the attempted destruction of Māori culture and language; the negating of one determining the building of the other.
I speak like a New Zealander, and I was raised in a post-colonial context that is still heavily shaped by racial assumptions. To most, this would verify me as a ‘Kiwi.’ But "New Zealand-ness," as a national identity feels fragile—young, built on a foundation of historical violence and the systematic weakening of Indigenous people, and is a culture that I only have one generation of connection to.
Similarly, my new "Dutch-ness" feels tenuous. Though I can legally claim it, I have no deep understanding of the culture or nationality. My connection to it feels equally fragile— my version of it constructed from a mix of assimilation and cultural isolation.
So here I am, both a New Zealander with shallow historical ties to the land I call home, and a Dutch citizen with no real sense of the culture I can now claim. It’s a strange place to be—confusing, unsettling, and, if I’m honest, incredibly challenging.*
*Please do not think I am ‘woe-is-me’ing here. This particular conflicting sense of identity is entirely internal, and has little to no effect on my life unless I actively engage with it. I am not discriminated against because of my identity. I am not assumed to be outside of the identity I was raised in. I was not raised in a culture that my family was forcibly brought to. My experience is nothing in comparison to these.
Ghostly-hood?
Being both Dutch and a New Zealander while simultaneously feeling like neither has left me in a state of liminality—floating between two worlds without being fully anchored in either. This floating, though unsettling, has also taught me a great deal about how identity is shaped by personal experiences, cultural histories, and the politics of migration.
At times, I feel confident in my cultural hybridity—a combination of the old Dutch ways passed down through my Oma and Opa, and the Kiwi lifestyle that shaped my upbringing. I feel a strong connection to both cultures, yet there's always the nagging question: am I enough of either to feel integrally connected to either place?
It was, and still is, awkward to declare myself a ‘Dutch-New Zealander.’ I mean, how can I? My connection to both rests on creaking, unstable ground.
I could, perhaps, state in my pepeha the regions in the Netherlands my family came from, perhaps even where my paternal British family originated before they immigrated to this side of the world. But I’d never lived in either place myself. In fact, I’d barely spent more than a month or two in the Netherlands over the course of my entire life (it is, after all, a long and expensive flight). I could claim these regions—but I'd never walked in them. I had never felt the effects of their environment. I had never comprehended what it actually meant to claim that place as my heritage. My whakapapa, and consequently my pepeha, therefore rests beyond my lived experience.
And coming to terms with this following my citizenship ceremony was destabilising.
It was weird.
This is why I have some sympathy for the ‘Irish-American’ boldly declaring their ‘Irishness.’ I understand the desire to hold tightly to your ethnic and cultural identities; you want to find the roots of your existence, to relate to the people who came after those who remained, while your experience was determined by those who left.
I suspect my experience is increasingly common as we become more connected globally and as more people explore their roots. As more of us hold onto multiple identities—whether through ancestry, migration, or cultural mixing—we are forced to confront the complexities of belonging.
In my case, Dutch citizenship might grant me certain rights and privileges in the Netherlands, but it does not magically transform me into someone who instinctively knows how to navigate Dutch society. Similarly, being born in New Zealand does not make me feel as though I truly belong there, given its ongoing struggles with post-colonial identity and its fraught history with Māori land and culture.
My story is just one of many, and I know there are others grappling with the same sense of dislocation. Whether you’re a first-generation immigrant, reconnecting with a distant ancestral homeland, or growing up in a multicultural society, these feelings of being "in-between" resonate across different contexts. In a world that often demands us to pick a singular identity or culture, it can be a challenge to find comfort in the grey areas, in being "both/and" instead of "either/or."
The big move
I faced this dilemma in a very real way when I was accepted into a research Master’s in Art History at Utrecht University in the Netherlands. I had always wanted to live in the Netherlands (that whole identity thing coming up again), and now with citizenship, it would be a seamless transition for me to move from New Zealand to the country my tīpuna (ancestors) came from.
I was extremely excited and humbled. I was able to take this massive leap, to change my whole life, with the support of my husband, family, and friends, and to follow one of the biggest dreams I’d had since deciding to study Art History.
But as the time to move grew closer, my sense of identity became more and more complicated.
How would I explain it to the people I met when I got there?
I’m Dutch, but I know I’m not really Dutch-Dutch?
Would they resent my holding Dutch citizenship, especially given my lack of knowledge of the language?
Would my arrival in the Netherlands further enforce my feeling of being a ghost—one foot in each country, but never fully anywhere?
Upon arrival, I immediately set to work trying to find an affordable Dutch language course (surprisingly difficult!) and began picking up as much vocabulary as I could from daily interactions. When asked about my visa or why I’m in the Netherlands, I would explain that I have ‘Dutch nationality because my Oma and Opa migrated to New Zealand in the '50s,’ but I wouldn’t say, ‘I’m Dutch, actually.’ Because I don’t feel like I can (yet).*
*A Note on Language and Learning: I want to acknowledge the importance of language in cultural identity. As I move forward, learning Dutch is something I fully intend to commit to. Language is such a powerful connector to culture, and I am aware that much of the disconnection I feel could be alleviated by embracing the language of my ancestors. I recognize that while I am privileged to have the opportunity to do so, many people face barriers in accessing their ancestral languages, whether because the language is unavailable to learn, or due to the devastating effects of colonisation.
Being here has also highlighted my ‘Kiwi-ness.’ My understanding of social interactions, workplace contracts, and accessibility is determined by my New Zealand upbringing. I see the Netherlands through a uniquely ‘Kiwi’ lens—I unpack colonial rhetoric wherever it comes up in my studies (art history is, of course, rife with it), and although I am doing my best to assimilate into this culture, I remain uniquely ‘other’—a migrant attempting to find identity in a foreign environment, much like my Oma and Opa once were.
So once again, I am both Dutch and a New Zealander, yet somehow still neither.
I don’t really know what to make of all this yet. I’ve only been in the Netherlands for a few months and won’t begin my Dutch language course until later in the year. Perhaps by this time next year, I’ll feel completely different about the whole thing. Or perhaps not.
Where I Go From Here
For now, I am choosing to sit with the discomfort of this ambiguous identity. I may not feel entirely Dutch nor entirely Kiwi, but that doesn’t mean I have to reject either. My goal moving forward is to embrace both cultures as part of who I am, a dualism over monism. I want to respect my Dutch heritage by engaging more with the language, culture, and history of the Netherlands, while also holding on to the parts of Aotearoa that shaped me growing up.
I am coming to terms with the fact that my identity will continue to evolve. I may never be wholly "one thing," but that doesn’t mean I’m less than. Perhaps the key to navigating this complex terrain of identity is to accept that it is not static—that it shifts and changes with each new experience, and with the many layers of history, culture, and personal narrative we carry. I hope that, over time, I can weave these different threads of identity into something that feels whole. Maybe I’ll never be "fully" Dutch or "fully" Kiwi, but perhaps I can create a space for myself that allows me to be "fully" me—a person shaped by both histories, with a foot in each world.
Maybe that’s the key to it all: accepting that identity isn’t static, that it evolves and shifts with every new experience, culture, and story we inherit from our ancestors.
I guess I’m still working through it.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. I hope this reflection sparks conversations, perhaps even giving others a sense of solidarity in their own journey through identity. Whether you’re navigating multiple cultural backgrounds or struggling to understand where you fit, know that it’s okay to sit with the uncertainty. After all, we’re all figuring this out together.
Open to Conversations
Finally, if you or your family have gone through similar experiences—feeling caught between cultures or navigating dual identities—I would love to hear your stories. I think we can learn a lot from each other, and it would be comforting to know how others have worked through their own questions of belonging and identity.
Please feel free to share your thoughts, and thank you again for engaging with my reflection. I’m still working through all of this, but conversations like these help us feel a little less alone in this big, interconnected world.
Please also understand that I approach this understanding from a purely personal, anecdotal perspective, and there may be concepts or words I’ve used incorrectly or without full knowledge of their meaning in certain contexts. Kindly let me know if this is the case, as I do not wish to perpetuate narratives that might contribute to others’ sense of isolation or historic trauma. I am open to being wrong, and I want to learn from my mistakes.
Hi Brie. These are themes that are dear to my heart. First of all, good luck getting used to The Netherlands. I'm sure it will be great, albeit different. I wrote my BA on Chicano identity from a postcolonial perspective. I think you'll find the Chicano experience really interesting if you look into it. They deal with the in between in a way that I haven't seen in other cases, by embracing the mixture whole heartedly. Let me know if you do!
I really enjoyed your essay on how you navigate between cultures and embrace the ongoing process of building your identity. I say ‘building’ because I agree with the part where you mention that identity is not stable—it shifts and changes over time. I’ve also been interested in my ancestry. Growing up in Turkey, a country with an imperial history like the Ottomans, I became curious about my maternal ancestors, who immigrated from Crete (Greece) to Turkey during the population exchange in the 1920s. My grandmother knew a few Greek words from her parents, but I’ve always wondered how that language was lost in the following generations.
My parents carry only small traces of their ancestors' culture in their daily lives. My grandmother used to gather herbs every time we went to a park, naming them in Greek. My mother still cooks those herbs, and maybe I will continue to cook some of them too. But I doubt that tradition will pass on to my child. What’s interesting in my family is that being a muhajir (an immigrant from Greece) was not something they embraced in Muslim-majority Turkey. I believe they chose to assimilate, which has led to a generation that feels disconnected from its roots.
This has led me to accept that I must create my own culture, history, and identity moving forward. Trying to reconnect with my ancestors' culture seems in vain, as they didn’t wish for it to persist in the next generation. They, too, probably felt they didn’t belong anywhere. I lost my grandmother this summer, which sparked an interesting question for my mother. We buried my grandmother in the city where her parents had immigrated to, even though she hadn’t been there in years. Her husband and family were buried there, so even though she lived in a different city for most of her life, her roots—symbolized by her final resting place—were in her family’s graveyard.
This realization made us reflect on our own sense of belonging. My mother has lived in her current city for 35 years—longer than the city where she was born, just like her mother. Yet, she doesn’t feel like she belongs here either. This has led me to ponder: where would I want to be buried? It’s an intriguing question, one that might play a part in how we construct our identities.