Thinking deeply about my identity while reflecting on serious conflict in Ukraine.
As my fellow journalism students may know, the Twitter news feed is quintessential to my browser. I stay connected to daily news in several forms, but my favorite is breaking news tweets. Nevertheless, keeping tabs is not always an easy task emotionally, and refreshing my feed feels particularly troubling these days.
My last name is a small part of my identity in social and professional settings, but a big part of my identity personally. Traditionally spelled Klečka, my father’s side of the family grew up in Czechoslovakia before fleeing.
In 1968, The Soviet Union invaded Czechoslovakia. This invasion was under the guise of offering “brotherly assistance” and protecting “socialist order”. The violence in Ukraine is not about me, and it’s not about my direct family, yet my heart is heavy with the connection I feel to the families of Ukraine. When I see the people of Ukraine subjected to sheltering in bunkers, I, like many other Czech people, remember Prague Spring of 1968.
My father was born in the United States. Many of the traditions in my culture were lost between his and his parents’ generations after moving to the U.S. However, the bits and pieces of my heritage that I’ve learned stick with me.
One day at home, my dad pulled out a large copper-colored trunk. It was comical — like a cheesy prop you’d see in a movie — yet eye-opening. Our family members stuffed all their belongings inside as they fled across the Atlantic Ocean.
For at least 500,000 Ukrainians, reality is fleeing by any means possible. The New York Times reported, “Seven million Ukrainians are expected to be displaced as a consequence of the Russian invasion.” The article stated that many of these refugees are continuing to countries with “big Ukrainian diasporas,” the Czech Republic being one of the closest destinations.
Identity is a tough topic for me. Once again, the Russian invasion has nothing to do with myself. But I’ve taken a closer look at my identity in these times and re-evaluated the value it holds in my life.
I took my car to a repair shop in College Park recently. When the receptionist asked for my name, I saw something change in his demeanor. He pronounced my name as spoken in Czech, with a “ch” sound at the end. “Have a good day, my friend,” he said as I left.
It’s the small things that make me feel connected to my cultural sense of identity.